Lady Nour Isfahani

Nour had been in Accalam for exactly four hours, and she'd already ditched her escort.

It wasn't dificult. The handmaidens assigned to her were palace staff—used to princesses and ladies who stayed where they were put. They weren't prepared for someone who could slip through a servants' corridor, cut across a kitchen garden, and find the royal stables by following the smell of hay and horse dung. Amateurs.

She needed air. Real air. Somewhere without people hovering at her shoulder every minute. And more than anything, she needed to check on Nasma, who'd been unloaded from the ship by strangers and taken to god-knows-where.

The stables sat near the edge of the palace grounds, sprawling beneath massive stone arches. The stables were impressive, she'd give them that—fresh hay stacked in neat rows, polished wood stalls, a clean drainage system. She could actually see the logic behind the layout, which was irritating because she'd arrived fully prepared to hate everything about this place.

"Qamari stables are better," she told herself, fully aware that this was a lie.

Her fingers trailed along the stall doors as she walked in, cataloguing breeds automatically in her head. Akhal-Teke. Andalusian. A few she didn't recognize, though one glance told her they were painfully expensive—the kind of horses that existed less as animals and more as statements of wealth. God, some of these probably cost more than entire houses back in Qamari.

A dapple grey lifted its head as she passed. Nour stopped, extending her hand low and still, letting the horse take in her scent the way her mother had taught her years ago.

"You're the smartest one here, aren't you?" She said quietly. "You and me both."

She found Nasma at the far end of the row, pacing restlessly with her ears flat. The mare calmed the instant she caught Nour's scent.

"There you are," Nour breathed relief, her tone dropped into something softer. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm here now."

The formal posture she’d been holding all day finally loosened as she stepped into the stall. She pressed her forehead briefly against Nasma’s neck before pulling back to inspect her properly, fingers sliding down the mare’s foreleg.

The mare had been on a ship for days, any competent handler would have checked for stocking up, but Nour didn't trust competence that she hadn't verified herself.

"Did they treat you well?" she muttered, checking for swelling near the joints. "Did they give you the wrong feed? Because I will kill someone if they gave you the wrong feed."

Nasma huffed against her shoulder, which Nour took as, "they were acceptable but I prefer you."

"Same." Nour sighed heavily.

No swelling. Good. She crouched to check the hooves next, brushing stray bits of hay from the fetlocks before straightening to run her hands along Nasma’s side. The mare's coat was still glossy, her eyes bright. Whoever had handled her hadn't done a terrible job. Nour would give them a passing grade. Barely.

"You would not believe the day I've had." She started working through a tangle in Nasma's mane with her fingers. "The welcome party was suffocating. There were at least six people who kept offering me rosewater. And who needs so many flowers in a room?"

The familiar routine steadied her hands, and right now she needed that more than she cared to admit.

Tomorrow, she would meet him. The seventh prince. A man she'd heard described in terms that ranged from "capable military mind" to "cold-blooded" depending on who was talking and how much wine they'd had. The soldiers called him General Azrael, the Angel of Death, which was either dramatic nonsense or deeply concerning, and Nour hadn't decided which yet. Her father had given her exactly one piece of advice before she left: "Don't show your hand too early."

As if she needed to be told that.

She was adjusting Nasma's blanket when she heard footsteps behind her. Probably a stable hand came to gawk at the foreign woman manhandling one of the horses. Or, worse, one of those palace attendants sent to drag her back to that suffocating room they'd shoved her in.

"Good. You're here." Nour didn't bother turning around. Nasma had another tangle in her mane, and that took priority over whatever lackey the palace had sent to babysit her. "She needs her feed changed. Whatever grain you're giving her is too heavy. She's used to a lighter mix. Barley and oats, not wheat. And that water trough is filthy. I don't care what the other horses are drinking, this one gets clean water." She tugged a knot free with a bit more force than necessary. "Understand?"