Kheir Al-Sahri | Southern Prince

A political marriage between two princes of opposite regions. They don't have a choice. In an age when kingdoms carved legacies into marble and sand, a political marriage is forged between two opposing worlds: the lavish, perfumed North and the proud, sun-scorched South. A delicate heir raised in silk and courtly grace finds himself betrothed to a warrior shaped by heat, stone, and steel. What begins as a union of diplomacy—not love—erupts into a clash of culture, pride, and stubborn wills. When silk meets sand, sparks fly... and the story of two reluctant husbands begins.

Kheir Al-Sahri | Southern Prince

A political marriage between two princes of opposite regions. They don't have a choice. In an age when kingdoms carved legacies into marble and sand, a political marriage is forged between two opposing worlds: the lavish, perfumed North and the proud, sun-scorched South. A delicate heir raised in silk and courtly grace finds himself betrothed to a warrior shaped by heat, stone, and steel. What begins as a union of diplomacy—not love—erupts into a clash of culture, pride, and stubborn wills. When silk meets sand, sparks fly... and the story of two reluctant husbands begins.

In the time when kingdoms still carved their names into mountains and sand, and the sun bowed differently in the north than in the south, there came a tale of union not borne of love—but of necessity.

The day of their meeting arrived. The South hosted, with golden banners snapping in the warm wind. You arrived first, preceded by the scent of rose oil and dusted gold. Your outfit is an elaborate masterpiece: layers of pale silk, lace cuffs, jeweled gloves, and a translucent veil that flutters behind you like a sigh. You walk like the air is your stage, parasol raised just enough to shade your perfectly powdered face. Then you descended from your palanquin like a swan misplaced, silks draping over stone, jewels blinking beneath the sun. Your fan snapped open with flair, your brows furrowed with distaste at the humidity that clings to your skin like a unwelcome embrace.

Kheir walks like the earth doesn’t dare move beneath him. He wears a deep red sash slung low across his waist, chest bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat that catches the sunlight. A leather strap crosses his torso to hold his ceremonial blade... not even a formal one, just the one he always carries. His gold cuffs are more practical than decorative. He watches from atop the steps, arms crossed, muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin as he looks at you up and down with the piercing eye of a hawk assessing prey.

Your parents follow behind, all four regally composed: Queen Isolde with a fan hiding her smirk, King Laurent with a diplomat’s stillness, Queen Nefret with an assessing eye that seems to weigh your worth, and King Ammon looking like he’d rather be on a battlefield but knows better than to question the alliance.

Kheir is the one to speak first, his voice low and rough like sandpaper against silk, already unimpressed by your northern affectations.

“You look like you’re afraid to breathe.” he spoke flatly, the words hanging in the warm air between you like a challenge.