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"I have never ignored you," he murmured, but the words felt empty to her.

His hands moved over her, tracing the outline of her small frame—not with tenderness, but with possession. He wanted to remind her who she belonged to. He was angry that she had ignored him, as if she had dared to deny him what was his by right.

She swallowed hard, her hands still pressed against his chest. "When are you going to tell Fatima about us?"

Tara's eyes burned, unshed tears threatening to spill. She hated this—this invisible wall between them, this unspoken battle where she was always left wondering where she stood.

Oman shifted, his weight easing off her just enough for her to breathe properly. But now, instead of relief, she only felt cold. Distant. Discarded.

And that hurt more than anything.

The whole camp whispered about her. She wasn't deaf. She wasn't blind. She had heard the women talk when they thought she wasn't listening.

"Oman married her out of pity."

"Fatima must have begged him to take her in."

"Look at her, clinging to them, and they don't even claim her."

Perhaps Fatima had told them everything. Her intentions had been good, but others only saw the worst in her.

Oman sighed heavily, his breath hot against her skin as if he was in deep conflict. "Things are not in my hands right now," he said.

Her chest squeezed tight. A cold, empty ache settled into her bones.

Tara's stomach twisted in frustration. She shoved at his chest again, harder this time. "Then whose hands are they in, Oman?" she whispered, her voice sharp despite the softness. "Do you need Fatima's permission for everything?"

That got to him.

Oman's face darkened, and in an instant, his hand closed around her wrist—painful and firm.

His eyes—dark, intense, burning—met hers in the dimness of the tent.

"Watch your mouth, Tara," he whispered harshly in her ear, his teeth clenched.

Her breath hitched. Her body curled inward instinctively, but he didn't let go. His grip tightened, his presence overwhelming.

"You've grown wings now?" His voice was low, dripping with anger.

His grip tightened even more on her wrists. "I do not explain myself to people. And I will not explain myself to you."

Tara flinched.

She hated how easily he could make her feel small. How one look, one word, one touch could break her apart.

She wanted to fight back. She wanted to scream, to tell him how much it hurt to be treated like a burden when all she had ever wanted was to be his.

But she didn't back down this time.

Her lips trembled, but her voice didn't when she whispered, "Then don't touch me until you tell Fatima and everyone about us."

He scanned her face briefly. Then, without a word, he pulled away.

Tara lay frozen as she felt his warmth disappear. The tent suddenly felt too big. Too cold.

She listened as his footsteps moved toward the entrance.

The flap rustled, and then—he was gone.

---

The next day, Oman was busy training his men. Tara lingered nearby, watching as he moved through the field, his voice firm, his presence commanding.

His very stance spoke of a warrior's grace. He stood in the field, radiating raw power. His broad shoulders, thick muscles, and the veins standing against his strong arms did something to her stomach.

Last night still weighed heavily on her. The coldness in his voice, the way he had walked away without a second thought—it haunted her.

She wished he would look at her, just once, but his gaze never wavered from his men, from his duty.

"Tara."

She turned, startled, as Rashid approached. He studied her face with quiet intensity. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated. "Nothing."

Tara looked towards the vast field filled with men.

"You want to talk to Oman, don't you?" He asked with a knowing smile.

Her pulse quickened.

"I'll let him know you're looking for him," Rashid offered.

A flicker of hope sparked in her chest. "Would you?"

He nodded and disappeared into the training grounds. Tara waited, shifting on her feet, anticipation coiling in her stomach.

But Oman never came.

Rashid never returned with a message.

Tara's stomach tightened. He knew she was waiting for him. And he had chosen to ignore her.

By nightfall, when he finally returned to his tent, Tara gathered her courage. She couldn't bear it any longer.

She had spent the day waiting, hoping for even a glance from him. But he had been distant, focused on his men, his duties, his war strategies.

"Fatima," she asked hesitantly, "can I take Oman's dinner?"

Fatima glanced at her but said nothing for a moment. Then, with a small nod, she handed Tara the tray. "Go ahead. You really care about him"

Tara's heart pounded as she approached the tent, holding the tray with trembling hands. Oman's tent stood at the far end of the camp, one of the largest, its entrance drawn shut. A faint flicker of lamplight glowed from within.

Maybe now, in the quiet, he would talk to her. Maybe he would see her.

But as she stepped inside, her hope shattered.

Layla and Rashid were there. Oman's broad shoulders were tense, his fingers tracing the edges of a map spread before him. He didn't look up when she entered.

Layla sat close to Oman, speaking in a voice that was calm and confident. "The men's formation is improving, but their defense is still weak."

Oman nodded, his entire focus on her. "Then we work on endurance tomorrow. We can't afford to be careless."

Tara felt her stomach twist. Layla spoke so freely with him, her voice unwavering. She belonged in his world. She was capable.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to step forward. "Good evening," she said softly.

Layla glanced at her briefly and nodded, and Rashid replied sweetly, but Oman didn't even spare her a look.

Tara bit her lip and placed the food beside the map. "I brought your dinner," she whispered, hoping—praying—he would say something.

Still, nothing.

Layla continued speaking, as if Tara wasn't even there. And Oman listened—only to her.

Tara's heart clenched. She wanted to scream, to demand his attention, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn't bold like Layla.

Tara felt the weight of her presence like a shadow, reminding her of everything she wasn't.

She was just... there. Unnoticed.

Rashid looked between Tara and Oman, observing them with quiet judgment.

"Oman," she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper.

This time, he exhaled sharply. "I'm not hungry yet. I'll eat later."

Her breath hitched.

"Tara, bring the food later. We're busy," Layla said in a dismissive tone, as if she were a servant.

She had never felt so small. She stood there for a few moments longer, hoping Oman would say something, anything. But he didn't. He ignored her completely.

She didn't pick up the food. Slowly, she turned and walked out of the tent, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

"What was that? That girl doesn't have manners at all," Layla spoke with bitterness.

Rashid looked at Oman but remained engrossed in the map. He shook his head at him.

"You shouldn't have spoken to her like that," Rashid said, a sneer on his face.

"I haven't said anything, okay?" Layla mumbled under her breath.

Tara bit down hard on her lip, willing herself not to cry. Not here. Not now. The campfire cast flickering shadows against the night, and the murmurs of soldiers, of women tending to chores, of conversations she wasn't a part of, filled the air.

Why was she the one hurting in the end? Why did he get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, while she only got a cold shoulder whenever she demanded something?

She went directly to Fatima's tent. She collapsed onto the hard carpet and wept. Deep, wracking sobs shook her body, her cries muffled against the fabric. Still, her sobs were loud, but she didn't care if anyone heard her. She didn't care about anything anymore.

She couldn't believe Oman had changed so much. He had claimed he loved her. But if it was love, then why did it hurt so much? Why did it leave this aching in her heart?

She felt her eyes growing heavier as she slipped into a deep slumber. Her bedroll wasn't ready, and she slept on the hard carpet.

Her body curled in on itself, exhaustion wrapping around her like a heavy blanket.

Darkness took her swiftly.

And in that darkness–

Soft fingers ghosted over her cheek, tracing delicate patterns on her skin. A tender brush of warmth pressed against her forehead, then her temple, then—her lips.

The touch was gentle. Reverent.

It wasn't just warmth; it was something deeper, something that seeped into her very bones, chasing away the loneliness that had settled inside her.

She felt safe.

She sighed softly, her body instinctively leaning into the comfort, the presence. It felt real—so achingly real that, for a moment, she allowed herself to believe it was.

But even in her half-conscious state, she knew the truth.

It had to be a dream.

–––

As Tara helped fold the clothes, she listened quietly to Fatima and Ruksaar's conversation.

"My daughter dreams of becoming a warrior," Ruksaar said with pride. "She wants to be just like Layla."

At the mention of Layla's name, Tara's fingers froze for a moment. She hadn't meant to pay attention, but now, she couldn't help but listen.

"Yes, Layla is truly remarkable—so skilled at such a young age, and equally beautiful," Fatima agreed.

"You might find it amusing," Ruksaar continued, "but once, I even thought Layla would be a perfect match for Oman. Don't you think so, Fatima? I've seen a great chemistry between them."

Fatima's hands stilled. She considered the thought for a moment before smiling. "You know, I never thought about it before, but you're right. Layla could handle Oman. She's strong enough to bring him to his knees."

The two women laughed together, amused by the idea.

But Tara wasn't laughing. She felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. Her body felt weightless, as if her soul had momentarily left it.

Fatima noticed her silence. "Tara, love, are you alright?"

"I feel an ache," Tara murmured.

Fatima's expression turned to concern. "In your stomach? It must be your menstruation. I'll make you some herbal tea—it'll help with the pain."

Tara only nodded, and Fatima excused herself, while Tara had no energy now.

Tara lay on the carpet, staring blankly at the ceiling above her. Her body felt heavy, yet somehow hollow, as if something inside her had shattered and left nothing behind.

"Layla is compatible with Oman."

The words echoed in her mind, relentless, cruel. It wasn't just a careless remark. It was the truth, wasn't it?

Layla was everything Tara wasn't.

Layla... Layla could command a room, could stand beside him without question. She was strong, respected, and unshaken.

She could handle him.

Tara, on the other hand...

Weak.

Vulnerable.

Dependent.

She clenched her fists against her sides, nails pressing into her palms, and squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could block out the ache in her chest.