The servants moved like shadows through the doorway, their footsteps muffled against the thick Persian carpets that lined the prince's chambers. They carried a silver basin that caught the amber light from the oil lamps, its surface reflecting fractured images of the vaulted ceiling above. Steam rose from the water within, curling upward like incense smoke before dissipating into the cool air.
Behind them came others: a girl barely past childhood clutching bottles of oil that gleamed like liquid gold, another bearing armfuls of cloth so fine they seemed to flow like water through her fingers. They arranged everything with choreographed precision on the low table beside the massive bed, their movements economical, purposeful. Not a single clink of glass, not a whisper of fabric disturbed the heavy quiet of the sickroom.
Amal stood near the tall windows, watching the rain streak down the diamond-paned glass in rivulets that caught and scattered the lamplight. The storm had raged for three days now, turning the courtyard below into a mirror of black water that reflected the torches burning in their iron sconces. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the mountain peaks that ringed the palace like sleeping giants.
She wore a simple robe of deep blue wool, its color chosen for practicality rather than beauty. Her dark hair was braided back severely, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the determined set of her jaw. At seven months with child, her body had taken on the lush curves of pregnancy, but she moved with the same controlled grace that had marked her since childhood—each gesture deliberate, each step measured.
"Leave us," she said without turning from the window.
The servants melted away as silently as they had come, pulling the heavy doors closed behind them with barely a whisper. The sound of their retreating footsteps faded into the labyrinthine corridors beyond, leaving only the steady percussion of rain against stone and the faint crackle of the fire in the great hearth.
Amal remained motionless for a long moment, her reflection ghostlike in the rain-streaked glass. She could see him in the peripheral darkness of the window's reflection—a shadow against the white expanse of the bed, watching her with those dark eyes that seemed to catalog every breath, every hesitation. The fever had broken sometime during the night, leaving him gaunt and hollow-cheeked, but his gaze remained as sharp as ever.
She turned, finally, and approached the array of supplies with the methodical precision of a general surveying her battlefield. The basin was filled with water heated to the perfect temperature—warm enough to soothe, not so hot as to shock fever-weakened skin. The oils were arranged by purpose: lavender for calming, eucalyptus for clearing congestion, rosemary for invigoration. The cloths were soft as silk, woven from cotton so fine it must have come from the southern provinces where the sun blazed eternal and the fields stretched endlessly toward distant horizons.
"Second thoughts?" Idris asked, his voice carrying across the space between them like a blade drawn across silk.
Amal's hands stilled for the briefest moment—so brief that anyone else might have missed it. But she felt the pause in her bones, the way her body wanted to hesitate, to retreat from this intimacy that felt both necessary and dangerous. She forced her fingers to continue their arrangement, straightening a bottle that was already perfectly aligned.
"No."
The single word fell into the silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples of tension across the space between them. She lifted the first cloth, testing its weight, its texture against her palm. The fabric was warm from the heated water, and she could feel steam rising from it in ghostly tendrils.
She moved to the bed with careful, measured steps, her bare feet silent against the carpet. This close, she could see the way illness had carved new lines around his eyes, had left his skin pale beneath its natural olive tone. But she could also see the stubborn strength that kept his spine straight even now, the iron will that had carried him through battles and fever alike.
The bed was massive, carved from dark wood that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Heavy curtains of midnight blue hung from the posts, pulled back now to allow air to circulate. The sheets were finest linen, changed twice daily during his illness, and they glowed white as snow in the lamplight.
"Sit up," she said.
He complied without question, his movements careful but precise. She could see the effort it cost him—the way his jaw tightened, the slight tremor in his hands as he braced himself against the pillows. But he managed it, settling back against the carved headboard with only the faintest intake of breath to betray his weakness.
Amal wrung out the cloth, the excess water cascading back into the basin with a gentle splash. She began with his face, starting at his temples where fever sweat had left salt crystals that caught the light like scattered diamonds. The cloth moved in slow, careful circles, washing away the residue of illness with methodical thoroughness.
His eyes remained open, watching her work with an intensity that made her acutely aware of every movement, every breath. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could see the way his pupils dilated slightly in the lamplight. There was something almost hypnotic about the rhythm of her movements—dip, wring, wash, rinse, repeat. The world narrowed to this small space, this careful attention to basic human needs.
She moved to his forehead, her touch light but sure. The fever had left his skin dry and tight, and she could feel the way it softened under the warm cloth. His dark hair was damp with sweat, pushed back from his face in waves that revealed the strong bones of his skull, the aristocratic arch of his brows.
"You're good at this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words hung between them like a challenge, or perhaps a confession. Amal's hand paused for just a moment before continuing its work, moving down to wash his jaw, his neck, the strong column of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong.
"I've had practice."
She rinsed the cloth again, the water now cloudy with fever sweat and the faint residue of illness. The motion was automatic, practiced, but she could feel his gaze following every movement of her hands.
"With whom?"
For a moment, she considered deflecting, changing the subject to something safer. But there seemed no point in evasion, not when they were alone like this, not when the storm outside had created a world that contained only the two of them.
"My brother. He was often ill as a child."
The words came out steady, matter-of-fact. She had learned long ago not to invest too much emotion in memories that couldn't be changed. But she could feel the way the admission shifted something in the air between them, created a small space of vulnerability in the careful distance she maintained.
"Was he." Not a question, just acknowledgment. "Did it help?"
Amal moved the cloth to his chest, where dark hair curled against skin that had lost its usual bronze tone. His breathing had improved since yesterday, she noted with professional detachment. The fever was breaking, slowly but steadily. Soon he would be himself again—strong, commanding, dangerous in entirely different ways.
"Sometimes. Not always." She rinsed the cloth again, watching the water turn cloudy. "But it was something I could do."
He nodded, and she could see something flicker in his dark eyes. "So you kept doing it."
"Yes."
The word came out softer than she intended, carrying more weight than she meant to give it. She focused on her work, on the careful attention to detail that had always been her refuge. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, washing away the residue of illness, the salt of fever sweat, the accumulated grime of three days bedridden.
When she finished with his chest, she moved to collect the basin, preparing to kneel beside the bed to wash his feet. But as she began to lower herself, her pregnancy making the motion awkward and strained, his voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Stop."
The command was sharp, absolute. Amal froze, cloth in hand, her body half-bent toward the floor. She could feel the strain in her back, the way her swollen belly made the position uncomfortable, but she had endured worse.
"What?"
"You shouldn't be kneeling. Not in your condition." His eyes fixed on her belly with an expression she couldn't quite read. "The baby—"
"The baby is fine," she said, but even as the words left her lips, she could feel the ache in her lower back, the way her body protested the awkward position.
"Get up." His voice carried the authority of a prince, a commander, someone accustomed to immediate obedience. "Use the chair. Pull it closer if you need to."
She looked up at him, surprised by the genuine concern in his expression. It wasn't tender—Idris was many things, but tender was not one of them. But there was something there, something that spoke of practical worry, of an investment in her wellbeing that went beyond mere courtesy.
"I'm not made of glass."
"No." His dark eyes met hers, and she saw something flicker there—possession, perhaps, or simple pragmatism. "But you're carrying my heir. And that makes you... valuable."
The word hung between them like a sword, cutting through any illusion of softness. Valuable. Not precious, not cherished, but valuable. Like a prize horse or a strategic alliance. The reminder was sharp, necessary, and it helped her rebuild the walls she felt crumbling in the intimate quiet of the sickroom.
She rose carefully, her movements deliberate, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. The wood was warm beneath her hands, worn smooth by countless servants who had sat here before her. She settled into it with relief, the pressure on her back easing, and resumed her work.
The angle was better now, more comfortable. She could see the way the lamplight played across his skin, could observe the gradual return of color to his complexion. His feet were long and narrow, aristocratic like the rest of him, and she washed them with the same careful attention she had given to everything else.
When she finished, she set the basin aside and reached for the bottles of oil. The scent of lavender filled the air as she poured a small amount into her palm, warming it between her hands before moving behind him on the bed.
His hair was a tangled mess, darkened with sweat and fever, falling in waves to his shoulders. She worked the oil through the worst of the tangles, her fingers moving with practiced patience. This close, she could smell the complexity of his skin—the lingering trace of fever, the clean scent of the soap she had used, the underlying warmth that was uniquely his.
"Patient," he murmured as she worked through a particularly stubborn knot.
"Impatience serves no purpose here."
Her voice was steady, controlled, but she could feel the way her pulse quickened at his proximity, at the intimacy of the task. She forced herself to focus on the mechanics of it—the way the oil made his hair slip like silk through her fingers, the careful pressure needed to work out the tangles without causing pain.
The silence stretched between them, comfortable now, filled only with the gentle sounds of her work and the steady drum of rain against the windows. Lightning flickered again, illuminating the room in stark black and white before fading back to the warm amber of the oil lamps.
She could feel the tension leaving his body as she worked, could see the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing deepened. There was something almost meditative about the rhythm of it, the careful attention to detail, the quiet focus required.
When she finished, she moved away from him, gathering the supplies with the same methodical efficiency she had used throughout. The basin went on the table first, followed by the bottles of oil, the used cloths arranged neatly for the servants to collect later.
"Better?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
He ran his hand through his clean hair, testing the result. For the first time in days, he looked more like himself—still ill, still weakened, but human again. The fever had broken completely now, she could see, leaving him gaunt but clear-eyed.
"Much."
The word carried weight, acknowledgment without sentimentality. She nodded, satisfied with her work, and turned toward the door. But she could feel his eyes on her, thoughtful now rather than calculating, and she knew that something had shifted in the space between them—something small but significant, like a pebble dropped into still water.
She paused at the door, her hand on the carved handle. "I'll send the servants to change the bedding."
"Amal."
Her name on his lips stopped her, made her turn back to face him. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read, something complex and layered that spoke of thoughts she wasn't privy to.
"Yes?"
But he said nothing more, just studied her face in the lamplight as if memorizing it, as if trying to solve some puzzle she didn't even know she represented. Finally, he nodded once, a gesture of dismissal that was somehow also acknowledgment.
She left him then, stepping out into the corridor where the servants waited like shadows, ready to restore order to the prince's chambers. The heavy doors closed behind her with a soft thud, sealing him back into his world of privilege and power, leaving her alone with the strange, unsettling memory of his hands in her hair and the weight of his gaze on her face.
The storm continued to rage outside, but inside the palace, something had shifted. Something small but irreversible, like the first crack in a dam that would, in time, change the course of the river entirely.