Murtasim opened the door, bracing for anything, his hand resting lazily on the doorframe. Instead of danger, he found the same village woman who had granted them refuge the night before. She stood with her arms crossed and an earthen pot in hand, her sharp eyes scanning him from head to toe with mild suspicion.
“Call your wife,” the woman said, her voice curt but neutral, though the subtle judgment in her gaze was hard to miss.
Murtasim leaned against the doorframe, quirking an eyebrow in amusement at her scrutiny. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea of telling her that "wife" was a strong word for their situation, but instead, he simply called out over his shoulder.
“Meerab, love,” he drawled, “our gracious host requires your presence.”
Meerab, who had been quietly observing from inside, hesitated before stepping forward. Her instincts warned her to remain cautious. These villagers weren’t a threat, but she couldn’t let her guard down for even a second.
As she approached, the woman shifted her attention, sizing up Meerab with the same sharp gaze. Without a word, she handed Meerab the earthen pot, its rough texture cold against her fingers.
“Take this and join the other women of the village at the lake,” the woman instructed. “It’s time to fetch water.”
Meerab blinked, her hands tightening around the pot in shock. Fetch water? The words hung in the air as if they were a foreign language. The realization hit her with a force that was almost laughable—she was being told to fetch water like a common villager. She, who had grown up surrounded by maids, servants, and guards at her beck and call, was now expected to perform menial labor.
Her confusion must have been evident because the village woman raised an eyebrow at her. Before Meerab could form a response, Murtasim, ever quick to intervene, stepped in with an easy charm.
“She’ll join you in a moment,” Murtasim said smoothly, flashing one of his trademark, disarming smiles. His hand casually took the pot from Meerab, his fingers brushing hers briefly. The woman glanced between them, clearly not convinced but not pressing the matter either. With a curt nod, she turned and made her way back toward the fields, her voice carrying over her shoulder.
“Don’t take too long. The others are waiting.”
As soon as she was out of sight, Meerab’s calm facade cracked. She rounded on Murtasim, eyes blazing, the remnants of her royal pride fueling her anger.
“I can’t do this,” she declared, her voice low but filled with frustration. “I have never done such work in my life! Fetching water? What do they expect me to do, carry this like a servant? This is ridiculous!”
Her tone was haughty, tinged with the authority she once wielded as a princess. She had commanded armies, negotiated treaties, and ruled alongside her father—now she was being asked to carry water as if she were nothing more than a peasant.
Murtasim listened to her rant with a patient expression, arms folded across his chest as if her anger was something to be expected. When she finally ran out of breath, her cheeks flushed with indignation, he stepped closer, his face softening.
“All you have to do is fetch the water,” he said, his voice calm and steady, as though her outburst hadn’t rattled him at all. He gently took her hands and placed the pot back in them. “Get the water, and if you really want, throw a tantrum about it afterward.”
Meerab gaped at him, utterly incredulous. Was this man seriously telling her—her, the rightful princess—to perform such mundane tasks as fetching water and then come back and *throw a tantrum*? Her hands tightened around the pot, her knuckles turning white with the effort to restrain her anger.
“You have no idea who you’re talking to, do you?” she spat, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him that she wasn’t some commoner, but the princess of the very land they stood on. She wanted to remind him that she had the power to order his execution if she so wished. But she couldn’t. She could say nothing.
Before she could voice any of this, Murtasim moved swiftly, his hands gripping her shoulders gently yet firmly. His touch was surprisingly tender, but there was strength behind it as he turned her toward the door.
“You’ll thank me later,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. Without giving her another moment to protest, he gave her a gentle but firm push out the door and swiftly shut it behind her, locking it from the inside.
Meerab stood there, stunned, her mouth agape in disbelief as she stared at the closed door. For a few moments, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her mind raced, trying to comprehend the audacity of what had just happened. He had pushed her out—pushed her—as if she were some disobedient child! Her cheeks flushed with anger, her heart pounding in her chest. She was the princess, the rightful heir to a kingdom, and here she was being shoved out of a door by a rogue soldier.
Just as she was about to pound on the door, a voice called from behind her.
“Hurry up, girl! The others are waiting near the fields.”
Meerab swallowed her frustration, knowing she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself. She was no longer the princess who bathed in riches and luxuries, surrounded by people who obeyed her every command. Now, she was a fugitive—an exiled princess with no throne, no crown, and no allies. If anyone found out who she really was, her life would be over in a heartbeat.
Taking a deep breath, she turned slowly, casting one final glare at the door before forcing herself to walk toward the waiting village women. The pot in her hands felt heavy, not just in weight but in what it symbolized. She was no longer the royal daughter who had once commanded armies and negotiated treaties. She was just a girl, hiding in plain sight, carrying water like a commoner.
The village women stood waiting, chatting idly amongst themselves, their carefree banter a stark contrast to the turmoil in Meerab’s heart. She approached them reluctantly, her steps slow and hesitant.
One of the women, an older lady with a warm smile, noticed her discomfort and gave her a kind look. “Come on, love, it’s not so bad. You’ll get used to it.”
Meerab forced a smile, nodding, but inside, she felt like a stranger in this simple world. She had no choice but to go along with the charade, no matter how humiliating it felt. Because if she didn’t, the consequences would be far worse than fetching water.