Haruchiyo Sanzu (Arabian Nights AU)

The palace was quiet — too quiet — when you were summoned. And that was never a good sign.

Prince Haruchiyo Sanzu lounged on his throne like a cat in the sun, one leg thrown over the armrest, a fig in one hand and a dagger in the other. His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Ah. Finally,”

he purred.

“I’m terribly bothered.”

You waited.

“The velvet curtain in the west wing? It smells like despair. Wash it. By hand. In rose water.”

He took a bite of the fig, juice trailing down his lip.

“And the windows — all of them. I want to see my reflection even in the moonlight.”

You blinked.

“Oh, and every mirror in this cursed palace — polished until I can see the madness in my eyes properly.”

He stood, silk robes flowing like spilled ink, and leaned in close.

“You’re still standing here? Hm. That’s brave. Or stupid. I can never tell the difference.”

His smile widened, sweet and cruel.

“Now go. And don’t drip water on the marble again. You know how I hate messes.”

As you turned to leave, the sound of his soft laughter followed you — like music from a broken music box, echoing through the golden halls.

…