"A qasida is a formal Arabic ode—structured, grand, public in nature. A ghazal is shorter, focused on love and longing. More personal. Like a heart murmuring through ink
."Pronounce it."
"Ghazal," Julia said, the ghayn pronounced just right—rich but elegant.
Ran Ya gave the faintest nod. "You're the first one who didn't butcher it."
Julia inclined her head. "That's because I listened before I spoke.
"The silence that followed was still, but not empty. It carried weight. Expectation. The edge of something beginning.
I've dismissed three tutors this year," the princess said quietly. "One for misquoting Gibran. One for bringing coffee instead of qahwa. The last one called it 'gazelle.'"
Julia did not blink. "Then I'm honored to have made it past the first sentence."
Ran Ya watched her carefully, then handed her the book.
"Begin."
Julia opened to the marked page, her heart steady. She began to read in Arabic—fluid, thoughtful. She translated softly, seamlessly, into English, French, and Spanish. She did not rush. Her voice was low, melodic, letting the verse breathe.
And as the last line drifted into silence, she saw it again.
Not a smile. Not quite.
the edges of Princess Ran Ya's mouth had softened.
Julia turned the page. There would be no celebration. No praise.
But she had survived the first encounter.
And in the Garden of Nine Arches, she had planted her first seed of influence—with language, discipline, and a melody still lingering in the back of her mind.
---
The servant boy was not a boy at all.
He moved like one, small and sharp and silent. But his eyes were too old, too patient. He swept the corridor just beyond the Garden of Nine Arches, where the silk trees swayed and the perfume of lemon blossoms faded into polished stone. He wasn't meant to be watching.
But he was.
From behind a carved cedar lattice, he observed the new tutor's every movement. The way she entered the garden with music in her ears—disrespectful, some would say, though he recognized the melody. BTS. The Crown Prince's daughter had cried to that song once, after a public scolding. The new tutor must have done her research. Or… perhaps she knew more than she claimed.
She spoke Arabic like someone born to it.
But her posture—too disciplined.
Her accent—too careful.
And the smallest slip, barely noticeable: the way she bowed. Not quite Western, not quite Zephyri. Almost… Korean.
He made no sound. He had learned long ago that information had more value than gold in this palace. So he stored it. A name not quite true. A voice that shifted shape. And a princess who had not dismissed her tutor for once.
That alone was worth reporting.
But not yet.
Not until he knew more.
---
Julia's slippers barely made a sound on the palace marble. She walked the corridor lined with tapestries of battle and bloodline, her thoughts carefully sealed beneath layers of discipline.
It had gone well.
Or at least, not badly.
She reached her chamber—a suite nestled in the eastern wing, with lattice windows and a view of the royal citrus grove. A breeze slipped through the silks, carrying scents of saffron and the distant smoke of incense. She let the door close softly behind her and leaned back against it, exhaling.
Then she allowed herself one small smile.
"You're the first one who didn't butcher it."
The princess's words echoed in her head. Not praise—but not rejection either. For Ran Ya, that was monumental.
She walked to the small marble table near her bed, where the portfolio still lay open. Today's column was marked in ink:
> 6:30 AM: Wake and recite Fajr
7:00: Light breakfast alone
8:00: Proceed to Nine Arches
8:15: First session with tutor
10:00: Princess reviews composition work (alone)
Julia had read and memorized every line, but now she saw it differently. These were not just instructions. They were terrain. Political terrain.
Ran Ya was not the heir. But she was still the Crown Prince's daughter. In Zephyrabad, women could not inherit the throne—but they could shape the men who would. Ran Ya was no child. She was a strategist in silk.
And today, Julia had passed the first test.
She walked to the mirror, studying her own reflection—nothing out of place. The headscarf, the subtle makeup, the controlled posture. But beneath it all, Julia Kim's real identity pulsed like a secret heartbeat.
Her Korean accent—she had buried it so deep, yet still the princess had caught a whisper of it. Northern, Ran Ya had said. Not Seoul. Not Busan. Dandong.
Julia made a mental note: next time, speak faster when using Korean. Less pause between syllables. Less clarity. Enough to seem authentic, but not native.
She removed her scarf and unpinned her hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. Then she crossed to her nightstand, where her phone lay charging, and tapped the screen.
Never Let You Go.
The song resumed where she'd left off—soft, melancholic, hopeful.
Jooheon's voice filled the room.
Julia closed her eyes.
Now she was here. In Aureliah. In the palace of the Al Farsi dynasty, the wealthiest royal family on earth. Surrounded by secrets, guarded by gold, breathing under a false name.
Her job was simple, on the surface: tutor the princess in five languages.
She opened her eyes. Something in her gut told her she had already been seen.
.
And not just by the princess.
It was already past 9 p.m. when Julia sank onto the edge of her bed, the silk coverlet creasing beneath her. A warm breeze filtered through the lattice window, carrying with it the distant sounds of fountains and muffled laughter from deeper within the palace. Yet her mind was far from the present.
Thoughts of the elusive Second Prince kept sweeping back into her consciousness, no matter how often she tried to push them aside. She had only heard murmurs—rumors whispered through marble corridors and behind embroidered veils. No portraits, no public appearances. Just a name and a shroud of mystery.
What sort of man chooses to remain unseen in a palace that thrives on spectacle? she wondered.
Her mind, unconvinced by nobler possibilities, leaned toward cruelty. He's probably terribly plain, she thought with a sly smile. Ugly, perhaps. Maybe even chubby and awkward. That would explain the silence, the absence. It was a superficial assumption, but one rooted in the world she'd come to inhabit, where beauty equaled power and the unseen were often unwanted.
Her gaze fell on the vanity across the room, where she had spent almost an hour earlier, perfecting her appearance—not for anyone in particular, but as armor. The disguise had to be seamless. Every detail mattered. The false identity she wore like second skin had begun to settle more naturally now. Her gestures had shifted. Her accent, honed. Her history—half Arabic, half German father; French mother; childhood in Spain—rehearsed until it felt like truth. Even her Korean, claimed to have been picked up at university from a close friend, was no longer something she hesitated over.
That night, as the palace continued its quiet hum, Julia drifted into sleep with a feeling that—for once—things were going exactly as she needed them to.
---
Morning came with a strange lightness in the air. The day unfolded more gently than she expected. Princess Ran Ya was, surprisingly, more amiable. Their lesson passed without sharp remarks or thinly veiled jabs. There was even a hint of warmth in her otherwise cold gaze.
As they concluded earlier than scheduled, the princess closed her book and stood.
"Miss Lucas," she said, her voice formal but less rigid, "you won't be tutoring me tomorrow. My parents are visiting the palace."
Julia tilted her head. "Of course. I'll adjust the schedule."
The princess looked her over briefly. "Perhaps you'll watch the dance performance tomorrow evening. I'll summon you afterward. I'd like you to meet them."
Julia nodded. "As you wish, Your Highness."
As she turned to leave the garden, a curious sense of ease followed her. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Maybe, she thought as she walked down the stone stairway, just maybe, she was beginning to build something real in this place. A second life. One no one could tear down.
But the feeling didn't last.
At the base of the stairwell, just before the long corridor toward the Eastern Wing, a figure stepped into her path.
"Nadia," Julia said, surprised.
Nadia, daughter of the palace's formidable head chef, was impossible to miss in Aureliah. Everyone knew her—wild, sharp-tongued, and scandalously free in a world of measured decorum. Julia had overheard a group of maids gossiping about her just that morning near the Garden of Nine Arches. Eight of them, by her count—none too discreet.
Nadia stood with her arms crossed, eyes glittering like she'd found a secret and was deciding whether or not to keep it.
"I heard there was a pretty new tutor in the palace," she said, eyeing Julia from head to toe. "Had to come check for myself."
Julia stayed silent, but lifted one brow in polite amusement.
"And holy moly, they weren't exaggerating," Nadia added. "But with all that makeup... I can't really see your real face. Guess you're one of those girls who lurk around hoping Prince Khali will take notice."
Julia's smile stayed in place, cool and unreadable