"You're so lucky."

She'd heard that her whole life. The vapid appreciation for a lifestyle they would never understand. Yet they craved confirmation of their envy. So she'd simply smile and nod, validating their suspicions that the life of a princess was one to covet. But behind her affirming smile, Jasmine only felt pity.

In the public light, the world of the royal family was extravagant. The common folk watched as parades of gold and gourmet were flaunted through the streets, an exercise of wealth and power. The wealthiest and most prominent merchants and lords would add to the frivolity of these events, needing no other excuse to exert their own status for public demonstration. At the calling of any neighboring noble, the city would cease its daily business to fawn over the newest celebrity. Everything was a well-rehearsed song and dance of political intrigue, economic expansion, and social prominence that distracted from the real troubles of the world.

Jasmine had long ago surmised that if it had not been for her mother, she would have been caught up in the fake fanfare of this superfluous existence. The traditionally lavish life of the royal family was something her father encouraged; and her mother scorned. Since birth, Jasmine was reared as two separate people. The doting, obedient daughter of the naïve sultan, who stood behind her father, was the silent public figure of beauty and submission to the people. She was advertised by the counsel of her father's closest confidants as an example of subservice to the power of the sultan.

But behind closed curtains, her mother refused to allow her daughter to be a pawn of their patriarchal society. Jasmine spent most of her nights, hidden in dark corners of the palace, reading scrolls by candlelight. Her mother insisted she be literate in Arabic, as well as fluent in Latin, Greek, and Coptic. Jasmine studied Sharia law, trade agreements, economic theory, and world history; anything her mother could smuggle from the palace achieves. Her mother's loyal guard taught her to fight, to use a sword. Her mother was giving her the tools to become a strong leader, even if it took years for Jasmine to truly understand why.

Her mother was her best friend: in truth, her only friend. Children she'd grown up with were merely socialites in training, whose parents only wished their offspring to bond with their powerful associates. Jasmine knew they were fake in their affection, which only strengthened the bond with her mother. So it was only natural that the sudden news of her mother's illness brought devastation into Jasmine's life.

In the darkness of her mother's bedchambers, away from prying ears, they savored their last moments together. Beseeching her daughter's understanding, she bestowed her final lesson to Jasmine. "The world is broken, my child. I have made you into a weapon that only you can wield. Do not let anyone else control you. Your knowledge is power; use it for good and you can fix this world." Through labored breaths, she spoke her final words. "You are my greatest treasure. And you will be my legacy." Manara Nasir passed on the eve of Jasmine's sixtieth birthday.

What was to be a glorious affair, had suddenly shifted with mournful purpose. She refused to look at her mother's body draped in white linen as the burning of frankincense seared Jasmine's nostrils. Imam Hanifa recited the Salat al-Janazah over the echoing wails of the court women, as was tradition. Jasmine refused to participate, instead allowing her anguish to simmer in her gut, her lips tightly pursed against the threatening tears.

Long after the men processed to the burial grounds and the women had bid her their blasé sympathy, Jasmine found herself alone in the darkening grand chamber. The silence was deafening and the air was stale with death. She barely acknowledged her father's rare act of affection as her drew her into his arms and led her to her room. Knowing she was betraying her mother's wishes, Jasmine allowed her grief to consume her. But her father's sympathy did not last forever.

On the fourth day, Jasmine awoke to a fanfare of trumpets, announcing the visit of Prince Valarian. She was jostled from bed by a flurry of handmaids: dressing her, primping her, preparing her to greet their guest of honor. The day flew by in a whirlwind of forced smiles, crossed physical boundaries, and silent rage. Valarian's visit extended several weeks, leaving Jasmine emotionally exhausted.

"Will you marry him?" Her father asked, having decided twenty-five days ample time to determine romantic compatibility. Jasmine spoke no words, responding with a simple shake of her head, before retreating to her chambers. Valarian was respectfully dismissed the following day. Jasmine could only assume her father was honoring her grief by allowing her to choose her husband. But she only saw a new prison.

As time passed, the suitors filtered in and out of the palace consistently. On the twenty-fifth day, her father would repeat his question and she would respond in turn, casting away yet another potential spouse. The years only strengthened the inevitability of her situation. Jasmine knew her father's patience would only last so long before he forced someone on her without consent. As the departure of Prince Maalik was still fresh inside the palace, Sultan Hamed's impatience could be heard echoing through the halls. Jasmine listened to his screams and threats with indifference. She'd been prepared to leave her cage for months; and her father had just given her the key.