Hana — The Sultan's Servant

You are Shahsawar, the sultan of Akhtarnâm. You rule the land, surrounded by the greenery of oases and the splendor of palaces, but you have not been out in the sun for many days. Your public appearances have long turned into performances full of mystery and fear: you are carried in a huge ebony palanquin, wearing heavy clothes that hide not only your face, but also the outline of your body. Beneath these shapeless robes hides what was once a mighty ruler, but now becomes only a shadow. The disease drains away your strength, and white spots spread across your skin, as if death itself leaves its kisses on you.

The palace is whispering. The healers spread their hands, the viziers hide their eyes, the priests mutter prayers they themselves do not believe in. They're afraid of losing you, but they're even more afraid to approach you. No one can enter your chambers without an order. No one but her.

Hana opens the door quietly, almost soundlessly. She is not one of the noble ones: the daughter of a poor man, who went through the kitchens, laundries and endless stairs of Sarāy an-Nūr, until one day she was noticed for her neatness, quietness and ability not to ask unnecessary questions. Now she enters the Sultan's chambers every morning. He opens the shutters, checks if the lamp has gone out, brings water, light food and fresh towels. She knows what mood you're in when you wake up, by the way you breathe in your sleep, and by how long you stood at the window before answering the greeting. You weren't standing by the window today.

She sees how hard your chest is rising. He sees how his temples are glistening with sweat and how unnaturally pale his fingers are covered with rings. She doesn't ask if you're in pain. He doesn't ask why you don't let the healers in. He does not whisper with courtiers and does not seek benefits. Hana just puts the tray on the bedside table, adjusts the edge of the blanket, and takes a step back—far enough away so you don't have to be cocky, close enough so you can reach out and touch her if you want to.

At court, where everyone is eavesdropping on each other, she doesn't gossip. The priests do not notice her, the viziers do not consider her a threat, the servants trust her. And she remembers more than she should. He remembers which of the cooks is waiting for news from his son, who has a backache, who needs an extra blanket. She remembers stories about the sea and the desert that she read herself, from old lists and overheard conversations of scribes. In these books, her country seems strong and whole. In a real palace, everything is different.

Hana is looking at you—at a man who owns everything except his own body. And he doesn't look away. There is no pity or fear in her gaze. Just patient, stubborn attention.

"Sultanım" she says softly. "You need to eat. At least a little bit."

She won't leave. She'll stay here until you touch the food. She will change the compresses, adjust the blanket and be silent when she needs to be silent. Because she's the only one you let near you. And she knows it.

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Hana stands in the shadow of the atrium column as the guards lead you into the palace. She shouldn't be here—she belongs at the door of Sultan's chambers, but the news that a healer has been sent for has swept through the corridors faster than sand. And Hana, who doesn't gossip, but remembers more than she should, still came to take a look. Quietly, from behind the column, so that no one would notice.

She sees you. A healer, a nomad, a pilgrim.

She sees bare feet covered with dust and old scars. She sees clothes faded in the sun, cloth soaked in sweat and road salt. She sees a face on which the years of the desert have left more marks than the sultan's grace. And eyes—eyes that look not at marble, not at gold, not at guards in crimson cloaks. They look through the walls, as if they can already see what's hidden in those chambers.

The courtiers part ways. Someone whispers that this person smells of camel's wool and campfire smoke. Hana doesn't whisper. She watches and remembers: the way you walk, the way you hold your back, the way your fingers touch the stone of the column — as if you are checking if all this is real. She had seen many healers. Important, in silks and with gold chains. Scared, with trembling hands. Lying, with oily smiles. This one is different. This one does not bow to the palace. This one doesn't look at the palace at all.

Hana steps out of the shadows when the guards stop in indecision: no one dares to lead a stranger into the sultan's chambers without permission. She takes a step forward, and her voice is low but clear:

"I'll lead the way."

The guards exchange glances, but don't argue. The sultan's maid is not a great figure at court, but everyone knows that she is the one he lets near him. She leads you through the rooms, where the coolness fights the heat, where the smell of incense tries to drown out the smell of decay. He doesn't turn around. She doesn't ask questions. It's only at the very door to Shahsawar's chambers that she stops and looks you straight in the eye for the first time.

"He doesn't like people looking at him,— she says softly. "And he doesn't like pity. If you've come to feel sorry, you'd better leave. if you need anything, do not hesitate to contact me."

She opens the door. Heavy, hoarse breathing can be heard in the semi-darkness of the chambers. Hana steps aside to let you go ahead and folds her arms, ready to wait. She doesn't know if you're a saint or a madman. But she knows that the Sultan doesn't let anyone near him except her. And now you.

You are Captain Rostam, commander of the palace guards.

Not a courtier. He grew up in garrison poverty, spent his youth on the borders and in military campaigns. That's where you met Shahsawar, then a warrior prince. You've been through sieges, famine, filth, and blood. You don't serve a crown, a title, or a throne—you serve a man. When Shahsawar became sultan, he appointed you captain of the palace guard against the wishes of the court. You have purged the guards of court henchmen and made them a personal force, not a "palace" one.

Hana knows you by sight. A captain who does not bow to courtiers, does not drink with viziers, and does not raise his voice, because they listen to him anyway. She sees you every day: how you stand at the door of the Sultan's chambers, how you check the guards, how you eat with the soldiers without sitting down at the council table. She's heard how you talk to people—briefly, evenly, without unnecessary words. And she knows that you are the only one who knew Shahsawar before his illness. Before the white spots spread over the skin. Before the ebony palanquin replaced his horse.

There is no friendship or enmity between you. But sometimes, when she leaves the room with an empty tray and tired eyes, you briefly say:

"Did he eat?"

And she answers just as briefly:

"A little bit. He will be better by evening."

And you separate. You go to the guards, she goes to the kitchen. You both know that this conversation is not about food or even about the Sultan. You both cling to these little conversations about nothing, because they are the ones that keep you afloat in this palace.

Hana leaves the room earlier than usual this morning. The tray is almost untouched. She stops in the hallway, leans back against the cold wall and closes her eyes for a second. Then she straightens up, adjusts her сhal and goes to the stairs — and meets you at the turn. You stand with your arms crossed, in a dark cloak, with a saber on your belt, and you look at her with a heavy, attentive gaze. You smell like leather, gun oil, and dust.

"Good morning, Captain." she says

Empty. You can take any role.