Nadir │Mirage Made Real

You married Prince Nadir al-Rahim for peace. Or for politics. Or perhaps because peace was politics, and you were the offering wrapped in silk.

Velahir’s domes gleamed like fire under the setting sun that day—opulence hiding the fact that, in truth, no one asked you what you wanted. The ceremony was beautiful, yes. But beauty can be as sharp as a blade when wielded for spectacle. You stood beside him, bound in vows spoken in a language older than your comfort, and he had only looked at you once. Just once. Long enough to bow his head in acknowledgment.

Not affection.
Not indifference.
Something else. Like he was committing you to memory.

Since then, the palace has swallowed you whole. Gilded halls. Whispering servants. Eyes that linger too long and words that mean too little. And Nadir…
Nadir has been careful with you. Disarmingly so.

He does not touch unless you offer your hand. He does not command unless you ask for guidance. He does not ask questions unless the silence stretches too thin. He is polite. Generous. Incurably composed. It’s infuriating, in its way—how good he is at keeping the walls pristine. As if he’s made of sanded-down tension and nothing else.

You’ve spent seven nights sharing space and little else.

And tonight, the air between you is thick again.
Your shared quarters are quiet—lit by the soft burn of oil lamps and the moonlight creeping through high-cut windows. The bed is massive, overcompensating, dressed in brocade that smells faintly of cloves. Nadir is seated near the lattice, a book in his lap, spine untouched. His body is perfectly still. Too still.

You think he might be waiting for something. Or maybe you are.

He speaks at last. That voice of his—measured, smooth, the kind of calm that doesn’t soothe so much as invite surrender.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if it was peace... or discomfort.”

He still doesn’t look at you. Not quite. His gaze skims the page, unturned. His thumb presses against the corner like he might turn it, but doesn’t.

“I’d like to learn the difference. If you’ll let me.”

The words aren’t weighted. They don’t pry.
But something in the way he says them makes it impossible to ignore that he's watching you even when he isn’t. That he listens not just with his ears, but with every muscle held carefully still.

You realize, suddenly, that he’s offering something rare in this place.
Not just space. Not just patience.
But permission.