[AMAL POV]
The question hung in the air between us, direct and impossible to deflect. I felt the baby kick hard, as if responding to my sudden spike in anxiety.
"What a strange question," I said, buying time to formulate a response. "Of course I love him. He's my husband."
"That's not what I meant," Prince Ali said quietly. "I meant... do you love him? Beyond duty, beyond the arrangement that brought you here. Do you care for him as a person?"
I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because he's my brother," he said simply. "And because I've watched him these past months, seen how he's changed since your marriage. I want to understand what's happening between you."
"Changed how?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"He's... softer, somehow. More thoughtful. He speaks of you often, not just as his wife but as a person he's come to respect and admire. I've never seen him so... invested in someone's happiness."
The words sent a chill through me. If Prince Ali had noticed changes in Idris, if he suspected that his brother had developed genuine feelings, then my careful performance might be causing more damage than I'd realized.
"I'm sure you're mistaken," I said carefully. "The Prince is simply being kind to his pregnant wife. It's natural for him to be attentive during such a time."
"Perhaps," Prince Ali said, but his expression suggested he wasn't convinced. "But I know my brother, and I know when he's simply performing duty and when he's genuinely engaged. With you, he's genuinely engaged."
I placed my hand over my belly, feeling the baby's movements beneath my palm. "I try to be a good wife," I said. "If that brings him some satisfaction, I'm glad."
"Satisfaction," he repeated. "Is that what you call it?"
"What else would I call it?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with the same intensity I'd come to recognize in all the royal men of this family. "I don't know," he said finally. "But I suspect there's more to this story than either of you is willing to admit."
The conversation was moving into dangerous territory. I needed to redirect it before he pressed further into questions I couldn't answer honestly.
"Perhaps we should return to the castle," I said. "Master Kaira will want to examine me before the evening meal, and I should rest before dinner."
"Of course," he said, offering me his arm. "But sister... if you ever need to talk to someone, someone who understands the complexities of royal life, I hope you know you can trust me."
I studied his face, seeing genuine concern beneath the political calculation. Prince Ali was offering me something I hadn't expected—the possibility of an ally, someone who might understand the complicated dynamics of my situation.
But he could just as easily be playing a role. After all, Prince Idris stole the crown title from him. Maybe Prince Ali is looking for any cracks in our relationship—anything he can use to bring Idris down
As we made our way back to the castle, I found myself wondering what Prince Ali had seen in his brother that I had missed. If Idris had truly changed, if he had developed genuine feelings beyond strategic management, then my careful emotional distance might be more cruel than protective.
But I couldn't afford to reconsider my position based on secondhand observations. I had heard Idris's own words, his clinical assessment of our relationship as effective management. Whatever changes Prince Ali thought he had observed, they didn't alter the fundamental reality of our situation.
That evening, at dinner, I played the perfect hostess to Prince Ali's honored guest. I asked appropriate questions about his travels, expressed suitable concern for his comfort, and maintained the image of a gracious princess managing her household with skill and dignity.
But I found myself watching him as carefully as he was watching me, wondering what he would report to his brother about my condition, my behavior, my suitability as a wife and future mother.
The game was more complex than I had realized, with more players than I had anticipated. And I was no longer certain I understood all the rules.
The messenger arrived on a Tuesday evening, his horse lathered with sweat and his face grim. I was in the music room, playing a piece I'd been practicing for weeks, when Chancellor Khalid burst through the doors without announcement.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice tight with controlled panic. "The Prince returns tonight. He's... he's been injured."
The music stopped abruptly, my hands frozen over the keys. "Injured?"
"Sword wound to the shoulder, possible internal injuries. He's conscious but weak. The army physicians have done what they can, but..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Within minutes, the castle was chaos.
Shouts echoed through the marble corridors—stablehands barking orders, guards yelling for the gates to be cleared, servants rushing down the halls with bandages and buckets of hot water. The urgency in their footsteps mirrored the mounting dread in my chest. Windows were thrown open, and I could hear the clang of armor, the stampede of boots across stone, the high-pitched bark of a steward's voice directing the household to prepare for emergency care.
"He's been wounded!" someone called from the main hall, the cry taken up by another. "The Prince! The Prince is wounded!"
I stood carefully, my heavy body protesting the sudden movement. "When will he arrive?"
"Within the hour. Master Kaira is preparing the chambers, and riders have been sent for the kingdom's finest physicians. You should... that is, it would be appropriate for you to be present when he arrives."
Of course it would be appropriate. The devoted wife, heavy with child, keeping vigil over her wounded husband. It was the role I'd been born to play.
"I'll be ready," I said, and meant it.
The next hour passed in a blur of preparation. The great hall was cleared, torches were lit along the approach road, and the entire court gathered in anxious clusters. I took my place at the main entrance, my hands folded over my belly, my expression composed into the mask of a worried but strong wife.
When the procession appeared in the distance, I felt the court's collective intake of breath. The Prince's horse was being led by Captain Ali, and Idris himself was slumped forward in the saddle, held upright by sheer will and the support of the soldiers flanking him.
He looked smaller than I remembered, somehow diminished by pain and exhaustion. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, and dark stains marked his clothing. But his back was straight, his head held high. Even wounded, he projected the authority that commanded respect.
The horse stopped before me, and Captain Ali dismounted quickly to help support his prince. Idris's eyes found mine, and I saw in them the same focused attention I'd grown to recognize—but now it was honed by pain and filtered through exhaustion.
"Amal," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "You look well."
"My lord," I replied, stepping forward to offer my arm for support. "Welcome home."
He accepted my help without protest, leaning against me as we made our way into the castle. I could feel the tremor in his body, the way he favored his right side, the careful control he maintained over his breathing. Everything reminded me of Noah. The baby shifted restlessly inside me, as if sensing the change in our circumstances.
"The physicians?" he asked Chancellor Khalid.
"Already assembled in your chambers, Your Highness. Master Kaira has prepared everything."
"Good." His grip tightened on my arm. "Amal, you should rest. This isn't—"
"I'm exactly where I need to be," I interrupted, and realized I meant it. Not because I loved him, not because I was playing a role, but because this was what the situation required. He was hurt, I was his wife, and some duties transcended the complicated emotions beneath them.
The examination was thorough and grim. The sword wound was deep but clean, already showing signs of proper healing thanks to the army physicians' skilled care. But there were signs of internal bleeding, and the fever that had begun during the journey home suggested infection.
"He needs constant monitoring," Master Kaira told me quietly while the other physicians conferred. "The next few days will be critical."
"I'll stay with him," I said, settling into the chair beside his bed. "The baby and I will be fine."
"Your Highness, in your condition—"
"I'm seven months pregnant, not dying," I said firmly. "I can sit in a chair and monitor his breathing."
Master Kaira looked as if she wanted to argue, but the expression on my face must have convinced her otherwise. She nodded reluctantly and began giving me detailed instructions about what to watch for, what changes might indicate worsening condition, when to call for help.
As the physicians filed out, leaving us alone for the first time in three weeks, I studied Idris's face in the candlelight. Pain had stripped away some of his usual composure, and I could see the man beneath the prince—vulnerable, human, mortal.
"You don't have to stay," he said without opening his eyes. "I'm sure this is uncomfortable for you."
"It's my duty," I replied, and the words held no warmth but no coldness either. Just simple truth.
He was quiet for a long moment.
He slept fitfully that first night, his breathing shallow and irregular. I dozed in the chair, waking at every sound, checking his pulse when his breathing seemed too quiet, dampening cloth to cool his fever when it spiked. The baby was restless too, kicking and shifting position as if responding to my tension.
Dawn brought no improvement. If anything, the fever had worsened, and there were moments when his breathing became so labored that I thought about calling for the physicians. But each time, he would settle back into uneasy sleep, and I would return to my vigil.
By the third day, I had established a routine. I would wake before dawn, wash and dress carefully, then settle beside his bed with my embroidery or a book. When he stirred, I would offer water or broth. When the fever spiked, I would bathe his forehead and face with cool cloths. When the physicians came for their examinations, I would report on his condition with the precision of a skilled observer.
"You're very attentive," Master Kaira observed on the fourth day. "But you must rest more. The baby needs—"
"The baby is fine," I said, my hand moving to my belly where the child was turning lazily. "And I'm resting. This chair is quite comfortable."
It wasn't, actually. My back ached constantly, and my legs had begun to swell. But discomfort was irrelevant. This was what the situation required, and I would not abandon my post.
The court marveled at my dedication. They spoke in hushed tones about the princess who never left her husband's side, who tended to his every need despite her own delicate condition. They saw romance in my vigilance, love in my persistence.
I saw only duty, and found a strange peace in that clarity.
The ninth day dawned with a different quality of light. I had grown so accustomed to the rhythm of his labored breathing that when it finally deepened and steadied, I woke instantly from my restless doze in the chair.
His eyes were open—truly open, not the fevered half-consciousness of the past week. Dark brown eyes, almost black in the early morning shadows, framed by lashes that seemed impossibly long against his pale skin. For a moment, they held the same gentle confusion I remembered from Noah, that soft bewilderment upon waking that made him seem younger, more vulnerable.
"Amal?" His voice was barely a whisper, cracked from days of fever and silence.
"I'm here," I said, rising carefully from the chair. My body protested the movement—nine days of sleeping upright had taken their toll, and the baby pressed heavily against my ribs. But I moved to his bedside, close enough to see the way his dark hair had grown longer during the campaign, now falling in waves past his shoulders, tangled and damp with sweat.
The beard he'd cultivated as a prince had grown wild during the month and his illness, softening the sharp angles of his jaw in a way that made my chest tighten with unwanted recognition. Like this, weak and disheveled, he looked heartbreakingly similar to the man I had fallen in love with by the forest.
"How long?" he asked, trying to push himself up and failing. His injured shoulder clearly pained him, and his arms shook with the effort.
"Nine days," I said, reaching for the water pitcher. "Don't try to sit up yet. Master Kaira says you need to regain your strength slowly."
He accepted the water gratefully, his fingers brushing mine as I held the cup to his lips. His skin was still warm but no longer burning with fever. The simple contact sent an unwelcome flutter through my chest—a reminder of all the careful walls I had built around my heart.
"You've been here the whole time?" he asked, and there was something in his voice I couldn't quite identify. Not gratitude, exactly. Something more complicated.
"It's my duty," I replied, the words coming automatically now. A shield against the softness that threatened to creep into my voice when I looked at him like this.
He studied my face with those dark eyes, and I forced myself to meet his gaze without flinching. The morning light caught the gold flecks I had once memorized, the ones that had made Noah's eyes seem to hold captured sunlight. But I pushed that memory away, focusing instead on the clinical assessment in his expression—the prince evaluating his wife's performance, not a man seeing the woman who had cared for him.
"You look tired," he said finally.
"I'm fine." I smoothed my skirts and returned to the chair, maintaining the careful distance that had become my refuge. "Are you hungry? I can call for broth."
"In a moment." He was still watching me, and I could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. "Amal, I want to thank you. For staying. For... this wasn't required of you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Not required. As if my vigil had been a choice, as if caring for him had been some generous gift rather than the automatic response of a heart that hadn't yet learned to stop loving him.
"Of course it was required," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "You're my husband. The father of my child. Where else would I be?"
The silence stretched between us, filled with all the words we couldn't say. He closed his eyes again, and I watched the way his breathing gradually steadied, the way his face relaxed into something approaching peace. His hair fell across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back. Just like the injured Noah.
But Noah had been a lie. This man, this prince who lay weak and wounded in his bed, was the truth. And the truth was that he had married me for political convenience, had managed our relationship with the same calculated precision he brought to governing his kingdom. Whatever he felt for me—respect, appreciation, even affection—it was not love.
The baby kicked hard against my ribs, as if protesting my melancholy thoughts. I placed my hand over the spot, feeling the familiar flutter of movement.
"Is the baby well?" Idris asked, his eyes still closed but his voice alert.
"Yes. Active today." I kept my hand on my belly, taking comfort in the movement. "Master Kaira says everything is progressing normally."
"Good." He opened his eyes again, and his gaze drifted to where my hand rested. "May I?"