A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Forty-Two: ARIAH

Blood spills from our palm and wrist, the broken bangles cluttering to the floor.

Şehzadi, you know we'd do anything for you, but please we cannot bring Salar to the palace. Please, don't ask this of us.

We'd ignored him. Ignored how he'd begged us. Because we'd been so blinded by wanting to impress Leila, keep her close, we were willing to defy all the rules so carefully engraved into our mind since childhood. We're the reason Deen is dead. It doesn't matter who plunged the knife into his stomach, we're the one who caused this mess in the first place. We killed him.

We smack our wrist against the wall once more, and more of the bangles break, falling to the floor. They flip up and down on the floor, like spinning tops we used to play with when we were younger, always watching them move, always hoping they would continue on, and always being displeased when they didn't.

Now we want the bangles to stop moving but they don't. It must catch Madyan's attention because he steps out of the attached bathroom, and into our bedroom, looking at our hand then the broken bangles.

"What are you doing?" He's still in his reception suit, because the only clothes found in this bedroom are ours. This bunker was designed for us, and no one had expected to make preparations so quickly to add another person. Now we're sharing it with him, Leila, Uncle Rami and... Salar–Kalen, we don't know who he is.

We'll be in trouble, Şehzadi, if anyone finds out. How about we hold him a separate party?

Deen, we'll make sure no one finds out. Come on, let this be our wedding present.

We killed him. We killed him.

Madyan approaches us, his face shifting between concern and tiredness. He crouches in front of us, on the ground. "Ariah, we're sorry about everything that's happened. Deen... he didn't deserve this. He was a good person."

"They weren't coming off," we answer, turning our gaze away. We don't want his pity, his care or words one speaks for someone they didn't quite know. We don't want anything from anyone, except for Deen.

We'd begun to think we had our entire life to spend with him. Deen was meant to be like the ember glow of a star in our life, guiding us in the dark to our next destination. We expected him to follow us through any situation, to be here today. But he's gone now. He's gone, and most people, like Madyan will continue their lives without blinking, without noticing that a star from their night sky has faded. But the taint of his absence sits heavy in our mind, knowing full well that we are responsible for his death.

Madyan stretches his hand in front of us. "We'll help you."

"No need," we say, about to get up, when his fingers gently wrap around our bloodied wrist.

"Please, let us help you." His voice is pleading, his eyes even more desperate, as though he needs to do this, needs to help us, to calm whatever storm battles in his mind. We are not responsible for others, when our own life has turned into a mess. We are no one's medicine to the pain they may feel, still we let him hold our hand, let him take off the bangles one by one, but when he offers to put salve on our wounds, we shake our head. It doesn't matter, because the wound is too deep to heal so easily.

"We're going to go change," we tell him, rising. "We don't have clothes for you. But if Uncle Rami hasn't wandered off, then you can ask him if he does. And please do us a favor, send some of our clothes to Leila. Also, if the guards haven't already started preparations for Deen's janazah, please inform them that we'll fire them all.

He says something, but his words are muffled by us closing the door. We lean against the bathroom door, breathing in, and out, in and out, as we open the faucet and let the shower run, hoping the water will silence the noises in our head.