There was something unfocused in Reyhanna's ire, a non-strategized agitation that blurred rather than sharpened, scrabbling for the conclusion, not the process.

The force she was taught to bend into her attacks spilled clumsily from its restraints like water splashing from a bucket that a child had run away with. Her strikes were raw and closely-spaced, unrefined but dangerous.

Facing her, the Sawadi was like a fixed wall. He moved sparingly to block her successive attacks. His guard was impenetrable. She tired quickly. He never riposted once. No matter how underhanded her angles, her wrath seemed to feed his calm. She struck and he unfailingly parried with the odd synchrony of a learned dance. And he watched her, carrying a detached assessment of her moves, as though the dragging of their duel rested on some unslaked curiosity of his.

She had heard of Al Sawad's lethal fighting style, kept secret and only taught within the tribe, so that Masshay couldn't teach it if he wanted to, and while she had embarked on this fight knowing it would not be a fight between equals, it turned out not to be a fight at all.

She struggled past her enervation, desperately looking for an opening, a breach in his defense. When she thought she had found it, Reyhanna gave a guttural cry and, concentrating her remaining strength in her arms, moved to thrust at him.

Deciding he had seen enough, the Sawadi disarmed her with aching ease. A precise flick of his wrist, and her blade flew from her grasp and fell at Ruqqayah's feet, a pitiful glimmer in the sand. Time stopped. The scandalized faces around them froze, the wind settled, and when she blinked, it was slow, like grazing infinity at the tip of her lashes. It was an epiphanic moment of sorts. The Sawadi's statuesque build blocking the moon, his blade glinting at her throat. His riding cape flapped gently behind him and she pictured downturned wings as the angel of death negotiated whether or not to reap her soul.

Was this the end? She had never known such stillness. It was almost peaceful, as she hung at peril's edge. If she were to die, said a vagrant thought, his eyes were the last thing she would see. Thick lashes that vied with her own in length. Irises like a distilled night. And the wind whispering in her ear that she never stood a chance.

The battle was over. Both Masshay, who had fought unlike his usual self, and she, who had fought in extremis, had lost against the Sawadi. He looked around them, as though realizing too that the bedouins had fallen in stasis, frozen in time.

'So much rests on you.' He remarked with steely patience. 'Would you like to pick up that second blade now?'

Reyhanna had exhausted herself. She knew her limits. Still, she agreed. 'Yes.'

The Sawadi picked it up for her, sparing no consideration for Masshay, who was bleeding profusely through his makeshift bandage. For the second time, he held out the sword for Reyhanna. He watched her hesitate, then grasp the hilt.

'You're wasting your force.' He said as she adjusted her posture, recharging her strength. 'Your fighting style is...undecided.' Reyhanna tested the weight of Masshay's blade in her hand, the hot ache in her sword arm suddenly spiked with a renewed surge of power. 'What do you mean?' She asked, actively calculating her next move.

'Your force is conflicted.' He answered. 'It doesn't know which side to sway.' 'What does it matter to you?' She asked. 'I can't fight you back like this.' He said. 'It would kill you.' Reyhanna tightened her grip on the hilt and swung a first time at him. He dodged.

'So?' She panted. 'Isn't that why you're here? To kill?' 'Why are you here?' He asked, his voice level. 'You are not suited for knighthood.'

Reyhanna fumed. She attempted an overhead strike. When he parried, the force of it sent her recoiling back, nearly stumbling on her own feet. Knighthood was all she had to her name, the coronation of her perpetual struggle in life. She had done her best to stay in her place as a child, a charity receptacle was her status, a nobody entitled to nothing, the chieftain's wife dismissing her as soon as her sister had her first daughter—Ruqqayah, who now stood to be exchanged for her cousin's sin. She had done her best to be grateful as Al Ramad sent her off to Yaqqut because she was the only foreign orphan nearing puberty and no merchant family wanted to adopt a foreigner.

She had done her best pretending she didn't hear the pitying remarks in the common sleeping tent she shared with the scarce women of Yaqqut as she tried to fall asleep before a long day of training under the sweltering desert sun. She had done her best obeying Masshay, constricting herself to his teaching, quieting her tendency for chaos, her disruptive energy, because she wanted to thrive, because she'd never been claimed by anyone, because she had to earn every sliver of her identity. Knighthood would always be all she had. The Sawadi had no right to discredit her only place in life.

'Because I am weak?' She spat, feeling the force drain out of her, replaced by pure hatred. 'Or a woman?'

'Because you are not ready.' He said, and stepped away from her—a clear closure to their painfully brief duel. 'I'm not done.' She yelled, but her body begged to differ. 'You have not defeated me yet.' 'Stand back,' she heard Masshay call. 'You've done enough, now stand back.' 'No.' Reyhanna said feebly.

Her sword slipped from her hand and she felt dizzy. A faint whisper in the back of her head reminded her that she was menstruating. Had she bled through her clothes? 'You have to fight me. You have to defeat me.' She said, winded, strapped for breath. 'You have to—' She sank to her knees. Her hatred turned against herself, like a snake wrapping around its flutist.

The weight of her nothingness crashed on her hard. The Sawadi had not broken a single sweat against her. And here she was, small and defeated. She opened her mouth to reiterate her provocation and realized she couldn't speak. The Sawadi turned to the tribespeople of Al Ramad. 'Who is this girl you are all hiding behind?' He asked. Reyhanna dropped her head, a cynical smile stirring behind her shemagh.

'That girl is my daughter.' Called a man's voice. Stunned, Reyhanna shifted her eyes to the man who had spoken. She saw Zakia talking to the chieftain before he stepped forward and spoke again. 'She is my daughter and you will not bring her harm.'

'Your daughter?' The Sawadi asked, his voice now hanging above Reyhanna like a fruit perched on a high branch. She met Zakia's rheumy eyes and her small smile, and her daze slowly cleared. 'Why would the Chieftain of Al Ramad send his precious daughter to Yaqqut?'

'To train her to take on a husband like you, if necessity struck.' The chieftain said. 'And I dare say, from what I have just seen, that she might be the only woman in the desert capable of such a feat.' At that, the Sawadi stepped further back from her, as though stung. Reyhanna, who had attempted to get up, tumbled backward, weak on her feet. 'Come, let us avoid bloodshed.' The chieftain pleaded. 'Accept this olive branch. A marriage alliance between our tribes will secure you privileged access to our trade routes, and you will find in Al Ramad an open market for your wares.'

Masshay gripped Reyhanna's arm from behind, hoisting her to her feet. She felt numb. 'My daughter is not only my blood and your ticket to flourishing business,' The chieftain continued, like he was a man in an auction, and Reyhanna was the prize. 'She is a knight. A knight for a knight. Is that not fair?' Reyhanna steadied herself on Masshay's good arm, watching the Sawadi lower his gaze. She wondered what mortified her more. The Sawadi accepting the new lie of Al Ramad and agreeing to wed her instead of Ruqqayah—whom he didn't know was the original pretend daughter—or him refusing her and killing Rashed, which would then become the result of her failure to meet his standards for a wife.

When he looked up at last, his eyes lucid with finality, he did neither. Instead, he slid his saber in its sheath and addressed the Chieftain of Al Ramad.

'You have rotten your son.' He said. 'But you have raised your daughter well.'

Something jolted in Reyhanna's chest. It couldn't have been her heart, it was painful—the kind of pain that, in other circumstances, would make her cry. It was something crunched over its emptiness being suddenly filled, stretching the battered membrane around it. It was searing satisfaction. Her heart began to beat harder—faster now than when the Sawadi's blade was aimed at the center of her clavicle.

'According to the ruling of qisas, I will spare your heir's life, and I vow to engage in no military hostility after that.' The Sawadi said. 'But do not mistake my decision for weakness. My tribesmen are not to deal with Al Ramad again. I will not deal with the tribes that deal with Al Ramad either. In other words, I declare a desert-wide boycott over this coward tribe.' The Sawadi gave a long whistle and a black mare came piercing the night. The people of Al Ramad watched as he mounted his horse and galloped away.

'You have saved me!' Reyhanna heard a plaintive voice croak behind her. Rashed. She had saved him. Had she? 'Father, you must reward her, she has saved me!' 'Yes, she has saved you, but you have brought ruin upon this tribe.' The chieftain said. 'I should exile you.'

'Can you walk?' Masshay asked Reyhanna. 'Just...a moment.' Reyhanna blinked, placing a shaky hand over her heart. It was unrelenting. Was it trying to make a break for freedom? 'We are ruined! Boycott can endure and be passed onto generations!' Someone yelled. 'The Sawadis are already getting richer. We will get poorer. This is a calamity. O sheikh, your son has brought ruin upon us all! If he weren't your son I would kill him myself!' A chorus of disgruntled complaints rose. 'The Sawadi chieftain has spared my heir,' the sheikh of Al Ramad bellowed. 'But he has planted the seed of unrest in our midst. Do not fall into his trap!'

'That is easy for you to say! This will become a trade war and we stand everything to lose from it!' Shouted a merchant woman. 'I have never given my money to a man and no man will cut off my livelihood!' 'Reyhanna.' Masshay repeated, he had already called her name twice. 'Go with the women. You should lie down.' 'I should.' She coughed. 'What is happening? Why is everyone screaming?'

'Come with me,' Zakia said, suddenly standing behind them. 'You will sleep in my daughter's tent. Masshay, I will give you ointment for your wounds.' She turned to Reyhanna. 'We have a lot to discuss, ya binti. As it stands, only you can save our tribe.'

Vocab and context~

Ya binti: o my daughter.

Sheikh: leader. Feminine is sheikha.

Qisas: the ruling of retaliation against homicide or the willful spread of corruption in the land. Based on my loose understanding it is either an eye for an eye, in which case the person in charge of the killed/harmed innocent has the right to kill/ harm the offender right back with the exact same offense, or forgiveness conditional to paying a sum for compensation—"blood money", or unconditional forgiveness with no further retaliation and the maintenance of peace.

Binyamin kind of freestyled the last one didn't he. Thanks Rey.

Woman merchant's statement on money and ownership: for background, in the Islamic faith, a woman's money cannot be touched by a man unless she wills it and the men responsible over her (husband, father, male blood relatives...) have an obligation to spend on her whatever her financial situation.

Hope this helps!

This escapist fic happened because rn I want to travel to the desert and just stargaze, you know. I also love studying languages and cultures and faiths, so the research part is fun. Thanks for reading :)