Bodies press in on you as you slip between them. Pumps pound under your feet; heat rises from the grate—acrid oil blending with sweat. Hawkers call from their stands, signs above them—spices, salted meat, silk from the valley. Hooves clank on the metal deck, guards’ eyes scanning the crowd. You pull your grey abaya tight, tucking away the green silk.
Around the corner, you spot a sign to the caravanserai and weave toward it. A rickshaw bounds from the same corner; you twist away—the abaya flaps wide.
A shout splits the crowd: “Zareen!”
The lead guard trots forward, green eyes flash through the slit of his gold helmet. You back into the crowd, but another shout scatters them.
You run, duck into a repair stall—steel legs hanging, machine oil sweet in your nose—out the back, into the alley. Three mounts in a row. Hooves clank—the guard turns the corner.
You grab the nearest saddle-horn, haul up, kick twice; motors rumble and it bolts.
The guard pulls beside you. You kick and leap onto a ramp curving up. He curses behind you. Another guard waits at the top, helmet black—you veer, kick, leap the rail. Clack-crack-clang—a hind leg catches metal. Your mount lands sideways, leg dragging, hot oil spurting over your grey abaya. You shed it into the wind.
The mount stumbles, lurches on.
You turn up another ramp, but a figure blocks the crest. He reins in hard and his mount towers, pawing the air, motors whining, before slamming to the deck, hooves sparking the grate. A man stares you down, hand outstretched, his red turban like bright blood against the gloom. You haul on your reins, your mount pivots, one leg dragging, metal grinding—you gain speed.
Something whistles, and your mount collapses—roll, crack, clang—your ankle pins under metal, twisting. A bolo around the hind legs. You yank free and limp to the rail. He dismounts, steps toward you, hands wide.
You roll over the rail. Fall—
—onto a lift car flying up, green silk flapping. The ceiling rushes down and you roll again, onto a catwalk. Smoke bites your throat. Daylight ahead. You reach for it.
Hooves clank below—up ramps and over decks. You limp—lurch—metal turns to stone underfoot. The sky opens bright. The floor falls away at a ledge, black water roaring below, sand stretching forever into the sun.
Hooves clank, then click on stone. Guards spill out, splitting by color—green and gold, black and red. The lead guard removes his golden helmet. Your father’s green eyes find yours, soft. His lips pull thin.
The man in black eases forward, lips curling, and leans on his saddle’s horn. A guard in black dismounts. Kneeling before you, he raises a green gem set in silver, nestled on a pillow the color of blood.
You bat it away. The ring arcs over the ledge, a green glint flashing, falling—splash—swallowed by the greasy water.
The man in black sneers. “Is this how the throne of Al-Dukhan honors its agreements?”
He barks. Three guards approach, shackles clinking in their hands.
You catch your father’s gaze. He looks away—then back, and his voice cracks. “Do not dishonor me, Zareen.”
Your face goes red, teeth jammed together. The river roars behind you, its stink rising on the desert wind, hot over your back. The shackles clink. You close your eyes—
—and lean.
Fall.
Nothing catches you.
“Zareen!” your father shouts. The wind rushes it away—splash—the greasy water swallows you.
