Kiss the Stranger

Haaah.
My hand froze mid-weave as a deep sigh escaped me. Outside the window, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. But I didn’t have to return to the study—no one else used this workshop but me.
The room, devoid of any human warmth, held only me and the looms of every size scattered about. Had I ever felt such oppressive stillness? After Qamar disappeared, at least Rikal and the steward remained. Now, there was no one.

Fearing I might change my mind, they’d taken Rikal away. Oblivious, ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) the cat had been placed in a cage and led off by Zahara’s hand, and they’d told me, “Finish all of this, and you’ll get him back.”
Since then, I hadn’t seen Rikal. I got one meal a day—a bowl of soup and some dry bread from Zahara. My back wound was so much improved that she insisted no further treatment was needed. I couldn’t inspect it myself—there was no mirror in the study—but thankfully the bloodstains on my clothes had become rare. Occasionally a small smudge appeared, but nothing to worry over. The aches in my body remained with every movement, but surely time would heal them. As with all things.
I sat there, dazed, then shook my head to clear it. I had no time for this. I needed to finish at least one carpet and plead to see Rikal every day—at least during meals.

“Ouch….”
My back flared, and I groaned. Gasping, I resumed work. When I realized how dark it had become, I lifted my head to see the moon already risen. Apart from a few lamps affixed to the walls, the workshop was unlit—and once night fell, working was nearly impossible. It made sense; who else would stay here this late? I staggered to my feet, switched on the lights, and returned to my loom. I happened to be in the midst of a complex, ornate motif—no way to postpone it until morning. So I drew in a breath, gripped the threads, and straightened my posture. Before I knew it, I had my nose practically pressed against the warp—but I only noticed when my neck began to scream in pain.
Haa.

Rubbing my throat, I surveyed the loom. My neck wasn’t the only thing hurting—my back, my eyes, my legs, my hands: every part of me throbbed and tingled. In the end, I gave up and returned to the study. My legs shaking, I crossed the long corridor and opened the door. Fatigue crashed over me. I crossed the empty room and collapsed onto the bed.
I still couldn’t lie flat. I wondered how my back wound looked, but there was no mirror in the study.
It wouldn’t change even if I saw it.
A bitter smile flickered at the thought, then vanished as exhaustion pressed in. Soon, I drifted into a deep sleep.

“…Y-Yohan!”
I startled awake at the sharp voice, nearly shrieking as I tried to sit up. My ribs felt as if they’d split, and I panted, frozen in place—and then the angry voice came again.
“What are you doing here at this hour? Do you know what time it is? You should have finished your work long ago! Or do you have all the time in the world, to lounge like this?”

With tears in my eyes, I lifted my gaze to Zahara, hands on her hips, frowning down at me. Struggling to steady my breath, I spoke.
“I-I’m sorry. I worked too late last night and was exhausted… Am I really that late?”
I glanced toward the window. Bright sunlight flooded in—about noon, it seemed. Zahara turned and pointed at the soup and bread on the table.

“Eat quickly. This isn’t working. From now on, you’ll sleep here in the workshop.”
“W-what?”
I froze in surprise. Zahara crossed her arms.

“I can’t keep waking you up all the time. Do you think you’re royalty? It’s better to sleep here. It’s more convenient for work.”
“But… there’s no bed here….”

She huffed in exasperation.

“What does it matter? You can sleep anywhere. Isn’t it foolish to insist on a bed and go back and forth? Or do you lack the desire to finish your work? Don’t you miss Rikal?”
Her words slipped from me before I could stop them.
“If I work hard, will you let me see Rikal?”

“What did you say?”
Zahara froze, taken aback. I pressed on.
“It’s been over a month since I last saw him. I’ve followed your orders—some of these carpets are nearly done. I want to see Rikal. Even once a day—I just want to see him. Please.”
The words I’d held back spilled out at once. Zahara’s eyes went wide as though she never expected this.

“Do you really think I’m tormenting Rikal? You doubt me now?”
“I believe you’ll take good care of him.”
I did not hesitate.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to see him. I want to meet him!”
My voice rose as emotion overtook me. Zahara stared in shock, but I couldn’t hold back and ended up shouting,
“He’s my cat—you took him, and now I can’t even hug him! Why won’t you let me? He’s all I have left—why can’t I see him?”

A sudden, unbearable pain filled my chest. I pressed my palms to my eyes and wept uncontrollably. Zahara stood silent, mouth agape, watching me. After I’d cried for a long time and calmed somewhat, she finally spoke.
“…Honestly, why are you crying over a cat?”
Her reproach softened as she continued.

“All right. You can see him once a day, okay? Don’t worry—he’s fine. And don’t get the wrong idea: we’re caring for him because we feared you couldn’t handle working if you were always with him. We feed him, bathe him, everything. Understand? We didn’t take him for no reason. Who would take a scruffy, ugly cat and just keep him?”
“Rikal’s not ugly.”
I sniffled as I corrected her. Why did everyone insist on calling him ugly? He was so gentle and beautiful.

“There, there.”
She reluctantly guided me to the couch. She sat me before the soup and bread, then said,
“Anyway, I get it. From now on, I’ll bring Rikal with your meals. Is that all right? Stop crying and eat—then you can get back to work.”

She urged me with her spoon. I took it in trembling hands and scooped up the cold soup, bringing it to my lips. Zahara watched me silently. For a while, all I heard was the clinking of my spoon against the bowl. Having cried so hard, my mind felt empty as I mechanically ate. When the bowl was nearly empty, Zahara spoke again.
“See, Yohan? The sooner you finish your work, the sooner you’ll see Rikal. If you just get it done quickly, it’ll be better for both of us, right? Plus, if you stay here and keep working, you can lie down to rest whenever you want. Isn’t that nice?”

I looked up to see her smiling—but the warmth didn’t reach me, and I lacked the strength to respond. I lowered my gaze again, and she sprang up.

“All right, then. I’ll bring bedding. Go ahead and set up. I’ll let you meet Rikal starting tomorrow—today’s meal time is over, though, so that’s fine, right?”
She added immediately,
“And it’s late; we can’t waste time meeting him today.”

I said nothing as she helped me to my feet and ushered me out the door. I had no choice but to walk, feeling activity behind me—she must have been gathering my bedding. Sunlight poured in through the windows as I walked the long corridor. I had to shade my eyes repeatedly as I made my way back to the workshop. From then on, I began living in that workshop.
Day after day, I worked late into the night. My monotonous routine—wake, weave, pause only when Zahara brought food and Rikal, then weave again until exhaustion—dragged on until it felt endless.
Occasionally, visitors came to inspect my progress, complaining that I’d neglected their piece, that this one was poorly made, that my work was inferior to the others’. They taunted me, sometimes even whipping me in passing. At first, I begged them not to strike my back, but after a few deliberate lashes, I simply endured them.

My pheromone scent still didn’t surface. It probably didn’t matter to them—they already knew I was an omega, and the whip marks on my back were undeniable proof of my crime. They never hesitated to show me their contempt.
People condemned those sentenced to the whip to exile or treated them worse than animals. I was no exception. Perhaps this was the kindest punishment—I wasn’t in danger of losing my life.
Still, there was one small mercy: while they lingered behind me, snacking on fruit and sweets, they gossiped. I listened as I worked, grateful not to be treated as human. They laughed and jabbered about brides and children, envy of neighbors—sometimes news of the royal family.

“So the foreign guests are coming?”
My hand paused on the thread. Another voice answered,
“Yes. They’re building a dam for drinking water. With it, they’ll bring water across the desert to other cities. It’s brilliant.”

“This city’s the only one with ample water.”
“You have to store water in the rainy season.”
“The Crown Prince is smart. He’ll make a great king.”

“Shh, don’t be so loud! Do you want His Majesty to die sooner?”
Their conversation drifted elsewhere, and they eventually rose to leave—never forgetting to criticize one last detail of my work. Some even pushed my head aside with their fingertips, laughing. I nearly toppled from the backless stool each time.
Haa.

Left alone, the tension drained from my shoulders, and I exhaled. The room was strewn with food scraps and trash—my job to clean it up. Though daylight remained, I couldn’t work any longer. I rose, crouched, and began to tidy. Suddenly, my mind went blank, and I stared numbly at one spot. How long I sat like that, I didn’t know. Then a pleasant scent drifted in, and I snapped back to reality. Startled, I heard someone speak.
“Oh my, I thought this place would be empty at this hour.”
I turned—and my eyes widened. There, in the open doorway, stood Princess Najima.

*Dear readers, hello. I know the tension must be frustrating.
*The difficult situation will continue for a while. I’m moving as quickly as possible, but I have to cover certain necessary points first.
*I’ll soon offer you water to ease the choking suspense.

*As an aside, I believe in karma: forgiveness is a virtue, but those who commit evil deeds should pay back manyfold.
*To avoid spoiling the atmosphere, I’ll refrain from writing further afterwords here.
*I’ll post updates and news on Twitter.

*Please stay healthy.
*Thank you.