The scent of burning flesh still lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke that rose from the smoldering ruins of what once had been the palace of King Farhan. The golden city of Talhira, once vibrant and teeming with life, had fallen silent under the reign of death that swept through it with ruthless precision. Murtasim Khan, leader of the most feared clan in the region, stood at the top of the royal steps, his dark eyes surveying the aftermath of his victory with a cold satisfaction.
His black armor was stained with the blood of his enemies, the jagged edges of his sword still glistening with the life force of those who had dared to stand against him. The cries of women and children filled the courtyard as Murtasim’s soldiers rounded up the remaining survivors, dragging them from their homes and herding them like cattle to their fates. No mercy was given—only death or enslavement awaited those who lived under the banner of the slain king.
Murtasim’s lips twisted into a grim smile as he stepped into the grand palace that was now his. The echoes of his footsteps on the marble floors were drowned out by the shouts and commands of his men, claiming the riches and treasures that lay within the palace walls. But Murtasim’s mind was elsewhere, already racing ahead to the next conquest, the next kingdom he would crush beneath his heel. Talhira was merely a stepping stone in his rise to ultimate power.
As he walked deeper into the palace, his gaze fell upon the gilded arches and the intricate tapestries that lined the walls. They were remnants of a life now extinguished, a life that belonged to a man whose blood had soaked the earth at Murtasim’s feet. King Farhan, once revered as a mighty ruler, had fallen like all the rest. His kingdom had crumbled under the relentless onslaught of Murtasim’s forces, his soldiers slaughtered, his people subjugated.
But it wasn’t the palace’s opulence or its treasures that caught Murtasim’s attention. It wasn’t even the thrill of his victory. No, what had stirred something dark and primal within him was the woman he had glimpsed during the final moments of the battle. She had stood atop the balcony, watching the carnage below with eyes that burned with defiance, not fear.
Her beauty was unlike anything Murtasim had ever seen. She was like a flame—vivid, untamed, and dangerously alluring. Her long dark hair cascaded down her back in waves, contrasting starkly against the pale silk of her gown. Even from a distance, he could see her full lips set in a seductive curve, and the shape of her body hinted at sin and temptation. It was as if she had been crafted by the gods themselves, designed to torment and ensnare the souls of men. And Murtasim was not immune to her power.
His chest tightened with an emotion he did not yet recognize, something beyond the desire to conquer. For the first time in his life, Murtasim felt an overwhelming need to possess not just a kingdom, but a woman. A woman whose spirit seemed as unbreakable as his own.
Her name, he learned from the frightened whispers of the palace servants, was Meerab, the widow of the slain king. The last jewel in the crown of Talhira.
Murtasim’s mind was made up in that moment. He had taken Talhira, and now he would take her.
He motioned to one of his lieutenants, a man whose loyalty had been forged in the fires of battle. "Bring her to me," Murtasim ordered, his voice low and authoritative, laced with the command of a man who was not to be questioned. "Now."
The lieutenant hesitated, only briefly, before bowing and disappearing down the corridor.
Murtasim continued his slow, deliberate march through the palace, each step filling him with a sense of anticipation that he hadn’t felt in years. He pushed open the doors to the royal chambers, a vast room draped in rich silks and gold. A massive bed dominated the space, its canopy adorned with delicate lace that seemed so out of place in this house of war.
