The air around her was thick with mist and perfumes, making every breath feel as if it was full of passion. She breathed it deeply in her nose, wishing that she could sit her forever in her baths, breathing in this air, never having to see anyone else, especially her husband who called himself Maharajah.

Yes, called himself. He was Maharajah now. As much as Farah had always disliked her father, there still was a bruise left on her heart from his death. Perhaps it was because through it all she truly did love him as a father, despite all of the things he had done. No. It was probably because living with her father was better than living with this man.

She did not tell Amar that she despised him. She did not tell him that she hated him for his unbearable arrogance, for his cold-heart, for his horrible treatment of everyone around him. She did not tell him that she hated how she sat in his throne was if he was worth worshiping, how she hated waking up some mornings beside him, how she hated the condescending looks he gave her when he explained things, how she wanted to murder him in his sleep the night he broke her bow in half, claiming 'good wives' didn't need such things.

No. Farah acted as the good wife for him, answering primly with yes my love's, preparing his rooms for him, washing him when he commanded her too, and acting the part of the perfect queen to the subjects. She quietly cleaned his bloody swords which he had commanded only be cleaned by her, though Farah could not imagine why. Perhaps it amused him, or made him feel more important, to have his 'loving wife' tend to his swords while he vividly described and no doubted exaggerated how he killed every unlucky Persian whose blood wound up on the hilt.

Being defiant would accomplish nothing. She decided this within the first week of their marriage, if you could call it that. Besides, she hardly had it in her to be defiant anymore; she seemed to have lost all will to do anything in front of her husband. Thankfully he was at war now and she did not have to see him often. She only hoped he would die and then she could pick her own suitor or even rule herself since he had no heir yet. Amar seemed to fear his own death too, for he was obsessed with having an heir, something he never ceased to remind Farah of. None had come yet, though not for Amar's lack of trying. She could sense him getting frustrated with her, and soon he would get a concubine to have a child with him. This did not bother Farah in the least, it would get him to leave her alone. When she was younger Farah's nurse had mentioned that sometimes if the mother does not want a child than it is harder to conceive. Farah sometimes wondered whether this was the case but found that she was not against having a child, she was just against having a child with Amar. A child would give her something to do, something to look forward to, but knowing Amar he would ship his child off to be raised by someone else and she would never see it. It would be just like him to take something she loved away.

"Your Highness!"

Farah spun around quickly, her foot knocking over a dish of oils. An extremely frantic maid stood in the doorway to the baths, her eyes wide like an animal caught in a trap.

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Persians are in the palace."

Farah's eyes grew wide and her breath grew shallow. The heavy air grew harder to breathe. "Where are the guards?"

"I don't know, your Highness, no one can seem to find them. Neela thinks they might have been called away."

"Called away by whom?"

"She thinks the Maharajah."

Farah cursed her husband to death as she stepped out of the pool of water, throwing a robe around her. "Very well then. Gather everyone left in the palace and hide in the tombs. Lock the doors."

"What about you?"

"I will go greet the Persians."

"But my lady," she said aghast, "You'll be killed."

"I can fight well enough. I might be able to take some out. And even if not, someone has to meet with them. This is a war. There is no time for hiding. Perhaps I can convince them."

But Farah was not entirely sure of herself. But she did know that she would not hide.

"Alright Your Highness, may luck be with you."

"And with all of you as well," Farah said strongly, "Now hurry."

The frightened maid rushed out of the room. Farah could hear her footsteps echoing through the hallways.

Sighing, Farah dabbed a little oil behind her ears and left for the main hall, where the Persians would undoubtedly be waiting for her. If they were not waiting, she would definitely meet some on the way.

They weren't waiting for her.

She heard a group of soldiers rummaging nosily farther up the hallway from her. She tried to remain calm and walked regally towards them, ready to open her mouth to perhaps negotiate with them, though she knew that wasn't possible. As she approached them her head started to throb horribly and she panted quietly in pain, not wanting to show them her weakness. Suddenly she was fighting them all of and they were chaining her together. She was apart of a caravan and they were bringing her back to Persia but first they would stop in the nearby kingdom of Azad…

No. That wasn't happening. The Persian soldiers saw her and smiled as they realized who she was. She wasn't in Azad but it felt so real, almost as if she had really been there before…

She rubbed her head carefully and regaining her ground she said as calm and as clear as she could under the circumstances, "I would like to be taken to your leader please."

The soldier, who was obviously the one in command in this group nodded formally. "No need Your Highness, we have orders to bring you to him already."

"Oh. Alright. Bring me then."

The soldier nodded. "Babak, bring her there."

The one called Babak nodded and escorted her there and he, obviously noble, was very kind to her. He did not say much to her but at least he did not leer at her. When they approached all the other soldiers they found stopped and let them through almost respectfully. Farah could not help but feel touched and thankful for this.

Finally Babak stopped in the Great Hall, where a few other soldiers were milling about, and two men in military uniform stood, their backs to Farah, conversing about something.

"Your Highness," Babak said formally, addressing one of the men, "I have brought you who you wished for."

One of the men, an older considerably experienced looking man turned and smiled, almost knowingly, while the other suddenly grew rigid before obviously trying to compose himself.

Slowly he turned to face her.