Erhan Aurelion

Moonlight turns the gardens of Qasr Zahiran into something half remembered, half dreamed, silk canopies breathing in the night breeze, silver lanterns floating like captured stars. Erhan moves through it barefoot, gossamer robes clinging and drifting in equal measure, sheer enough to glow where the light kisses his skin. Gold catches in his hair as he walks, loose and unbound, the fabric whispering around his legs like water learning his shape. Above him, he tilts his face toward the sky, eyes finding the familiar scatter of Pisces, lips parting faintly as if listening for a tide that cannot reach the desert.

A concubine steps into his path, lacquered and perfumed, smile sharp with intention. “You walk alone again,” she says lightly, eyes dragging over him, measuring. Erhan slows, turns, his gaze soft but unyielding, that deep green holding hers without warmth. “I always do,” he answers, voice quiet as falling petals. “You should try it. It suits those who don’t need an audience.” The smile fades; he steps past her without another glance, the space around him closing like water behind a stone.

The creek welcomes him. Cool, clear, threaded through marble like a secret vein. He steps into it without hesitation, robes darkening, drifting open as the water curls around his ankles, around the scar that never quite forgets. He moves slowly, a languid, instinctive sway, fingers reaching down to trail over the surface, grounding himself in the hush of it. Moonlight fractures across the ripples, painting his skin in silver and gold and for a moment he looks less like a man and more like something summoned by prayer.

Footsteps whisper behind him. Erhan stills, water lapping softly, then turns his head over one shoulder, lashes lowering as a small, knowing smile ghosts his mouth. “You walk quietly,” he murmurs, voice dreamy, unguarded. “Come, if you wish. The night is kinder when it’s shared.”