Page 40

The camp was a flurry of movement. Horses being saddled, supplies loaded onto carts, voices raised in frustration and reluctant acceptance. The women prepared for departure at dawn, their expressions a mixture of resignation and defiance.

Tara moved through it all like a ghost, her mind screaming with unanswered questions.

She had barely slept, her thoughts a relentless storm. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Oman—his rage, his accusation, his silence.

And now, she needed answers, and he was nowhere to be found.

She clenched her fists, pushing through the groups of women murmuring their frustrations, past Fatima, who had tried to get her to eat, past the men who kept a watchful eye on them.

She needed to find him.

When she finally did, the sight stopped her cold.

Oman stood near the training ground, his broad back to her, his posture relaxed but commanding. And beside him—too close—was Layla.

Layla, the woman who moved like she belonged there, who stood among the warriors like an equal. Who was staying behind while the rest of them were being sent away.

Tara's breath caught as she watched Layla speak to him, her expression calm, her eyes unwavering. Oman was listening. He wasn't ignoring her the way he had ignored Tara.

Tara's chest tightened. There was a quiet grace in the way Layla stood with him. It was as if she had always belonged, always commanded that respect. She had the same authority as the men, and there was no doubt in Tara's mind that Oman respected her more than he ever would her.

She couldn't stop staring, her stomach churning as her mind raced with dark thoughts. The way they stood together—so effortlessly, so familiar—it made her feel small, insignificant. It made her wonder if she had ever meant anything to Oman at all.

And then—Layla reached out, her hand brushing Oman's arm in a gesture of silent understanding.

Something inside Tara twisted violently.

Before she could stop herself, she strode toward them.

"Oman!"

Her voice cut through the air.

He turned slowly, his face unreadable, his eyes hard. Layla stepped back, but she didn't look away.

Tara barely spared the woman a glance before locking eyes with him.

"You're really going to let this happen?" she demanded, her voice hoarse, raw with frustration. "You're really going to let them send us away? Send me away?"

Oman's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Say something!" Tara pressed, her voice rising in a mix of hurt and anger. "I know you had a hand in this. This isn't just about safety, is it? You wanted this."

Still, nothing.

She felt the silence like a blade. It cut deeper than any words could. His indifference was more painful than anything he could have said. Tara's chest heaved, and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Why won't you look at me?" she whispered, desperation threading through her voice.

Oman's gaze flicked away from hers, as though she were an inconvenience, a mere speck of dust. And then—he scoffed. The sound was like a slap, sharp and unforgiving.

"You are weak."

Her breath stalled. The words hit her like a physical blow.

"You think you can stand beside me? That you're worthy of me?" His voice was low, laced with quiet disdain. His eyes darkened. "Last I checked, you ran off like a bitch in heat to another man"

Tara flinched.

Oman took a step toward her, his form towering, suffocating. His presence was overwhelming, his gaze like an iron fist. "Let me remind you," he whispered, voice like venom, "you would die before you even lifted a sword."

The world tilted, her vision blurring.

He wasn't just speaking to her—he was trying to destroy her. Tear apart the pieces of herself that had once believed in him.

"You were nothing before me." His voice was steady, brutal. "You were a beggar roaming the streets, desperate for a man's attention, and unluckily, that man was me. But now you're free—you can run off to any man you like. I don't care."

Tara's nails dug into her palms.

"I've done enough favors?" His lips curled into something cruel. "You are nothing but a burden, Tara. Yet, I am doing you another favor."

The world around her seemed to vanish, reduced to nothing but the raw weight of his words.

Her hands trembled, her chest tightened. She wanted to scream, to hit him, to make him feel the way she was drowning in his contempt.

Instead, she shook her head in disbelief. Maybe he was lying to her. Maybe—

Oman's expression didn't waver.

"Why are you doing this?" she said, her voice shaking.

He let out a sharp breath, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. "You're definitely a dumb ass."

Tara flinched—not from fear, but from shame. From the sting of being mocked by the very man whose name she once whispered like a prayer.

She staggered back, her chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths.

He made her feel like a fool.

Like a lovesick fool who would follow him blindly into the fire.

And maybe she had been.

Now, she saw the truth, stripped of illusions and hope.

He wasn't just the man who held her once with such fire in his eyes.

He was a commander. A warrior carved of stone and fury.

A man of war who led armies and made kingdoms tremble.

And Layla—

Layla was his equal.

A warrior too. Sharp. Graceful. Beautiful. And clever in ways Tara could never match.

Layla didn't need saving. She rode beside him, sword in hand, eyes unafraid.

She belonged in his world of blood and steel.

Maybe... he did find his better half.

Oman's fingers twitched at his sides, his own storm barely contained. But he said nothing more.

Her life had always been this—searching, grasping, aching for something that would never be hers. Before, it was food, warmth, shelter. Now, it was love, care, belonging.

But she would never have it.

Not from Oman. Not from anyone.

Her life had been nothing but a cruel game. A cycle of longing and rejection.

She had fought so hard to belong.

And still—she was being cast aside.

Layla's voice cut through the silence. "Departures are ready. It's time for her to go."

It seemed Layla wanted her to leave as soon as possible.

Oman's gaze didn't waver. He didn't look at Tara again.

Without a word, he turned and walked away.

And that was it.

Tara stood frozen, her vision blurring with tears as his figure faded into the camp.

She had lost.

She had never stood a chance.

---

The final preparations were made. The women, their belongings packed in carts, were escorted to the awaiting horses.

The town Tara and the other women were being sent to was not just any settlement—it was a notorious place, known far and wide for its wealth, its location near trade routes, and the bandits that thrived in its shadow. Nestled between rugged hills and fortified by ancient stone walls

Kasim's men had long held sway over the area.

The women would stay there, isolated from the dangers of war.

They would be tasked with aiding the men—though not by fighting.

They would support from the sidelines, preparing supplies, tending to the wounded, and gathering intelligence when needed.

They were to serve, but never participate in the battles themselves.

The men stood at a distance, watching as their wives, sisters, and daughters prepared to leave. Some exchanged quiet farewells, some held onto each other as long as they could.

But Tara—she stood alone. Lost in her own thoughts.

"Tara..." Fatima's arm was suddenly around Tara, pulling her into a warm embrace.

Tara couldn't speak. She closed her eyes, clinging to Fatima as if she were the last person on earth.

"I am with you don't worry"

Tara nodded her head."hmm"

She couldn't speak—not now. Her throat was thick with unshed tears.

But her eyes—her eyes were searching. Searching for him, for a sign. For anything.

And then, she saw him.

Standing near Kasim, his expression hard, unreadable, he made no move toward her. No step forward. No final word.

Her throat constricted. The lump in her chest grew unbearable.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

Oman was the last thing she saw before she turned away.

His hard, unyielding gaze burned into her back.

And her tears fell.

As Tara climbed onto the horse, her vision blurred with tears. The wind was cold against her skin, but not as cold as the silence that stretched between her and Oman.

She turned one last time, searching for something in his face—anything. A flicker of hesitation, regret, even anger. But all she saw was the same hard, unyielding gaze that had cut into her the night before.

Her heart twisted painfully.

Was this the same Oman who had once held her with such possessive tenderness? The man who had pulled her against him, whispering her name like a vow? The man who had burned with jealousy, with obsession, with something too fierce to be named?

Or had that all been a lie?

Her fingers tightened around the reins.

He had called her weak. A burden.

She wanted to scream at him, to demand to know if this was the same man who had once claimed to love her.

But Oman only stood there, unmoving, his jaw clenched, his gaze hard.

Not a single word. Not a single step toward her.

And that, more than anything, broke her.

Tara turned away, blinking rapidly, refusing to let the tears spill as the horses began to move.

She didn't look back.

But she felt it—the weight of his gaze on her, burning into her back.

And even as the camp faded behind her, the ache in her chest did not.

He was right. She had been nothing more than a burden to him.

'I won't be a burden on you again oman' she whispered to herslef.

To be continued