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Chapter 35 - The Art of Emptiness

[AMAL POV]

The transformation was subtle but complete. Where once I had performed warmth, I now performed duty. Where once I had crafted affection, I now offered compliance. The difference was imperceptible to most, but devastating in its precision.

I became exactly what Prince Idris had always needed: a perfectly managed asset.

My mornings began with the same ritual. I would wake before dawn, dress in the colors that complemented his schedule, and present myself at breakfast with the appropriate level of pleasant availability. When he asked about my night's rest, I would respond with the expected gratitude. When he inquired about the baby's movements, I would share just enough detail to satisfy his concern without requiring additional investment.

"The baby was active last night," I would say, my hand resting on my growing belly. "Strong kicks. Master Kaira says it's a good sign."

"Excellent," he would reply, his attention already shifting to the morning's correspondence. "Make sure you're eating enough. The kitchen staff have been instructed to provide whatever you need."

"Thank you for your thoughtfulness," I would respond, the words flowing as smoothly as water over stone. No warmth, no particular coldness—just the perfect temperature of dutiful appreciation.

The court noticed the change, of course. But they misread it entirely.

"The Princess has such grace," Lady Mariam observed during one of our Tuesday gatherings. "She's become so serene, so... settled."

"Pregnancy suits her," Lady Fatima agreed. "She has that glow that comes from deep contentment."

I smiled and nodded, my needle moving steadily through the silk. Contentment. If only they knew that what they mistook for serenity was actually the complete absence of expectation. I had stopped waiting for genuine moments because I finally understood they would never come. The relief was profound.

"Your Highness seems so peaceful lately," Lady Zahra said, her voice tinged with envy. "You barely speak of the Prince anymore. Are you keeping your happiness to yourself?"

"I prefer to live in the moment rather than speak of it," I replied, and it was true. I lived in each moment with perfect awareness of exactly what it was: a performance requiring specific responses, nothing more.

The ladies took this as romantic discretion, but it was something far more practical. I had learned to exist in the spaces between their expectations and his management, carving out a small territory of emotional neutrality that belonged only to me.

Idris noticed, naturally. He was too skilled a leader not to detect the shift in the atmosphere around him. But he approached it the same way he approached all problems—with careful analysis and strategic adjustment.

"You've been very quiet lately," he said one evening as we walked through the gardens. It was part of his routine now, these evening walks that were supposed to be good for both my health and my mood.

"Have I?" I asked, my voice carrying just enough surprise to seem natural. "I hadn't noticed. Perhaps I'm just more thoughtful these days."

"The pregnancy?" he suggested, and I could hear him filing away the information for future reference.

"Perhaps," I agreed. "Everything feels more... significant now. I find myself wanting to observe rather than speak."

He accepted this explanation because it fit within his understanding of how pregnant women should behave. I was becoming more maternal, more introspective, more focused on the life growing inside me. These were all positive developments that required no intervention.

The truth was simpler and more devastating: I had stopped trying to make him love me, and in doing so, had discovered a kind of peace I'd never known was possible.

I threw myself into the tasks that mattered. I read extensively about childbirth and infant care, preparing myself for the one relationship in my life that might be real. I studied the kingdom's history and current politics, not to impress Idris but to understand the world my child would inherit. I practiced the piano and embroidery, not for his approval but for my own satisfaction.

When he complimented my playing, I thanked him politely. When he praised my needlework, I smiled appropriately. When he touched my hand during public events, I neither pulled away nor responded with the manufactured warmth I'd once provided. I simply existed in the moment, feeling nothing, expecting nothing, needing nothing from him beyond the basic courtesies of our arrangement.

The baby grew stronger, more active, more real. Sometimes I would sit in the garden in the late afternoon, my hands resting on my belly, talking quietly to the child who couldn't yet hear my words but who would, someday, be the only person in the world who might love me without strategy or purpose.

"Your father is a good man," I would whisper, because it was true. "He'll give you everything you need to be happy and successful. He'll teach you to be strong and wise and careful."

I never said he would love the child—not because I doubted it, but because I'd learned to distinguish between the love that came naturally and the love that came from duty. Idris would care for our child with the same perfect attention he gave to everything that mattered to the kingdom. Whether that care would feel like love to the child was something I couldn't predict.

The announcement came during a council meeting in my seventh month, when my body had grown heavy and my movements had become deliberate. A border dispute had escalated into something requiring military intervention, and Prince Idris would lead the campaign personally.

"How long will you be gone?" I asked, my voice carrying the appropriate note of wifely concern.

"Three weeks, perhaps a month," he replied, his attention focused on the maps spread across the table. "The physicians assure me the baby isn't due for another two months. I'll return in time."

"Of course," I said, because that was the expected response. Privately, I felt nothing but relief. Three weeks of not having to perform, not having to manage my expressions and responses, not having to pretend that his attention mattered to me.

"Chancellor Khalid will coordinate anything you need," he continued. "Master Kaira will monitor your condition daily. Captain Ali will ensure your security. You'll be perfectly cared for."

Perfectly managed, I thought, but I smiled and nodded. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

The night before his departure, he came to my chambers with a small wooden box. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, engraved with protective symbols.

"For you," he said, "and for the baby. To keep you safe while I'm away."

I let him fasten it around my wrist, feeling the cool metal against my skin. It was beautiful, expensive, and completely meaningless. But I understood my role.

"It's beautiful," I said, admiring it with the appropriate level of pleasure. "Thank you."

"I'll think of you both every day," he said, and I knew he meant it in the way that commanders mean they'll think of their supply lines—as essential elements that must be properly maintained.

"We'll be here when you return," I replied, and kissed his hand with the exact amount of affection expected from a devoted wife sending her husband to war.

After he left, the court transformed around me. Suddenly, I was no longer the managed princess but the fragile, pregnant wife left behind. The ladies began visiting more frequently, their voices pitched with concern and sympathy. The servants attended to my every need with exaggerated care. Even Chancellor Khalid spoke to me in the gentle tones reserved for delicate conditions.

"Your Highness must rest," Master Kaira insisted during his daily visits. "The stress of separation can be harmful to both mother and child."

"I'm not stressed," I said truthfully. "I'm managing quite well."

But he took my calm for brave stoicism, and soon the entire court was whispering about my remarkable courage in the face of such difficulty. They saw what they expected to see: a loving wife bravely enduring separation from her beloved husband while carrying his precious heir.

I played the role they'd written for me because it was easier than creating my own. When they spoke of missing the Prince, I nodded with wistful understanding. When they worried about the dangers of war, I placed my hand over my heart with appropriate concern. When they praised my strength, I smiled with humble gratitude.

The baby seemed to sense the change in atmosphere. The kicks became more frequent, more insistent, as if responding to the court's heightened attention. I would rest my hands on my belly during these moments, feeling the child's movements with a mixture of wonder and protectiveness that had nothing to do with anyone's expectations.

"You're so calm," Lady Mariam observed one afternoon. "I would be beside myself with worry."

"Worry wouldn't bring him back any faster," I replied, and they took this as wisdom rather than indifference.

The truth was that I slept better than I had in months. Without the constant need to interpret his glances, respond to his moods, and maintain the performance of mutual affection, I felt lighter despite my growing body. I read books that interested me, spent hours in the garden, and had genuine conversations with the baby that required no audience.

For the first time since my arrival, I felt almost happy.

The days settled into a rhythm that felt almost natural. I would wake with the dawn, dress in the deep blues and soft grays that the court had deemed appropriate for a worried wife, and present myself at breakfast where Chancellor Khalid would brief me on any correspondence from the front.

"The Prince writes that the campaign progresses well," he would say, offering me the official reports that contained nothing but strategic updates and reassurances about his health. "He asks particularly about your condition and the baby's development."

"Please send word that we are both well," I would reply, my hand resting on my increasingly prominent belly. "And that I pray for his swift and safe return."

The lie came easily now, smooth as silk thread through practiced fingers. I did not pray for his return—I barely thought of him at all except as a distant figure whose absence had created this pocket of peace in my life. But I understood what role I was meant to play, and I played it with the same precision I'd once applied to winning his affection.

The noble ladies had appointed themselves my unofficial guardians, taking turns visiting me throughout the day to ensure I wasn't succumbing to the melancholy that pregnant women in my situation were expected to develop. They brought their embroidery, their gossip, and their well-meaning concern, creating a constant stream of gentle supervision that I found oddly comforting.

"You're bearing up so well," Lady Mariam said one afternoon as we sat in the garden, our needlework forgotten in our laps. "I don't know how you manage it."

"What choice do I have?" I replied, watching the goldfish circle lazily in the fountain. "Worry would only harm the baby."

"Still," Lady Fatima interjected, "it must be difficult. The nights especially. You must feel so alone."

I turned to look at her, this woman who had shared a bed with her husband for fifteen years and still spoke of loneliness as if it were a familiar companion. "I find the nights quite peaceful, actually. The baby is most active then, and I enjoy the quiet conversations we have."

"Conversations?" Lady Zahra leaned forward with interest. "You speak to the baby?"

"Of course." I placed my hand over a particularly active spot on my belly. "I tell the baby about the kingdom, about the history of our family, about the father who will return soon to welcome this new life."

The ladies sighed collectively, their romantic hearts satisfied by this image of maternal devotion. But the truth was more complex. I did speak to the baby, but not about Idris's imagined devotion. Instead, I told the child about the books I was reading, the music I was learning, the garden paths I walked each day. I spoke of the world as I saw it—beautiful and complicated and full of possibilities that had nothing to do with fairy tale endings.

"What do you think it will be?" Lady Yasmin asked. "Boy or girl?"

"I hope for a healthy child," I said, the expected response. "But if I'm honest, I find myself hoping for a daughter."

The ladies exchanged glances. In a royal marriage, sons were everything—heirs to secure the succession, future leaders to extend the family's power. For a princess to express a preference for a daughter was... unusual.

"A daughter would be lovely," Lady Mariam said carefully. "But surely you hope for a son first? To secure the succession?"

"I suppose," I said, running my hand over my belly. "But I think I might understand a daughter better. I could teach her things that I've learned."

"What things?" Lady Fatima asked.

I considered the question seriously. What would I teach a daughter? There are many things that I wish I will talk to her about.

"Patience," I said finally. "And observation. The importance of understanding people's motivations rather than simply accepting their words."

"Wise lessons," Lady Zahra agreed. "Though I hope the Prince returns soon. It's important for a child to know its father."

"Yes," I said, because it was true. Whatever complicated feelings I had about Idris, he would be a good father. Attentive, devoted, strategic in his care. The child would never doubt that it was valued and protected.

"Have you chosen names?" Lady Yasmin asked.

"We discussed it briefly before he left," I said, remembering the conversation that had felt more like a negotiation than a shared dream. "For a boy, Hamza. For a girl..." I paused, realizing that we had never actually agreed on a girl's name. "We haven't decided."

"What would you choose?" Lady Mariam asked.

"Noor," I said without hesitation. "Light. Because she would be the light of my life."

The ladies murmured their approval, but I saw Lady Fatima and Lady Zahra exchange a look. There had been something in my voice, perhaps, that revealed more than I'd intended. A warmth that I reserved only for thoughts of this child, this person who would love me without calculation or purpose.

"The Prince will want to be consulted, of course," Lady Fatima said gently.

"Of course," I agreed. "He should have equal say in naming his child."

But privately, I had already decided. If this baby was a girl, she would be Noor, regardless of what strategic considerations Idris might have about names that honored important allies or carried political significance. This one thing, at least, would be mine to choose.

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