The Girl Who Would Be Sultan

Chapter 9: The First Prince

The heat of the Terzian sun shimmered over the palace walls, gilding every spire and turret in soft gold. The courtyard had been swept, adorned, and filled with an eager hush as banners bearing the twin lions of Eridanus flared against the breeze. Drums rolled in the distance, their rhythm drawing the court’s attention to the southern gate.

Prince Amirule of Eridanus arrived not on a warhorse, but a creature sculpted by poetry, his stallion was midnight-black, its mane braided with gold thread, its tack adorned in lapis and onyx. The ornate wagon train behind him gleamed like a river of silver, pulled by gleaming oxen and soldiers in polished helms. Music, laughter, and scent of crushed rose petals clung to his entrance like a second cloak.

Amirule rode with one leg slung lazily over the saddle horn, his grin careless, eyes bright. His tunic was loose, white linen laced low across a tanned chest, revealing a flash of the chiseled torso beneath. His dark curls shone with scented oil, and his jawline was so clean it could cut silk. He looked more like a thief who’d seduced a crown than a prince who’d earned one.

Behind him, in a smaller carriage, Ephigenie peeked from behind silk curtains, small hands trembling at the edge. She was all thin wrists and nervous glances, fourteen summers and no idea what came next.

His green eyes scanned the crowd, already calculating.

"Seventh son," he thought with mild satisfaction, "but first to set foot in a foreign future throne room."

He was supposed to be the first.
And then he saw her.
Kallisto.

He stilled.

She stood at the top of the marble steps, veiled in a sheer golden film that caught the light like a flame trapped in cloth. Her posture was regal, her beauty devastating—and for a brief, unguarded moment, his breath hitched in his throat and  Amirule forgot to smile.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Then he smiled, of course, perfectly timed, devastatingly charming.

The Gods....
They’ve sent me a carved statue of temptation itself.
She thought.
She had expected someone forgettable—awkward, overdressed, possibly sweaty with nerves. A seventh son grateful just to be invited. But what stepped down from the majestic black horse was a man made of contradiction: elegance in motion, mischief in restraint. His dark hair curled just enough at the edges to hint at untamed, but everything else—his posture, his confidence, the precise roll of his shoulders—was as deliberate as it was carefree.

Not soft. Not harmless.

And those eyes. Green like sea glass, but colder. Playful, Sharp, Intelligent. Amused. They moved over the courtyard like a hunting falcon, and then landed on her.
And didn’t move.

The look was not tentative. It wasn’t respectful, not quite. It was bold. Measuring. Interested. But not lewd. He looked at her like a man who had already imagined her in every possible role: ruler, rival, lover, goddess. And what startled her most wasn’t the hunger—it was the approval.

He wore his captivation like a well-tailored cloak. Not boastful, not begging, offered. Like he knew he was beautiful, and knew she could take or leave him, but hoped she’d choose to take.

It was flattering in a way that sliced through her self-control. Her stomach coiled in recognition, not love, not yet, but the flicker of possibility. Her body responded before her mind could shut it down.

He looks at me like a man who wants something. Not like a man afraid to want.

She swallowed hard, steadying her breath, forcing her face into the neutral mask of diplomacy. But her chest was tight with something she hadn’t felt since girlhood. The flutter. The heat. The quiet thrum of what if.
And worse... the comparison.

Alastar had never looked at her this way. Even in his most vulnerable moments, even at his most desperate and lustful, his gaze had been heavy with guilt. With grief. With memories of another woman whose ghost still lingered in his every breath.

But this prince, this stranger, looked at her with clean, unmarred desire. Curious. Present. Undistracted.
It was a dangerous look. And to her shame, just for a flicker, she welcomed it.

As the prince neared, the court moved to greet him. Kallisto stood at the front, veiled in soft gold and plum silk. Amirule’s green eyes found her instantly, his easy grin faltering into something far more interested.

“Well,” he said, bowing his head low. “If I had known a royal wife could look like that, I might have challenged my brothers for the throne years ago.”

Kallisto inclined her head slightly. “Prince Amirule. You honor us with your presence.”

“Oh, no, Sultan-to-be,” he replied,  bringing his hand to his chest.
“The honor is mine. I expected frost from your reputation. But here you stand—more flame than rumor.”

Her smile finaly found her eyes. “Careful, Prince. Flames can burn the unwary.”
“I burn easily,” he said with a wink, “but I never regret it.”
Beside her, Alastar cleared his throat, a low, intentional sound. His position behind her was half-step deferential, full-body protective.
Amirule noticed.
The man was large, and strong built like a tree that could never be found in any desert. Sturdy, yet with the capacity to move with ease in any wind.

Banners of Eridanus snapped in the warm wind, twin lions on cobalt cloth, announcing the arrival of the seventh son of King Thelon. The courtyard gleamed with sunlight and polished stone, lined with palace guards and curious nobles in waiting.

Prince Amirule dismounted with theatrical grace, black curls tousled just enough to seem accidental, his tunic laced almost too low across a lean, sun kissed chest.

"Bride-to-be,” he said, climbing the steps with a deep, elegant bow.
He took her hand tenderly, in a way that was only appropriate because of the bethrothal. Kallisto was unsure if it was the nerves or his surprising good looks, but her heart began pounding at his touch.
“You exceed every tale whispered about you, and I am a collector of such tales.”
He ran his thumb over the top of her hand. In willful ignorance of her brother at her side, or the large man with the dark eyes who stood behind her.

“Prince Amirule,” Kallisto nodded formally, her tone warm but restrained, but then gave him a warm, but practiced smile.
"You are welcome here, future husband.”

Amirule’s eyes flicked towards the figure at her side, briefly. Some sort of royal guard, perhaps? The man’s expression was unreadable, his presence oddly magnetic in its silence. There was a tension to him, like a bow drawn but not fired.
Unimportant. Amirule’s attention swung back to Kallisto, whose presence consumed everything else in his mind.
Their hands parted.

From behind, Ephigenie stepped forward with hesitant grace. She looked like she might shatter in a strong wind. Kallisto gently stepped aside, giving her space to face Rahm, who approached with a stiff bow.
At over 10 years older and twice her size, he dwarfed the young girl. Who looked exactly that, like a young girl.

The girl curtsied, eyes lowered. “Your Highness.”

Rahm gave a nod, more formal than kind. “Princess Ephigenie.”

A silence stretched.
Kallisto caught her brother’s eye and saw in his jaw the same resentment she’d felt weeks before. Ephigenie looked up at him once, eyes wide with silent terror.

Their's was an awkward union, thin as rice paper, and everyone knew it.

___________

Author's Note:
I just wanted to take a moment to say how incredibly excited I am to be back! It's been a blast writing these chapters, and knowing people are reading and enjoying them really fuels my motivation.
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Happy reading! 😊💖✍️
-Queenofgeeks