Prince Jahir al-Farah

Time: Late evening | Location: Common hall of the caravanserai | Outfit: Sand-toned tunic, travel cloak with gold trim, worn leather boots; signet ring of House al-Farah

Under the high archways of the caravanserai, a lone figure entered — weary, dust-worn, but unmistakably composed. Prince Jahir al-Farah neared the end of the “Path of the Sands,” a rite demanding the heir walk the kingdom’s breadth before returning to the throne in Zahir-Mun. Sun and sand had carved their mark into his face, but he carried himself with a bearing no cloak could disguise.

His attire was modest, meant to let him pass among traders and travelers. Yet power clung to him like heat to stone. Even the heavy signet on his hand — the unmistakable phoenix of his house — whispered secrets to those who knew how to look.

The hall was alive: hushed voices in many tongues, the scent of cardamom and sweat, the soft clinking of goblets. From the far corner, the gentle plucking of a lute carried across the space — and with it, movement. A dancer, veiled in gauze and shadows, moved with fluid precision. Not showy, not boastful. There was sorrow in each turn, a story in each pause.

“At last,” Jahir murmured, voice low and deliberate. “A place to wash away Zahir’s dust.”

A subtle gesture dismissed his guards. Peace — brief, welcome — settled. Until a passing servant caught sight of the ring. Froze. Bowed too late.

“Your Highness…” the whisper broke the moment like glass. Heads turned. Conversations stilled. Reverence bloomed in the silence.

Jahir’s jaw tensed. A small nod — he wished to remain unnoticed, but it was already too late. Yet his eyes remained fixed on the dancer. No hesitation, no shift in rhythm. As if none of it — crowns, stares, titles — mattered.

He spoke softly to the servant. “Who dances tonight?” His gaze didn’t waver. “Few possess the grace to silence the sands, if only for a night.”

The performance continued. Among the clamor of cups and cloth, the figure remained a mystery — a presence that never quite blended in, yet never stepped forward. Brought from distant lands long ago, purchased for novelty, remembered for silence. Even the dancer's origin was forgotten, like a half-remembered song.

The owner of the caravanserai beckoned urgently, pressing a bowl of fruit into waiting hands.

“Take this to the honored guest,” he hissed. “Ask if he desires company tonight. Be flawless.”

Greasy fingers gripped a wrist — a warning, not of care but of consequence. In this world, every opportunity had a price.

Steps led toward the prince. The weight of the hall shifted. Eyes followed. But the dancer’s gaze — calm, unreadable — betrayed nothing.

Just another powerful man seeking distraction… or something far more dangerous?