The Last Queen For The Throne

It's still like a dream if yesterday I was an adopted child of a wealthy merchant couple. Sleeping in a cozy room, a soft bed that makes you have sweet dreams every time you fall asleep on it. I was eating a different meal every day with a complete and nutritious meal. Wearing clothes made of fine materials that showed my high caste in society, I was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. I let out a long sigh; my eyes gazed up at the star-studded night sky from behind the roof of this fruit storage shed with a sizable hole in it while lying down near a pile of fresh apples.

Tonight, I was allowed to sleep here by the owner after a long day's work guarding the fruit stall.

The owner of the fruit stand is an older man named Uncle Zaidan. He lives alone after the death of his wife. I don't know much about the man, but I've heard that. However, in his loneliness, he can still support himself by selling fruit; he has a large orchard of apples, grapes, and peaches in the mountains. Today, I'm grateful for being able to eat more fruit than usual as a reward for the work I've done all day. However, tomorrow, I'll have to go back to looking for a new job because the person looking after Uncle Zaidan's fruit stall has returned to work.

It was hard when I returned to this city three years ago as a wholly forgotten person with nothing. A tragedy happened to my adoptive parents while I was out of town getting my education. Amid the confusion and fear of being in a city with no money, I chose to work very hard to return to Bagyar, preferring to return to my hometown rather than live on the streets. However, life doesn't always go according to plan.

I had to live the life of a vagrant in my hometown, moving from place to place to rest and sleep, the rest of the time busy looking for odd jobs to fulfill my needs for food and water. I never asked for other people's pity; what I received had to be from the fruits of my sweat, not from hand-wringing and sympathy, because it made me feel more valuable and appreciative of the life God had given me. My thoughts were distracted by the open door of this warehouse. Mirza-my homeless friend and best friend-approached me in a hurry. I immediately got up from my lying position.

"Come quickly! We have to help him!"

Mirza looked panicked. I was confused, but the girl didn't let me express my confusion. Finally, I just followed her out of the warehouse and headed somewhere. We arrived at our destination, a narrow alley at the end of which were stacked wooden carts, some broken and decayed and some still good and in use. This alley was not far from Zaidan's uncle's fruit warehouse; someone was sitting and leaning against the wall of the building on the right side, a man, not far from the pile of wooden carts. Both legs stretched out; the figure did not move. His eyes were closed like he had fainted.

My eyes traced what he wore; he was a man of means. A velvet robe and a man's headdress in the form of a tall hat with a hole in the top, made of the same material as his robe, leather pointed-toe shoes. His face is handsome, with a firm and sturdy jawline overgrown with fine and neat hair, adding to the gorgeous and masculine impression on his face; his lips are full and pink in color, and his facial skin is very well-groomed. His figure was familiar but still too vague in my head.

"Who is he?" I asked as I squatted on the right side and Mirza on the left side of this man.

"Looks like he's a courtier," Mirza replied. I observed him again; my gaze fell to his left hand, whose middle finger was a silver ring with a red ruby in the center that was not very large. I looked at Mirza wide-eyed and said, "He is the sultan of Bagyar." I checked his condition for a moment by feeling the pulse in his neck; it was still there but fragile.