Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

margarida’s smile softened at his reassurance, a warm flicker beneath the dim glow of his den. any man you want would not deny you—it lingered in her chest like a small ember, though she did not let it show too brightly.

you are kind to say so, kemal, she murmured, dipping her head in quiet thanks. it means much, coming from you.

for a moment she studied him—the steadiness in his posture, the gravity he carried without complaint. a man carved for leadership, for duty, for traditions that still lived in his bones.

and yet…

her voice slipped into the gentle hush between them, careful, unarmed.

forgive me, but… i have heard you are to be married to serein. is that true?

not accusatory, nor hopeful—simply seeking to understand the shape of the world she had stepped into.