Aicha

by Soraya Bouazzaoui

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

TEMPTRESS. MONSTER. WARRIOR.

Aicha is the story of Morocco's warrior goddess, her strange magic, fierce rebellion, and devastating romance. Debut author Soraya Bouazzaoui weaves an epic tale of female rage and hidden myths, perfect for fans of The City of Brass and The Stardust Thief.

The Portuguese flag has been planted across Morocco, its empire ruling with an iron fist. But eventually, all empires must fall.

Aicha, the daughter of a Moroccan freedom-fighter, was born for battle. She has witnessed the death of her people, their starvation and torture at the hands of the occupiers, and it has awakened an anger within her. An anger that burns hot and bright, and speaks to Aicha's soul.

Only Aicha's secret lover Rachid, a rebellion leader, knows how to soothe her. But as the fight for Morocco's freedom reaches its violent climax, the creature that simmers beneath Aicha's skin begs to be unleashed. It hungers for the screams of those who have caused her pain, and it will not be ignored.

Release date: March 24, 2026

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 368

Sample

“How much?” the fishing merchant spat, flecks of saliva landing on Aicha’s cheeks. She wiped it off, feigning nonchalance and concealing disgust. Customers were always so dramatic.

Wealthy merchants were not rare in the citadel, the port was one of the last held by the invaders under the banner of King Joseph I of Portugal. A sea of faces wearing the King’s insignia had been a presence long before Aicha had been born.

“You know the price. I will not repeat myself.” Aicha’s tone was flat, and she occupied herself with the cleaning of a Portuguese blade behind the counter.

Fouad, her father, was a skilled blacksmith, one that many of the imperial army were fond of employing. Theirs was a family business that spanned two centuries. His side business, however, had become more fruitful for the family: selling and trading weaponry to the highest bidder both inside and beyond the walls. The Maghrebis of the city were prohibited from carrying weapons, and to be caught was a crime punishable by hanging. It left a particularly large gap in the black market, which had made Fouad’s family infamously wealthy—a wealth that Fouad had not kept for himself, but instead used to fund the rebellion that simmered inside the citadel walls.

Talks of the Sultan reclaiming land in Maghrib had incited a thirst for war.

Fouad had always taught his daughters that the less attentive they looked, the more a customer was prone to desperation. Aicha noted from the corner of her eye that the merchant’s face now exuded distress. It revitalised her more than coffee ever would.

His nose and forehead were already tinged with sunburn. Merchants who burned easily came from the north of the seas; enough money meant less time spent in the sun working. His burnt skin fuelled her desire to set a higher price, which she knew he would relent to. Aicha wouldn’t ever think twice about ripping off invaders.

“Bu-but everyone knows the citadel is on the verge of battle!” He placed both hands on her station, leaning forward. “To leave me vulnerable would be unbecoming of a Muslim.”

“I’m not Muslim,” she countered.

Aicha was lying, of course. As if she were stupid enough to admit her faith to a man whose king had eradicated their places of worship. Had forbidden any and all practices of Islam throughout almost four centuries. Any text containing their prayers was either burned or hidden away where none could find it. It was an act of sedition, according to their ruler.

The man bristled, and Aicha fought a smirk.

She loved it when they bristled, indignant and insulted to be simply told no. Her own tiny act of rebellion.

“Do you know who I am, girl?”

Sweat had formed patches in the customer’s green tunic, the colour darkening around his neck and chest. It trickled down his bald head and across his face. He had travelled for some time, having visited three previous blacksmiths, but her father’s was deep in the belly of their Maghrebi sector. Their people populated the south, cramped up against the walls. A messenger, barely the age of ten, had stopped in mere hours before to notify her of a settler haggling for cheaper prices. It was laughable, because as anyone familiar with Fouad would know, the forge Aicha worked in was one of three all owned by her baba.

“I do not care.” Her dark eyes flickered towards him, watching his lip curl in anger as he stood there.

“Take the price or leave,” she finalised. “Badar will give you the exact same price in the south-west, maybe even higher if I tell him how bihkil you’ve been.”

The merchant blanched, spluttering over the accusation that he was stingy.

While he stood and seethed, deliberating on whether to surrender the fee, Aicha busied herself with a dagger, sharpening it. She hadn’t needed to, but she had learned—from Fouad—that it would make a difficult customer squirm. And that was extremely enjoyable.

The darkness of her father’s store was only mildly lit up by the sun streaming through one small window. The stone building was kept without light as much as possible, for it to remain cool. Their home was two floors, one of the original buildings before the Portuguese had erected walls around the port citadel. Dark red in colour, the iron front door opened up into what would have been an opening sidari room anywhere else, but Fouad’s family had converted it into a showroom. Swords and daggers lined the walls, hung there as if it were art to be only admired.

His best work remained behind the workstation that Aicha occupied, always manned by either her or her elder sister Samira. The station extended from one end of the room to the other, and the door that led upstairs and to their private quarters lay behind it. Her baba’s study was at the end of the hall.

When she had finished sharpening, Aicha sliced the dagger through the air in front of her. Samira disliked her theatrics. According to her, it was embarrassing and unnecessary.

But it snapped the merchant’s attention back to her, his expression shifting into one of resigned frustration.

Not so unnecessary, after all.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ll send one of my page boys within the week. He’ll deliver my payment.”

Aicha’s fingers wove through the roots of her dark hair, pushing the curled strands out of her face in the humidity.

“Your order will be ready for collection by then.”

He blinked for a few moments, eyes alight with fury. “You mean to tell me I cannot take them now?”

She raised a brow, placing the dagger on the workstation, holding back from laughing in the merchant’s face.

“You believed you’d be able to take a trunk of weaponry—without payment—and that I would trust your word to bring it to me later?” She finally laughed, leaning against the wooden counter. “Enta hamak.”

The merchant’s pudgy fingers gripped her forearm tightly, pulling her forward and almost over the counter. He squeezed her arm; an attempt to inflict pain, but Aicha simply stared at him.

“You dare to mock me? And call me crazy! Women like you should show some respect, especially desert firans!”

She laughed again, louder this time, and dug the fingers of her free hand into a pressure point at the corner of his collarbone, where it met his left shoulder blade. He let go, yelling out in pain and protest, collapsing onto the counter.

“Oh, do not be so dramatic. This is not that painful.” She dug her two fingers in deeper to emphasise her point, ignoring his cries. “Also, desert rat? I have never even seen the dune seas.”

Aicha leaned down so that she was at eye level with the merchant, letting him see the large grin that spread across her lips, showing her teeth. His face scrunched up in pain, eyes glistening with fury. It spiked Aicha’s irritation.

Use the blade. Cut him open, watch his insides spill out.

Aicha blinked, shaking her head as a means to push the rogue thought away.

It was not her voice, nor her thoughts, yet had been there for what felt like decades. Aicha did what she always needed to do. Ignored it, no matter how tempting it felt.

She found the merchant’s eyes again. “The next time you believe you can walk into one of Fouad Sanhaji’s armouries and speak to his daughter like this you will turn and make your way back to the filthy invaders’ country that you came from, understand?”

Her baba would administer a slap to the back of her neck for being so brazen, but oh well. She’d deal with that later. The merchant nodded vigorously, and just as Aicha began to lessen her grip, she changed her mind. Tightening it once again, the merchant released another yell of surprise.

“Apologise.”

“Wha-what?”

“You know,” she drawled, leaning on her left elbow as she watched him squirm. “An apology? Something which is said when you’ve caused great offence. I believe the occasion calls for one.”

“All right, all right, I apologise!”

She let go, a smile dancing across her brown features as the merchant propelled himself backwards, towards her iron front door, rubbing his shoulder. Fouad was fond of high security, since his secret source of income was both forbidden and expensive. The door helped keep his secret, and both daughters were equipped to defend the shop, and themselves, when need be.

“So, will payment be made within the week?”

The glint in Aicha’s eye insinuated that this was not a question, rather a demand.

The merchant nodded.

“Within the week,” he said softly, turning to leave at a faster pace than he had entered.

He left the door open, allowing sunlight and a soft breeze to filter in. Apparently, he was suddenly overcome with bravery. Screamed insults greeted Aicha’s ears from beyond the door, and she laughed as she imagined his large feet stomping towards his cart.

She rolled her eyes, circling her father’s workstation and barrier to move towards the front door, the sounds of the neighbourhood children playing outside reaching her ears. Gripping the metal handle, she hauled the heavy door back to seal it. Aicha was halted by the slender, brown hand that landed on the door, a body wedging itself in the gap. Familiar dark-brown eyes met her own.

Samira huffed, dragging her gaze from her younger sister to briefly look behind her, at what Aicha assumed was the disgruntled merchant. Samira’s brow raised in an accusatory manner. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and no sweat marks lined her features—a trait that Aicha had always been envious of. She tended to self-consciously smell her armpits before meeting Rachid.

“Are you not able to go a day without angering a customer?” Samira said, forcing herself through the door regardless of the fact Aicha had not made room to welcome her in.

“I desire consistency,” Aicha retorted, pulling the door shut behind her. The metal clang echoed as she locked it. “Also, he deserved it.”

Samira tutted, shaking her head as she headed for the back room. Her dark leathers weighed heavy on her shoulders, the protective layers helped when she was outside, in the dead of night, smuggling. Risking her life. But in the light of day, it was far too warm to wear, and Aicha was always taken back by Samira’s ability to go so long without water. Though that habit had been instilled into both sisters from birth, as a result of being denied simple necessities from the King’s guard, it was one Aicha had defied. Her sister called her gluttonous. Aicha called it common sense.

Samira peeled off her tunic, throwing it into a pile of clothing on the floor. Her layers were abundant, and dark in colour. She had been gone since yesterday evening, and the black and navy clothing was necessary for slipping through the walls and remaining in the shadows when smuggling cargo and messages out of the city. Her role within the rebellion was an important one, something she had volunteered for with Rachid despite her father’s protests. Being caught transporting weapons and secrets to the Sultan’s men outside of the city walls meant certain execution, but Samira was the best at it. And Rachid a close second.

“Please, add to my chores,” Aicha drawled, motioning to the growing pile of clothes her sister had made. “I enjoy washing your clothes.”

Samira met her with a glare, though little else. Rarely could one arouse annoyance from Samira, whereas Aicha had always had a shorter temper.

Like Aicha, dark green markings lined Samira’s chin, cheeks and between her brows. Aicha had received her first, the siyala, on her fourteenth birthday. A symbol of reaching womanhood. It was a line that began beneath her lip and extended to the tip of her chin, with a row of dots either side. Incredibly painful when she sat through it. She’d almost wanted to punch her baba while he’d marked her. Granted, he had done so only once before—for Samira—and so wasn’t as gentle as he claimed people from her mother’s tribe would have been.

Still, a punch would have felt good.

The second had been given when she’d won her first sparring battle, a talisman for protection that Fouad had called ghemaza and placed between her brows. Two and a half diamonds stacked atop one another. These were the markings their mother once received, and Fouad had been desperate for his daughters to retain some essence of her, to feel connected to her.

She pushed down the feeling of emptiness that always surfaced when she thought of her mama. It existed instead of longing, or grief, because Aicha never knew her mother. She would always feel like she’d simply had something taken from her.

Samira moved to lift the water jug by both handles, careful not to spill, and poured herself a bowl of lukewarm water.

“Do not use too much,” Aicha warned. “They have halved our daily supply.”

“Why?” Samira said, a frown etched into her brows. “I thought you collected ours before dawn.”

“I did, but the blockade and the drought mean they will ration our supply before they ration theirs.” Irritation seeped into Aicha’s tone.

The reminder of her heated discussion with a soldier when he had failed to fill her waterskins fully—and their disregard for her enquiry as to when more would be available—reinvigorated her annoyance.

For well over a month, a blockade had been enforced by the Maghrebi armies that patrolled the seas. Halting almost all of the invaders’ imports of goods into the citadel. When rumours of an attack had reached the Portuguese, they had had no choice but to close the gates. Aicha would have said they were all trapped, but it wasn’t true.

Portuguese villagers fled almost daily—if they had the coin to buy passage. Returning to the land they should have never left, Aicha thought bitterly. The general, however, was almost petulantly stubborn. So, soldiers were forced to stay, to defend walls they had no right to build and to let the Maghrebi starve first. Aicha hoped their ships sank before reaching their shores.

“Fish was all gone, too,” Aicha muttered. “They won’t let anyone go beyond the bay any more. Hamad said they barely caught a full net.”

Samira bristled, then rubbed at her face. She was able to cool her frustration much more easily than Aicha. Her grip was gentle as she focused on her task. Aicha had already smashed four of the ceramic jugs by holding them too carelessly, and Fouad had made both sisters pay for the last, because—as Aicha distinctly remembered—it was the “elder’s responsibility to make sure the youngest sibling behaved.” As if accidentally dropping a jug was a behavioural issue.

Aicha watched as Samira splashed water on her face, and around her neck, ridding her skin of the dry sand and dirt from the tunnels she had passed through. She drew a deep breath in then out, expelling a weight from herself as Aicha watched her finally relax in their home. The only place she had ever felt safe enough to release the rigidity in her shoulders.

Placing the remaining weaponry she had sharpened that afternoon back into her baba’s trunk, Aicha locked it. She lifted it with both hands and grunted as it weighed down on her.

“Move,” she huffed at Samira, who crouched in the doorway between the front room and the back. “I need to put these away.”

The elder ignored Aicha’s barbed tone, all too used to her impatience. Aicha watched Samira pick up the bowl and jug of water, taking her spot at the workstation, and sitting on her unused stool.

Aicha moved into the hallway and towards their baba’s study, pushing past the curtain that partitioned his room from the hall. She dropped the trunk to the ground and, manoeuvring his table, pulled away the rug that lay beneath it to reveal loose zellige. She pulled off the tiles one by one, with delicacy so as not to chip any, before revealing the trapdoor below. Aicha descended the wooden steps of the hidden entrance, which had been built long before her birth by her grandfather. She was cloaked in darkness, with only a slither of sunlight from the window streaming into the small cellar. Using what light she had, she plopped the trunk next to the dozens of others, all engraved to indicate the type of weaponry they contained.

Aicha headed back up the steps, the wood creaking loudly as she went. When she returned to the workroom, a slightly cleaner and less dishevelled Samira turned towards her.

“Where’s Baba?”

“At the port,” Aicha supplied, hoisting herself up to sit on the counter. “He had to make a delivery to the Filali family.”

Samira nodded, and rested her head on the counter, Aicha knew she liked to feel the coolness of the wood against her cheek. As Aicha unsheathed her small dagger from her waist, and began to sharpen it, the two descended into a comfortable silence, both exhausted by the day and taking comfort in each other’s presence.

“I need help packing Baba’s newest arrows,” Samira mumbled. “They must go out by tomorrow evening.”

Aicha groaned, knowing that the task would extend well into the night, and that their father would offer no assistance. Despite her constant moaning, and the petulant childishness she knew she was displaying, it was still a chore that had to be done. One that was boring, filled with little excitement or actual adult responsibility. This lack of responsibility was a grievance she constantly brought to her father, only to receive the same monotonous reply:

You’re not ready.

But Samira had been. Samira always had been. She shared a bond with their baba that Aicha had always been envious of, and she wasn’t proud of it, but Aicha wondered if Fouad favoured Samira because she had not caused their mother’s death.

“Fine,” she said to Samira, “but you have to do the cleaning.”

Her sister made a non-committal sound of acknowledgement, evidently too tired to argue. Aicha patted Samira on the head, both teasingly and affectionately, before she hopped off the workstation. She bent to pick up her sister’s clothing and moved into the next room, placing it in the wash basket.

“Get some rest, I have to go out,” Aicha called.

Samira released another inaudible sound, opening her eyes a fraction to give her sister a knowing look as she returned to the room.

“Tell Rachid he best not be awake throughout the night, we have to make another delivery. When he is tired, he is a liability.”

“Why would I be going to see Rachid?”

The speed with which Samira raised her head, delivering a look of both annoyance and scepticism, was almost comical.

“That big-eyed look of innocence works with Baba, but not me, little sister. I know where you sneak off to after hours.”

Aicha’s laugh was loud and jarring, a cackle that would be deemed unbecoming of a lady. It emerged as predictably as a flower in spring, a sign of nervousness when she attempted to deflect or lie.

Her denial over Rachid wasn’t convincing to her elder sister, and Samira’s scepticism showed in her eyes, a look identical to Aicha’s, one that they had inherited from Tadla. It was an expression neither of them took offence at, because Fouad had always yielded in affection upon seeing it. The ghost of their mother’s blazing defiance emanated from them both, and when it did, Fouad crumbled.

They were his girls.

Late afternoon saw the resurgence of the souk, the dipping of the sun making the heat more bearable as merchants rose from their afternoon slumber, bartering for goods brought in from across the seas, as well as those home grown. The souk was never allowed to reside in the town square, so instead, stalls were erected in their neighbourhood, lining the main streets and the alleys between their centuries-old homes. The separation between the northern and southern areas of the citadel meant that guards patrolled the divide. If a Maghrebi was found trying to cross that invisible divide, then they were interrogated for it. Unless it was for business, Maghrebis usually found themselves shoved away.

A cart, pulled by a donkey, boasted a mountainful of prickly pears. With the streets shaded by the canopies set up above the stalls, Aicha walked between traders and merchants, bartering for lower prices. Before the gates had been shut, and the blockade enforced on the citadel by the Sultan, the souk had boasted an array of goods. Fruit and meat, newly woven djilabas and gandoras that were cool enough to sleep in, and the occasional livestock. Aicha’s satchel, slung across her chest, pressed into her tunic. The sweat beneath seeped into the fabric, and she wiped at her forehead, sending a nod of acknowledgement to a merchant.

For a fraction of a moment, Aicha halted in her steps. In the distance, among the crowd of market goers and merchants, she saw it. An unnaturally tall figure, towering above everyone else, dark and simultaneously easy to see through, like smoke. Just standing there. People walked past it, unaware of its presence.

“Aicha! It is so good to see you, benti!”

The interruption caused Aicha’s gaze to falter, looking to the merchant at a stall just to her right. She smiled, and when she looked back, it was gone. As if she had imagined it.

“Salaam, Sidi Abdelhak,” Aicha greeted, stepping forwards to the stall, and ducking beneath the shade of the canopy. She picked up one of the prickly pears, gripping it a little tightly to gauge its ripeness. “How are the children, and Khadija?”

The old man, Abdelhak, nodded while scratching at his beard. “They are well. Khadija grows frustrated with my long hours. Claims that I evade the hardest part of parenting.” He threw his hands in the air. “If I am there she says I am too soft! I spoil them and do not discipline them. If I am gone, she says I do not show them love! Ya wili, tell me which you want!”

Aicha chuckled loudly at Abdelhak’s expression, his frustration and affection over his family etched between his thick brows and in his dark eyes.

“The trick, Sidi Abdelhak, is to find the balance between both.”

“When you have children, you will see that it is not possible.” He waved off.

Aicha cast her eyes over the bare table, a noticeable lack of fruits on it.

“No medjool left?” she asked, and watched as he sighed deeply.

“They will not let anyone leave the gates for trading any more,” Sidi Abdelhak explained. Though imported goods were prohibited to Maghrebis, they had always been allowed to trade beyond the walls. Strictly for the sake of the Portuguese’s need for fruits. “I will run out any day now; the pears have yet to spoil.”

Guilt settled itself into Aicha’s stomach, evicting any joy that had momentarily resided there when she had approached Abdelhak. He patted her wrist in response to her look of pity, moving to place her chosen pears into the satchel which she held open for him.

“Only a little longer,” he mumbled, as if a soldier might hear what he wished for. Aicha only shared a smile with him in response. “I hear the Sultan will attack with seventy thousand men.”

It was said as a statement, but Aicha knew he was asking. She took a step closer as she placed coins in his hand and bent her head towards him. “You would have to ask Baba.”

Since Aicha was a child, sent on errands by her father, Abdelhak had been a constant fixture in the market. His stall had been passed down for generations, before the siege of the port by the invaders almost four hundred years ago. Though originally an assistant to his father—whom Aicha had affectionately referred to as Juddi her entire life—Abdelhak had inherited the stall less than one sun cycle ago.

He nodded in acknowledgement, before patting her shoulder as she moved to depart.

“Tell Fouad he owes me a pot of qahwa!” he yelled.

She had already turned her back and started walking, but waved her hand as she headed towards the square.

Stray, moist curls of her hair escaped the wrap she had pulled it into. Though hijab and abayas were not permitted within the citadel, Aicha had taken to loosely putting her hair within the wrap, the curls splaying out over the top of her head, while the fabric collected the sweat that beaded around the crown of her head. Her sideburns were also visible in order to ensure that she did not aggravate troops who patrolled the streets.

The knot at the nape of her neck was damp with sweat, and that was where she suddenly felt a painful yank, sending her reeling backwards.

“Why is it always a daughter of Fouad’s breaking the rules?” Commander Almeida’s sneer was prominent on his thin lips as he. . .