₊ ⊹ THE SMALL SPARK IN YOUR EYES, when you find yourself lost in foreign lands an unusual person comes to your aid, sweeping you off your feet, literally.
𐔌౨ৎ 、minajael x gn!reader. fluff content, might be ooc this was written just as he was announced. semi-compliant, took inspiration from a fire lit sky over sands event & mild spoilers for events of book 8, enjoy reading! [2.6k wc]
You inhaled once. The thin silk clings warmly to your skin, the soft bells on your belt tingle when the misshapen crowds of locals and foreigners bump you softly from side to side, drowning you like a curtain. After searching through the thickness of the flurry, you cannot help but sigh heavily, running your hands down your face, mulling your choices somberly.
Jamil’s gonna kill you, you’ve concluded. Well, Jamil will kill you if he doesn’t die of a heart attack first—though the thought of a flustered-looking Jamil muses you to no end, the last thing you needed was to cause more trouble. Especially towards him, he’s already got a lot on his plate after begrudgingly agreeing to allow you, Grim, Trey, Cater—and even the Malleus Draconia to come join him and Kalim on a small trip back home in the Scalding Sands for the Yasmin’s River festival.
Jamil warned everyone that the festival would attract visitors and tourists, and he especially warned Grim and Malleus to be careful not to get lost, but who would have thought you of all people would be the one lost amidst the crowds?
You bite your inner cheek and push yourself to your tippytoes, trying your best once again to spot your friends in the crowds—hoping and seeking to find Malleus’ familiar curved horns, or Cater’s sweet orange locks, or even Grimmy’s blue flames but nothing familiar catches your eyes. After a few more minutes of searching fruitlessly, you decided to seek shelter from the beating sun, fanning yourself with the fabrics of your headpiece.
Truly, the sun really is relentless in the country of the Scalding Sands. It’s different back in Night Raven College where the quiet sunlight would curl through the curtainless windows of Ramshackle, kissing gold on the thin dusts that float in the lobby or when it would bake softly on Grim’s grey fur that had you burying your nose and inhaling the sunburnt scent of it on his belly until your companion starts pushing his paw to your cheek and calling you weird. A pearl of sweat beads down your forehead and you retreat into what seems like a market tucked beneath a shade, away from the grueling heat and boisterous crowds of the bazaar.
You did not have time to worry, not when your eyes chased after the marketplace in wonderment. Splayed across vendor stalls were intricate furniture, golden potteries, carpets. You approached a table, leaning down to run your finger on the ceramics. You must've been distracted, because the next thing you felt was a warm presence by your side and laying a palm on your lower back—straightening you.
“Goodness, didn't your parents teach you to watch over your valuables carefully especially during throngs of festivals?”
You spin your head. Teal was the first thing that catches your eye, then chestnut brown hair that falls beneath the person’s headpiece.
Jamil…? Your mind staggers before you trace your gaze over his features. No, this is not Jamil. He’s wearing teal and blue, and his eyes are nothing like those familiar serpentine ones that belonged to your schoolmate. This person’s eyes are softer, but more tantalizing. Almonds like a feline.
“...Excuse me?” You say between your surprise, and the person beside you glances behind for a mere moment. You watch the way his peacock earring jingle as he turns his head.
“Someone was eyeing that wallet you had in your pockets.” Those rich-colored eyes return to you. “Zahab Market is known for pickpockets, be careful next time.”
You blink once, twice, then realization sinks into you. Your hand immediately pats your wallet, “Oh, thank you for letting me know...”
Instead of a response, the person gazes at you with quiet intensity. His eyes flicker to the curves of your face then down your attire, you try not to flush underneath his avid scrutiny, taking a couple of steps back. “May I help you, is something wrong?”
“You’re…not a local, are you?”
You tilt your head at his question before shaking your head. The handsome stranger hums softly, as if thinking. “So you're a tourist? How odd.”
Your brows furrow, “Yeah I am, why are you asking?”
“I would have recognized a pretty face like yours if you're one of the children from affluent families here in Silk City.”
“What, pretty face—?” Before you can sputter out your sentence, you feel him reach down to pinch the fabric of your attire, gently tugging on it for emphasis. “Silk clothes like these don't come by often, they're expensive and the ones you're wearing now feel like top-quality.” He takes a moment to eye the pattern on your sleeve, running his thumb on it—almost missing the dark pinch in his thick brows.
“This is the first time I've seen an embroidery like this…probably for this year’s Fireworks Festival, but the style is uncannily similar to the Asims.” he looks at you then, his brown eyes almost golden under the light if you stare at it long enough. “...Are you connected with them?”
A honeyed tension pours between the two of you despite the hustle and bustle that flurried around. He’s very sharp, you muse to yourself. And very well-versed, he sounds so cocksure but it’s muted beneath his elegant tone and warm voice…who is this?
You think carefully of how you wanted to answer him, “Kalim Al-Asim is my upperclassman. He invited me to his home city for the Fireworks festival. He allowed me to use these clothes as well. If that's what you're wondering, I didn't steal it.”
“Apologies, I didn't mean to sound accusing but…” The stranger sighs and the tension drops. “That definitely sounds like something he would do alright.”
“Pardon me, do you know Kalim?” You immediately shake your head, “No actually, better question, what's your name?”
The stranger is taken aback by your inquiry, then the softest quirk of his lips as he smiles at you.
“You don't know me.” His tone is more of a statement laced in amusement than a question, and you can see how your words piqued him.
You purse your lips, crossing your arms. “Should I be aware of someone high-handed like you?”
He lifts a brow then, a hearty laugh spilling down his mouth at your accusation. It's weird. Really, really weird because for some reason, you're reacting to his laugh. The way he almost had his shoulders fold over, the sound a mixture of breathy and something rich, it fits the rasp cradle of his tone. When he’s finished, he leans close to you but not close enough to disturb your bubble—or what remains of your tucked dignity.
Playfulness sparks in his eyes, “High-handed, me? I—”
You both tense when you hear voices. From behind you, the familiar cry and wail of Grim reaches your ears as he shouts for you. And in front of you were a series of panicked calls,
“Your highness? Are you here—?”
The stranger beside you clicks his tongue, it draws your attention back, watching a thin sheen of annoyance draw over the playfulness that once plagued his expression. Though his face distracts you, you try to also make sense of the situation; Familiarity in his tone when he talks about Kalim, proficient about the expensive silks and styles of the Asims, knowing families of the city, your highness…is he rich too?
But before you can arrive at a perfect conclusion, he turns towards you. “Hey, are you good at running away?”
The sudden question throws you off but you nod your head, “I guess? Why are you asking me that—”
He reaches out his hands towards you, all and every syllable piling on your tongue falls flat. You look at his outstretched hand, then let your eyes crawl up his arm, his teal capelet, neck then at his face where his hardened expression had loosen then into something genuine, something exciting with a hint of ribboned defiance.
“I still haven't answered you and well, I'm in a bit of a bind so we might have to run somewhere else in order for us to talk properly like this, are you in?”
You hesitate a second, and he notices. The mischief that flavored his brown eyes rich had softened into something sweet and ripe.
“Then, do you trust me?” He asked, a slight tilt to his head, his peacock earrings following the movement. You blink at him before laying your palm across his—you feel his callousness against your skin, the deftness of fingers as he curls it around your own and tugs you to your feet. You’re not quite sure what came over you when you took his hand, you should’ve returned to your companions than follow a stranger but seeing the way his smile stretches across his face is really contagious.
Ten minutes later after running through the markets’ corners, ducking into open doors and flying down and up stairs, climbing a ladder—the stranger finally releases your hand and you almost crumple to the floor in heaps of silk clothes and sweat and exhaustion, catching your breath heavily.
You shouldn’t have trusted him. That arrogant and haughty and handsome—no, cease the notion. You fell for his cocky little flattery so easily, Grimmy would be so—
You see his outstretched hand fall over your vision, once you catch your breath you look up at his face.
And instantly your eyes narrow. He doesn’t even look the least bit tired, he was the one that ran expertly through the crowds, tugging you close and hoisting you by the waist through narrow gaps. Just how athletic is he?
“You okay?” He asked, then an apologetic smile flashes on his face seeing you. “Sorry, I went a bit overboard there.”
“You think?” Instead of accepting his hand, you sat down. A momentary silence fills the room, all except for your labored breaths and distant chatters and music, it’s enough to ease the fracas in your heart.
Seconds bleed before you hear fabrics shuffling. Then, bending on one knee he presses something cold on your cheek. You open your eyes and he stretches out a piece of cut fruit on his palm. You catch his eye and he looks at you intently, “I bought some sliced silky melons from Camel Bazaar a few minutes ago as snacks. Here, take it. I’d feel bad if you passed out because of me.”
You take his offer, “How charming of you…”
“Minhaj.”
You intertwine your gaze with his.
“Minhaj, what’s that?”
He smiles, “well uh, just call me that for now.”
You try not to look at him sourly. You told him who you were, accepted his offer to run till your lungs are close to collapsing and he’s giving you a name that’s not even his?
“That’s not your real name, is it?”
He cocks his head over his shoulders, walks over to the edge and pats the space next to him. “Where’s the fun in that? Now come, I still have more fruits I can share with you.”
At this point, you decided not to argue with him. When you settled beside Minhaj, the view before you had stars dancing in your eyes. No wonder why it felt like you were climbing endless flights of stairs, the view before you is enough to span across the bazaar from here, with its colorful roofs and bustling people down below. Palm trees and canal roads and elephants with bits and bobs flurry the streets, making you smile at how beautiful Silk City truly is.
You were too busy looking at the scene and snacking on sliced fruits you almost missed the way Minhaj closely admired you from the corner of your eye, his palms on his cheek.
This time though, you feel your cheeks flushing hot. “Is something on my face?”
“Yeah.” He points at the edge of your lip. “Right there—no, a little bit more…yeah, there.”
You swipe away at the piece and try to fan away your embarrassment, heat furnacing your cheeks in red.
You hear Minhaj chuckle, “you’re a messy eater, huh?”
“Normally no…” you mentally blame Grimmy and his glutinous manners influencing you, but then turn back towards Minhaj and still see him smiling at you.
“Is there still fruit on my face?”
He shakes his head, “no but…” he eats a slice as well, his stare not leaving yours, as if challenging you on something you haven’t quite realized yet.
“Do you know the significance of silky melons in Silk City?”
You thought about it briefly; Jamil had explained about the melons with a story, then it hit you then, his words.
Over time, people started saying that if you shared one of these melons with someone, your friendship or romance would last forever…
Your head whipped to Minhaj so quickly he had to stifle his own laugh at your reactions.
You open your mouth, press your lips close then part it again, flustered. “Are you trying to imply something here?”
“Relax, I was just joking. You’re rather fun to tease, you know.” Minhaj shakes his head, “Besides, I’m your upperclassman too. Just not in the same school as you or Kalim.”
You perk up, “so I'm guessing your family’s also rich like Kalim?”
He turns to look at the view before him, “Something like that. I’ll tell you who I am though, or what my real name is when we meet again. So for now…”
His arm lays flat beside your thigh and he leans in close again, tapping a sliced fruit to your lips and grinning,
“Keep our first little meeting a secret till I see you again, yeah?”
You hold the fruit, watching as the warmth on his skin brushes your fingertips when he pulls away. You frown, “you’re rather sure we would meet again. I’m not from the Scalding Sands, so who knows when I'll ever have the chance to come back and see you if ever.”
Minhaj simply smiles at you, brown eyes crinkling in the corners. “The melons mean something, and well, we’ll just have to see.”
The promise floats between the two of you until you both finish the melons and bid each other farewell, he immediately spins around before your friends could catch a glimpse of him. The festival continues and you’re half disappointed you don’t see the familiar teal amongst the crowd during the Fireworks festival, and eventually you’d forgotten about the whimsical encounter with the playful stranger from the Scalding Sands, returning back to Night Raven College and its usual stubborn students and history classes and magic concepts and whiny Grimmy and life-altering overblot encounters.
That is until the Inter-school tournament between Night Raven and Royal sword came.
Ace was pressing down and poking at your still evident bed head and you try to swat his hand away from your hair. You feel Grim plop on your lap and shushing you all as they announced the one’s competing from the Royal Sword Academy,
Receiving the Radiant light of the true princess’ wisdom, Dunasmina Dorm!
You’ve huffed and wrapped your arms around Grim as he huddled close to your touch getting comfy, unknowingly furrowing your brows at the dorm being announced. After all, that color teal seemed rather familiar to you but you can’t quite put a finger on it yet…
“Minajael Tealrajah everyone!” The announcer cries and for a moment, the hum and roar of the studio goes dead silent.
The familiar teal, that smug smile, those rich brown eyes, dark hair…
“Minhaj?”
Grim cranes his head up to look at you quizzically, “huh? Whaddya say? Minja wha—hmph!”
Grim’s question ends in a choke and sputter as you accidentally squeezed him tight to your chest, the realization and familiarity of the player competing clicking in your brain.
That carefree boy from Silk City’s markets Minhaj is a Royal Sword Academy student, but not only that but a prince?!
