I don't want you to fall in love with Sirvat, I simply want you to see him as a man he was.
A glance inside the story with some hot facts revealed
Olgierd stands at the entrance of the Bilewitz estate, his chest rising and falling with quick, sharp breaths. His fists clench at his sides, his heart pounds—not with fear, not with doubt, but with the sheer force of need. He had come prepared for resistance, for protests, but hearing it from her father’s own lips—"I cannot allow Iris to make a mistake"—it nearly sets his blood to boil.
A mistake?
He grits his teeth, forcing himself to remain still, to keep his temper in check. He wants to shout, to argue, to demand Iris’s hand right here and now, but instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and meets the older man’s gaze with determination.
"You want a plan?" Olgierd says, his voice low, steady, but edged with barely restrained frustration. "Then hear me now—"
But before he can speak further, the sound of hooves and rustling silk turns his head.
And there he is.
The Ofieri prince.
He dismounts with a practiced ease that grates on Olgierd’s nerves. Everything about him is deliberate—measured movements, a regal posture that speaks of a man who has never had to bow too deeply. He isn’t tall, not really, but he holds himself like he is, like the space around him bends to his presence. His skin is dark, smooth, untouched by toil, his face composed in that insufferable way only men born into privilege can manage. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a neatly trimmed beard—all in place, all polished. Even his eyes, dark and unreadable, are controlled. Too controlled. A man who knows the weight of his name. A man who thinks himself untouchable.
His clothes reek of wealth, though not in the garish way of some noble peacock trying to prove his worth with gold and gems. No, this man wears his status like a second skin—fine fabrics, deep indigo woven with gold, a sash of crimson tied just so, the kind of effortless refinement that makes Olgierd’s teeth grind. A curved dagger rests at his hip, not for use but for show, its hilt adorned with polished stones. His cloak is light, the embroidery subtle, elegant—meant to impress without speaking a word. And then, there’s the turban, wrapped so precisely that it almost seems smug, a silver pin gleaming against the deep blue fabric like a quiet statement of superiority.
Olgierd had heard of him before. Iris had warned him—her father’s latest attempt to shackle her to fortune, to bind her to a man who could offer her wealth, protection, a future. She had dismissed it outright, laughed at the absurdity of it, assured Olgierd that it was nothing.
And yet, here the bastard stands.
And Iris’s father… he does not scowl, nor frown, nor dismiss the man as he had Olgierd. No, he welcomes him, as if this moment is expected, as if the choice has already been made.
"Sirvat! Your highness." the older man says, his voice carrying the weight of approval, of preference.
And the prince—the rival—turns his gaze to Olgierd.
For a moment, the two men simply look at one another. Measuring. Weighing. Sirvat’s eyes are unreadable, not mocking, not dismissive—merely… assessing.
And Olgierd? He is already gripping the hilt of his saber.
Olgierd’s breath is ragged, his vision blurred with fury. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his saber, the desire to strike—to end this farce—boiling beneath his skin. He had lost everything. His home. His family’s fortune. And now, as he stands at the gates of the Bilewitz estate, watching Sirvat be welcomed while he is questioned, doubted, forced to prove himself—he feels something inside him break.
And then—Iris.
Soft hands, firm with urgency, press against his chest, halting him. He hadn't even noticed her approach—so consumed by the sight of the Ofieri prince, so deafened by the rush of fury in his veins. But now she is here, standing between them, her touch the only thing anchoring him.
"Olgierd, please!"
Her voice—gentle, pleading—cuts through the haze clouding his mind. She had been inside, watching through the open door, hoping, praying, that he would convince her father. That this would not come to a fight. But the moment Sirvat arrived, she had known. She had seen the shift in Olgierd, the tension coiling in his stance, and she had run.
Yet even she had not expected this. She knew her father had been plotting, that an Ofieri prince had been mentioned, but not Sirvat. The name she knew belonged to the son of a merchant, a young man with exotic appearance. And now, as she stands between them, heart pounding, she is not sure who she fears more—the suitor she never expected or the man she loves, burning with a fury she might not be able to quell.
Olgierd looks at her. The woman he loves. The woman who, even now, fights for him. And yet… she still stands between them. Between him and the man who would take her away.
And something in him snaps.
"Damn you," he breathes, voice low, shaking. He isn’t even sure who he’s speaking to—Sirvat, her father, fate itself. His grip tightens around the saber, but he does not draw it. Instead, his rage twists into words—venomous, reckless, spoken without thought, without care.
"I could spill your blood where you stand," Olgierd growls. “And not just yours...” His eyes flick, sharp and knowing, to the men flanking Sirvat—guards, attendants, whatever they call themselves. They stand ready, hands near their weapons, tense beneath their polished civility. If he drew his blade now, he wouldn't just be fighting one man. He'd be cutting through all of them.
"Proving her family right—be the ruffian they already think I am." His breath comes sharp, his sneer razor-edged. "But no. Let them see you instead—the beast beneath the silk, the lecherous toad hunting for lasses to snatch up. A prince?" He scoffs. "No. Just a wretched, bloated thing, hiding in filth, feeding on gold and power. May you rot in the darkness where you belong."
The words spill from his lips like poison, hot and raw. He does not realize what he has done. Not yet. Not now. No strange wind howls, no thunder cracks the sky, no curse announces itself with fanfare or dread.
Iris trembles her palm pressed against Olgierd’s chest, eyes wide, filled with fear—not for herself, not for Sirvat, but for him.
"Olgierd, stop." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Please."
And finally—finally—the rage dulls, exhaustion seeping into its place. Olgierd steps back, releasing the hilt of his saber. His hands shake, his breath uneven, as he stares at Sirvat one last time.
"This isn’t over," he mutters, before turning and storming away, his heart hammering in his chest.
He does not look back.
Sirvat ibn Nibras Al-Malik Al-Warith watches as Olgierd rides away, his figure disappearing into the night like a shadow dragged by the wind. The estate gate creaks shut behind him, but the tension he leaves behind lingers—thick, suffocating, raw.
Sirvat does not move, does not speak. His breath is steady, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—dark, sharp, thoughtful—flicker briefly toward Iris.
She is not watching him.
She is staring after Olgierd.
Iris is still trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, though whether it is from fear or something else, he cannot tell. She stares at the road where Olgierd vanished, her lips parted slightly, her breath unsteady.He had expected her to hesitate when she saw him again. He had not expected this.
Her father shifts beside him, clearing his throat as if to dispel the weight of what just transpired. "Iris," he says, voice steady but expectant, as if waiting for her to compose herself.
She blinks rapidly, a sharp inhale passing her lips, and finally—finally—she turns her gaze to Sirvat.
"Your Highness."
The words drip with sarcasm, each syllable cutting. Her voice is quieter than she expected, hoarse from the weight of everything unsaid.
She exhales, long and unsteady, pressing her fingers to her temple before dropping them. Her expression shifts—less fury, more something else. Something raw.
"Why on earth," she murmurs, voice trembling with frustration, "did it have to be you?"
And Sirvat—so composed, so steady—hears more than just anger.
The way she looks at him sends a slow, unwanted heat through his skin.
And this is not the first time Iris Bilewitz has looked at him, making him feel like that.
He remembers Oxenfurt.
The scent of wet stone and lantern oil along the canals. The hum of poetry, of debate, of wine-soaked students who fancied themselves the future of the world. The girls who watched him with the same curiosity they reserved for strange artifacts in the Academy’s collection—exotic, foreign, an object of fascination.
And Iris.
Iris, who did not look at him that way.
Iris, who did not giggle behind her hand, did not watch him with the hungry, eager eyes of a girl wanting to claim a piece of something different.
She had been too young then, too innocent—her head filled with paintings and art history, her heart set on beauty rather than romance. While others whispered and flirted, she had only asked questions, drawn not to him but to the world he spoke of—the stories of his homeland, the art, the music, the delicate calligraphy traced in ink. She had been fascinated, not infatuated, her curiosity burning brighter than any fleeting affection.
And in her presence, he had felt—not a man, not someone to be desired—but a boy. A boy reciting verses to amuse her, a boy sketching symbols in the margins of her books, a boy who, for once, was not measured by ambition or expectation.
Until the night by the riverbank—when she had stumbled upon him and that girl whose name he no longer remembers.
A warm summer night, the hush of the Pontar, the whisper of reeds swaying in the breeze. The air was thick with heat, heavy with the scent of damp earth and sweat. His skin, dark and slick, gleamed under the pale light of the moon as he moved—slow, steady, deep.
The woman beneath him moaned softly, her fingers digging into his back, her body arching to meet his. His hips rocked into her, measured at first, teasing, before a sharper thrust made her cry out. He barely heard her. His focus had shifted—his breath hitching, his spine tensing as something shifted in the night around him.
Not a sound. Not a movement. Just presence.
And when his gaze lifted—beyond the woman writhing beneath him, —he saw her.
Iris.
She stood in the distance, frozen, bathed in moonlight. Her pale face stark against the darkness, wide eyes locked onto him, hands curled into trembling fists at her sides. She wasn't hidden in the reeds, wasn't peering from the shadows—she was simply there, standing still as marble, watching.
His own breath hitched, his rhythm faltering for the briefest moment. Not from shame. Not from fear. From something else.
Mischief curled at the edges of his lips. Heat rushed through him—not just from the woman beneath him, but from the fact that Iris was watching. That she hadn’t turned away. That she had stayed.
His pace slowed, became deliberate, a deep, rolling thrust that made the woman beneath him cry out, her nails raking down his back. But his eyes, dark and lidded, stayed on Iris. For her.
The tension between them stretched thin, electric. His breath came heavier, his grip tightening. He wanted her to see. Wanted her to know.
And when he was close, when pleasure coiled hot and tight in his core, his control shattered. His head tipped back, his lips parting on a low, guttural moan, his body trembling as he spilled over the edge.
And when he opened his eyes—she was gone.
No trace of her but the lingering heat in his veins and the ghost of her pale face burned into his memory.
He had found her again days later.
The night was alive with music and laughter, the warmth of summer pressing against Oxenfurt’s stone walls, the scent of spilled wine and crushed flowers thick in the air. Inside, the party roared—students celebrating the end of the semester with reckless abandon—but out here, on the balcony, it was quiet.
The candlelight from the house framed her in gold, but she stood just beyond it, wrapped in shadows, hands resting on the railing. She didn’t move when he approached, didn’t speak when he offered her a glass of wine. She took it from his hand, her fingers barely brushing his, cool against the warmth of the evening. A sip, slow and measured, her lips darkened by wine.
Their eyes finally met. Her green with his dark brown. She didn’t look away.
"Why are you here?" she asked, voice quiet, edged. "There are plenty of girls inside eager for a man’s hands on their waist."
He smiled. "I saw you watching, Shirin."
“Stop calling me like that.”
“Why not, you are innocent indeed. And curious.”
The air between them thickened, the scent of wine and summer night heady around them. He tilted his head, his voice dropping lower. "Tell me, have you ever kissed a man?"
Her fingers curled around the glass. "That’s none of your business."
"So no, then."
"I didn’t say that."
"Would you like to?"
A beat. A hesitation. Then, to his surprise—she kissed him.
The taste of wine, sweet and dark, still clinging to her lips. She was hesitant at first, uncertain, her breath quick and uneven against his mouth. Her inexperience was in the way she pressed too softly, then too hard, as if unsure of what she was meant to do, of how much to give.
Sirvat let her fumble, let her figure it out—just for a moment.
Then he took over.
His hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer, flush against him. A slow, deliberate deepening, his tongue brushing against hers, teasing, coaxing. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tightening in his tunic, her body stiffening for a fraction of a second before something in her gave way.
He felt it when she stopped thinking.
When instinct took over—her lips parting wider, her hands sliding from his tunic to his shoulders, grasping, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. She was trembling, not from fear but from something unfamiliar, something new curling deep inside her.
His teeth grazed her lower lip, a gentle bite, and the sound she made—soft, breathless, surprised—sent a bolt of heat straight through him.
She melted into him then, pressing closer, the curve of her body molding against his, warm and yielding. His grip tightened at her waist, fingers pressing into soft fabric, feeling the heat of her beneath it. He was growing hard, and when she shifted—just slightly, unknowingly—against him, a quiet groan rumbled in his throat.
The taste of her, the way she responded to him, the way her breath shuddered when his tongue slid deeper—it was intoxicating. And she had no idea what she was doing to him.
Then—a sharp sound.
The glass slipped from her hand, knocking against the railing before shattering below, wine bleeding across stone.
She froze.
And then—she was gone.
Now, here she is before him again.
Her father’s blessing is already his.
And yet—she hesitates.
Sirvat studies her.
This is not the girl he left behind.
He had placed only the first brushstrokes, the first hints of color. And when duty had called him back to Ofir, he had left her unfinished—a blank canvas with only the faintest traces of paint.
And now?
Someone else has filled it in.
He sees it in her stance, in the way her body lingers in the ghost of Olgierd’s touch.
And something inside him tightens.
It is not jealousy—not exactly.
But it is something.
"I apologize if my arrival has caused distress," he says at last, his voice even, deliberate. "That was not my intent."
She swallows hard.
"Sirvat…"
He does not smirk this time. He does not tease. Because suddenly, he sees it for what it is. He is no longer the one shaping her. And that—that is something he did not expect.
He inhales, steadying himself.
"It seems my timing is poor," he says at last, his voice even, giving her an out, giving her space.
Her fingers twitch, as if she means to reach for something, but she does not speak.
Her father does.
"Nonsense," the older man says, his tone brisk, final. "Come inside, Sirvat. You’ve had a long journey."
Sirvat does not immediately move. He watches Iris a moment longer. And he does not know what he sees in her gaze.
It is not love. It is not hate. It is not certainty. And that, more than anything, tells him all he needs to know.
