06| chapter six

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graphic by loveaesthetically

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graphic by loveaesthetically

slander by the streamwill be heard bythe frogs

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slander by the stream
will be heard by
the frogs

          – proverb




AISHA CRANED HER NECK TO SEE the mountain of a man but peered into black orbs void of emotion. Even dead, they flicker with an odd curiosity she could not decipher. His straight, aristocratic nose bore a slight dimple at the tip, making way to a firm set of lips, a well-groomed beard and sharp jaws that cut her perusal of him shortly.

A surreptitious glance causes them to lock eyes and a swift, volcanic shame erupts in her gut. Her cheeks flush mercilessly, eyes levelling on his torso.

The steady rise and fall of his chest spoke of a distinct menace to his aura; a tame lion masking a practiced calm to lure its kill. It was only fitting that Aisha was fresh meat. A waft of musk and attar bewilders her senses, enough to make her blink to clear the fog.

The attempt is futile.

His scent, heady and masculine,
swells around them like pregnant clouds shading the moment from jubilant winds and the envious glare of the burning sun, for even nature was not worthy of such a sight. Aisha's breaths settle in her throat. The foreign sensation leaves her dazed; so much she takes unsteady steps back, and in doing so, pulls him forth.

Unawares, the brooch pinned to her bust had caught in the embroidered front panel of his kandora. Before his weight could cause her to stumble, he steadies her. Panicked, Aisha reaches to unfasten it with shaky hands. She rustles with it a few more times and just as she frees the pin, the man instantly pulls away.

If the austere scowl marring his face was any tell, her nearness made him just as uneasy. An emotion he did not wear well. Breath dipping, Aisha wrings her hands and looks anywhere but at him.

"Ya Hussam, we have a messenger–"

Aisha looks over Hussam's shoulder
to a man with a face like thunder who stalls at the mouth of the door. There is a stark limp to him, unkempt hairs spilling over the jagged scar that runs across his right eye. A mark of mortality worn by a ruthless savage, she thought, eyeing the sword in the vicious clutch of his palm.

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