Tariq Al-Farsi stepped out of Jabal Station, the heavy air of Al-Waha clinging to his dark coat like a shroud. He adjusted his dark glasses, his face a mask of tempered steel, while his phone remained pressed to his ear. Behind those lenses, his eyes scanned the horizon of the city he had not seen in a decade—the city that still smelled of smoke and betrayal in his memories. "Is the information ready?" Tariq asked. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that commanded immediate attention. "It is, Al Qaid Al-Azam," the General's voice replied from the other end of the line, formal and precise. "The details regarding Layla Ghazi have been confirmed. She survived the fire ten years ago, but the cost was high. She is severely disfigured. The burns scarred her face and body." Tariq's jaw tightened. Ten years. It had been ten years since the Farsi family—thirty-eight souls—were burned alive in a calculated scheme that turned their legacy into ash. Only he had escaped, pulled from the inferno by a teenage girl who had risked everything. Layla Ghazi. At the time, she was a seventeen-year-old in her third year of senior high school. Because of him, the beauty of her youth had been consumed by flames. "The Sharifs, the Salehs, the Hashemis, and the Mansours," Tariq said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "They think the Farsis are a ghost story. They think I am dead." "You are the Al Asad Al-Aswad of the Janub Plains," the General reminded him. "The youngest general Shams has ever seen. You single-handedly broke an elite army of thirty,000. No one in Al-Waha is prepared for your return." "I am no longer a general of Shams," Tariq stated, his gaze fixed on a distant point. "I have retired. I am here for two things: to repay the debt I owe to the woman who saved me, and to ensure the families who orchestrated the massacre of my kin pay in blood. Send everything you have on Layla to my email. Now." "Understood, sir. It is being sent immediately." The call ended. Tariq felt his phone vibrate a second later with the notification. He didn't open the file yet; he knew the contents would only fuel the cold rage currently vibrating in his marrow. He walked toward the curb where a black multi-purpose vehicle without license plates sat idling. The door opened, and Tariq slid into the back. A man in a black tank top and a baseball cap sat behind the wheel. Karim looked into the rearview mirror, acknowledging his commander with a short, sharp nod. "Status," Tariq commanded. "The situation with the Nasser family is deteriorating, sir," Karim reported as he pulled the vehicle into the flow of traffic. "The Ghazis are holding a husband selection for Layla. It's a farce, really. They are desperate to offload her because of her condition. The final selection is happening in three days at the Ghazi Villa. Khalid Ghazi has promised protection and a place within their business circle to any man who takes her off their hands." Tariq's hands curled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking. "A husband selection? They treat her like damaged cargo?" "Exactly, sir. Her status in the family is lower than the servants. They blame her for the 'shame' her scars bring to the Ghazi name." "Drive," Tariq said, his eyes turning to ice. "We aren't waiting three days. I will see this selection for myself." The Ghazi Villa was a sprawling testament to the family's vanity, filled with marble and gold leaf that couldn't hide the rot within. Inside the main hall, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the quiet, nervous chatter of ten men. These were the final suitors—mostly desperate men from minor families or those with failed businesses, lured by Khalid Ghazi's promise of protection. In the corner, partially hidden by a decorative pillar, a woman sat with her head bowed. A silk veil covered the lower half of her face, but the puckered, angry skin around her eyes and forehead told the story the fabric tried to hide. She shuddered every time a suitor looked her way with pity or disgust. This was Layla Ghazi, now twenty-seven, a shadow of the girl who had once run into a burning building. Khalid Ghazi, the patriarch of the family, stood at the head of the room. He tapped a cane on the floor to signal silence. "I have reviewed the offerings and the backgrounds of all present," Khalid announced, his voice formal and devoid of any warmth. "The decision has been made. The man who will take Layla Ghazi as his wife is Tariq Al-Farsi." A collective gasp rippled through the room. Layla's head snapped up, her eyes wide and trembling. She looked toward the back of the room, where Tariq stood, his presence looming like a thundercloud over the gathered crowd. The other suitors began to mutter, some with relief, others with confusion. Omar Ghazi, Layla's cousin, stepped forward with a sneer etched onto his face. He walked a slow circle around Tariq, looking at his plain dark coat. "Tariq, is it? You've got guts, I'll give you that," Omar mocked, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Most men wouldn't want to wake up to that face every morning. Since you're the lucky winner, make sure you treat her well. Or don't. Honestly, as long as she's out of this house, we don't care what you do with the monster." Layla's breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. "Omar, that's enough," Salma Ghazi, Layla's mother, said, though there was no defense in her tone. She looked at her daughter with a cold, flickering disgust. "Layla, go home with your new husband. Don't cause any more trouble for your grandfather. I have a dinner engagement and don't have time for your tears." "I'm heading to the office," Rami Ghazi, Layla's father, added perfunctorily. He didn't even look at his daughter as he adjusted his cufflinks. "Father, I assume the paperwork is handled?" Khalid nodded dismissively. Within minutes, the family members began to disperse, treating the union like a trash collection service that had finally arrived. Layla remained in her chair, her shoulders shaking. The tears she had been holding back finally broke, wetting the edges of her veil. She felt a shadow fall over her. She braced herself for a harsh word or a rough hand, but instead, there was only a profound, heavy silence. Tariq stood before her. He didn't look at the scars with the clinical detachment of her grandfather or the revulsion of her mother. He looked at her as if she were the most precious thing in Al-Waha. "Layla," he said. The strength in his voice was like a physical shield. "Look at me." She slowly raised her head, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with moisture. "Ten years ago, you saved a life," Tariq said, his voice unwavering. "Today, that life belongs to you. I told you once that I would return. I am a man of my word. I will protect you. I will make you the happiest woman in this city, and those who have made you weep will find their world turning to ash." He reached out, offering his hand. It was a large hand, calloused from years of war, yet it trembled slightly as he waited for her. "Come with me," he said softly. "You don't belong in this place anymore." Layla hesitated, then slowly reached out and placed her small, trembling hand in his. Tariq closed his fingers around hers with a firm, grounding pressure. He led her out of the villa, walking past the servants and the lingering suitors with the stride of a king reclaiming his throne. Outside, the multi-purpose vehicle was waiting. Two men in black suits stood by the doors, their posture rigid. They snapped to attention as Tariq approached with Layla at his side. Tariq helped her into the back seat before turning to his men. His expression shifted from the softness he had shown Layla to the lethal intensity of the Al Qaid Al-Azam. "Change of plans," Tariq commanded. "We aren't going to the safe house. Take us to the Dar Al-Malik." One of the men blinked in surprise. "The Dar Al-Malik, sir? The royal villa?" "Yes," Tariq said, his voice like grinding stone. "She needs the best care available. We begin her treatment tonight. And Karim—notify the medical team. If there is a doctor in this country who can't fix her scars, find me one from across the sea. I want the finest equipment and the rarest medicines ready by the time we arrive." He stepped into the vehicle and closed the door, leaving the Ghazi Villa behind. As the car sped away, Tariq looked at Layla, who was staring out the window at the passing city lights, her hand still clutched in his. The revenge against the four families could wait for tomorrow. Tonight, the Lion of the Janub had only one objective. ════════════════════════════════════════