Page 15 of Star Crossed Delta

SABA

S aba knelt on a mat on the terrace by Sombra’s lake, her bare back exposed to the sun’s warmth.

Behind her crouched a sanii , an Akkadian inker, cradling a shallow bowl of sacred paint made from rare earth minerals and crushed diamonds.

The slight woman, with glyphs and ornate tattoos covering her entire frame, dipped a sharpened bone needle into the vessel.

As the spike pricked Saba’s flesh, she gave a brief wince, but did not flinch as the sanii tattooed a pigment-laden enchantment over her bare body.

Saba rolled a pair of meditation stones in her hands to endure the pain of scarification.

The intricate patterns being etched into her skin hurt, yet they were a necessary bridge between who she was and who she was becoming, signaling her new life and status as a married woman.

The Akkadian families of the flotilla were partial to this tradition.

The order’s faith resurfaced in the city of Melilla after the Great Apocalypse, when descendants of the old Akkadian gene pool came together in search of enlightenment.

They found strength in their ancient ways, and Saba’s grandparents’ generation revived the old conventions to help them navigate an uncertain future.

The Sauvage family and the Lisades grew up in this revival, and rituals such as inking were part of it.

The artist’s voice was husky and reverent as she chanted an ancient verse.

Around and above Saba, birds winged across the sky, chirping in sweet song.

The sun shone while a gentle breeze blew the lake’s scents over her. In the gardens, fruit trees swayed, their branches weighed down by succulent fruits.

In that instant, Saba recalled her childhood; lazy summer days when she spent time at their enclave’s lakeside playing in the wetland wonderlands among the pools where the lotus flowers bloomed.

She let her mind fly back to when she wandered along its lake shores for endless hours, plucking blossoms and arranging them into makeshift bouquets.

She’d hidden amid the tall reeds, listening to the frogs’ soothing croaks and the birds chirping. She dipped her bare feet into the cool water and welcomed the gentle caress of its ripples against her skin.

As dragonflies darted around her, she imagined them as tiny knights in shining armor, shielding their territory.

She’d used fallen branches as rapiers, battling imaginary foes and defending her invisible realm.

In their infinite grace, the lotus petals served as her audience, swaying in the breeze as if applauding her every move.

Those warm days by the lake had been filled with simple joys and boundless freedom.

As the years went by, through the loss of her parents, the strife, and the emotional abuse at the hands of her uncle, aunt, and cousins, she often returned, in her mind, to that same place.

Seeking solace and nostalgia.

Like she was now, losing herself in the rhythmic pain, ignoring the pair of women sitting nearby on the terrace, fanning themselves, observing her getting covered in intricate artwork.

Per tradition, Sylvana and Zsófia, Saba’s closest female relatives, were present to accompany her through the ancient customs.

It did her no good, as the only contribution they gave was their condemnation and accusatory glances.

She ignored them, blocking out their judgment as her heart pounded in rhythm with the needle and the chanting, taking her into a trance-like state.

With every deliberate press and puncture, the elaborate lines and symbols of the Sauvage’s marital crest began to form.

Delicate swirls, sharp angles, and sacred runes interwoven to tell the story of her new bond.

The tattooist’s hands moved with precision.

As the ink spread across her skin, it became more than just a mark; it transformed into a testament to her vows, commitment, and place in the Order.

With each passing minute, the design grew, the glowing dye shimmering in the sun.

The ultimate stroke of the needle pressed in, sealing her transformation.

The sanii whispered the ultimate blessing, tracing the fresh pigment with a feather-light touch as if to transfer the spirits’ approval. She wiped away the last traces of excess colorant with a soft cloth.

Saba opened her eyes and gazed at her limbs, her delight evident in a gasp at the intricate latticework, a canvas of art covered in Sauvage sigils that identified her as Mak’s wife.

She took the speculum the artist handed her and turned it to see the result on her upper arms and back.

‘It’s perfect,’ she murmured.

The sanii bowed with a smile.

‘Your pleasure is welcome, ?arim ,’ she whispered as she put away her tools.

Handing back the mirror, Saba stretched to release the ache in her muscles.

The sanii cleaned her dermis, salved, and placed temporary bandages on her.

‘We are done, ?arim ,’ she said. ‘You should be safe to expose your skin in twenty-four hours.’

Saba dressed and gave her a bow. ‘ Sante . Miral has your fee inside.’

With a nod, Saba dismissed the inker, who walked toward the lodge’s terrace doors, disappearing into its depths.

The fresh ink stung, and the scent of medicinal herbs and burning sage lingered in the air.

Saba’s hands went to her temples, which throbbed, as exhaustion weighed on her.

She’d been sitting still for hours, and now all she wanted was to lie down and sleep all afternoon.

Until a voice called out, and she sighed.

She’d almost forgotten about her witnesses to the tattooing ceremony.

From the corner of her eye, she saw her aunt and cousin Zsófia charging toward her.

She braced.

‘That went for far too long,’ her cousin groused. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘And I’m still outraged by this whole affair,’ Sylvana hissed. ‘The deception was sacrilege, and you’ve disgraced the family. Where is your bride price? That’s what we came for today.’

Saba twisted her head up to ice them with her eyes, her expression cold and unreadable. ‘Uncle can take it up with my husband.’

Her aunt stood with arms crossed, her narrowed eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain. Beside her, Zsófia curled her lips into a sneer.

Saba’s patience, already worn thin by the endless hours of the ritual, threatened to snap.

‘What are you still doing here?’ she murmured, laced with the weight of her new authority. ‘The saniifu ceremony is over, so please leave.’

Sylvana ignored the question, stepping forward with an accusatory glare.

‘How dare you speak to me this way after the scandal you’ve brought to our house—the whispers, the gossip, how you snatched the ?arim’s title from under your sister.

Worse, the bride price, the only reason we allowed you to marry a Sauvage, has yet to be delivered. And now you fob me off?’

Zsófia chimed in, her voice dripping with contempt. ‘Rumors are that we tricked him. They’re spreading lies about my father, which is causing him grief and shame.’

Saba’s jaw clenched, the headache pulsing behind her eyes intensifying with each word they spoke.

Tewa was the one who’d strong-armed and threatened her sisters and her for years. If this was payback, he deserved every fokkin’ bit of it.

She was too tired for this. Too weary of their pettiness and their accusations.

The wedding and now the staining ceremony had drained her from both a physical and emotional standpoint, and the last thing she wanted was to listen to venomous rumors and bare-faced allegations.

‘Enough,’ she muttered, as she held up a hand. ‘I have no patience for your sniping. While the ?ar accepted me, he is choosing to withhold the bride price, and there’s nada I can fokkin’ do about it. What I can do is ask you to leave, so go. I am the ?arim now, whether you approve or not.’

Sylvana’s face twisted in anger, but Saba cut her off before she spoke.

‘Koda!’ she called out.

The Sauvage sentinel appeared at her command.

He loomed tall, hair in tight braids over his skull, inked face and neck, and limbs and thighs as thick as trees; his presence was imposing.

He stared at Sylvana and Zsófia, and they swallowed, hesitating, as they realized their outburst had overstepped the boundaries of propriety.

‘Please escort my aunt and cousin out of the lodge,’ Saba ordered, her voice icy. ‘They are no longer welcome here.’

The strong man stepped forward, and Sylvana’s face flushed with humiliation.

‘You think being ?arim makes you untouchable?’ she hissed as Koda extended his arms to guide them out. ‘You’re a puppet, Saba, and the strings will snap one day. Mark my words.’

Zsófia sneered as they were both led away. ‘Enjoy the title while it lasts. You’ll fall, just like Suri and Shiloh, wherever the fokk she is.’

‘Be warned, your uncle will get that price on your head, come rain or shine,’ Sylvana murmured, throwing a final salvo over her shoulder.

Saba didn’t respond. Her gaze followed their exit, her face impassive despite the simmering anger that stirred within her.

Alone once again, she exhaled, the tension in her body unwinding just a fraction. Her head pounded, the events of the day catching up with her.

With a sigh, she picked up her robe from a chair close by, wrapped it around her, and headed back inside.

She ascended the stairs, the silk of her gown whispering against the tiled floor as she made her way to her private quarters.

This home, regardless of its emptiness, was her only sanctuary, and she sighed in relief at being able to relax finally.

Her feet flew over the smooth marble floors as she proceeded toward her four-poster bed, slipping under its draped canopies.

As she dropped onto the covers, she let out a prolonged breath.

Moments later, she slid between the cool sheets, thoughts already drifting.

She didn’t have time to worry about Sylvana’s threats or the whispers.

Tomorrow might bring its battles, but tonight, she deserved to rest.

Before her eyes closed, she whispered a sacred prayer, beseeching the Path of Light Within.

The ideology taught that every person possessed an internal illumination that could be nurtured through the right actions, mindfulness, and compassion.

She prayed that Mak would soon find the heart to forgive her.

Since the sacred inking ceremony, Saba spent the majority of her days alone, in silence.

She made her food, washed her laundry, and stayed indoors, unable to face the wider world and life on the massive dreadnought.

Miral catered to her needs, sending provisions and even visiting her every other day to ensure Saba was doing well in Mak’s home.

Her husband, however, was MIA.

Most of the time, he left early and came back late, and sightings of him were scarce.

He didn’t speak to her, not even to greet her after two days of unexplained absence. Not that he owed his unwanted wife any explanation.

Even while she couldn’t see him, his quiet, simmering resentment surged like a storm building beneath the surface.

One day, however, they bumped into each other at the landing.

Saba, on her way to lunch, assumed Mak was returning from his repast.

He didn’t say a word. His body language did all the talking.

As he passed, his stride was quick and purposeful, as if he couldn’t bear to slow down in her presence.

His broad shoulders stiffened, and his eyes narrowed, not even flicking in her direction. He never stopped, never acknowledged her.

To him, she was a ghost, a nuisance that haunted the corners of his world. She didn’t belong here, and he ensured she knew it.

His silence was louder than any insult hurled.

The way he ignored her and his jaw tightened said it all.

He loathed her, and she was powerless to change that.

The following morning, Saba walked into the dining room.

She slowed as she spotted him, standing by the window, a cup of kahawa in his hand, his back turned to her.

His body locked, aware of her entrance, but he didn’t turn immediately.

Nada , that would have been too easy.

In time, the heat of his eyes dragged from the view as if he were deciding whether or not she was worth the effort of another hateful glance.

When he did face her, his gaze was a weapon, raking her from head to toe, undressing her with his rage, not desire.

His jaw clenched.

The muscles in his neck tightened as he gripped the handle of the cup a little too hard.

For a moment, Saba thought he might say something, that his anger might spill out into words. But he didn’t.

He stared as if trying to sear her into the floor with the intensity of his hatred. His nostrils flared, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

He slammed the mug onto the table with a hissed exhale, the force making her flinch. The sound echoed through the silent room, but he didn’t care.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his long strides purposeful, dismissive.

The message was clear: She was unwanted and a burden, and nothing she did would change that.