[AMAL POV]
The ceremonial hall blazed with a thousand candles, their flames dancing across gilded walls that had witnessed the naming of princes for centuries. Tapestries depicting the kingdom's greatest victories hung in rich burgundy and gold, while incense burned in ornate braziers, filling the air with the scent of frankincense and myrrh. The marble floors had been polished to mirror perfection, reflecting the light until the entire space seemed to glow with divine radiance.
Seven days had passed since Hamza's birth—seven days of careful preparation for this moment when the kingdom would officially welcome its new heir. I stood at the edge of the great hall, my son cradled against my chest, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon us. The ceremonial gown they had dressed me in was a masterpiece of silk and thread-of-gold, its heavy skirts rustling with each breath I took. The fabric felt foreign against my skin, beautiful but suffocating, like wearing someone else's identity.
"Your Highness," Mira whispered beside me, her face glowing with pride and nervousness. "You look radiant. The kingdom has never seen a more beautiful princess."
I nodded absently, my attention focused on the sea of faces before us. Nobles and dignitaries filled the hall, their finest robes creating a kaleidoscope of colors. Foreign ambassadors stood in careful clusters, their expressions politely interested but watchful—they would carry word of this ceremony back to their own kingdoms, reporting on the strength and stability of our dynasty.
But it was the royal dais that held my attention, where three figures waited in their ceremonial positions.
Prince Ali stood to the left of the throne, and even from this distance, I could see the tension radiating from his rigid posture. The eldest son, the one who should have been king if not for... circumstances that the court whispered about in darkened corridors but never spoke of openly. He was a tall man, broader than Idris, with the same dark hair but eyes that held shadows I had learned to fear. His ceremonial robes were magnificent—deep purple silk with silver threading—but they hung on him like a costume, emphasizing rather than concealing the bitterness that seemed to emanate from his very being.
As I watched, Prince Ali's fingers drummed against his thigh in slow, deliberate patterns, and his jaw worked silently as if chewing on words too dangerous to speak aloud. His gaze swept across the assembled court with the calculating intensity of a man taking inventory of enemies and allies. The courtiers near him maintained careful distances, and I noticed how even the guards seemed to avoid direct eye contact with him.
Prince Faisal stood to the right, and if Ali was the broken sword, Faisal was the blade honed too sharp, dangerous in its very perfection. Where Ali's madness was visible in his twitching movements and vacant stares, Faisal's cruelty hid behind a mask of princely composure. He was perhaps the most beautiful of the three brothers—his features were carved with mathematical precision, his bearing regal and commanding. But I had seen what lay beneath that perfect exterior, had felt the ice in his touch and heard the venom in his voice.
Even now, separated by the length of the ceremonial hall, I could feel his gaze like cold fingers trailing across my skin. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, but there was something predatory in his stillness—like a hawk waiting for the perfect moment to dive.
My arms tightened unconsciously around Hamza, and the baby stirred, making a small sound of protest. The movement drew me back to the present, to the weight of my son in my arms and the ceremony that awaited us.
"Your Highness," the herald's voice boomed across the hall, silencing the murmur of conversation. "The time has come to present Prince Hamza to the kingdom."
This was it. I would have to walk the length of that hall, past hundreds of watching eyes, carrying my son toward the dais where Faisal waited with his cold smile. Every step would be scrutinized, every expression analyzed for signs of weakness or unworthiness.
The great doors at the far end of the hall swung open with ceremonial grandeur, and the sound of trumpets filled the air—a fanfare that announced the arrival of the kingdom's future. I took my first step forward, and immediately felt the crushing weight of expectation settle on my shoulders like a physical thing.
The aisle stretched before me like an eternity, lined with courtiers who bowed deeply as I passed. Their whispered blessings followed in my wake: "Long live the prince," "May he reign in wisdom," "Blessed be the mother who gave us our heir." The words should have filled me with pride, but instead they felt hollow, meaningless sounds that emphasized the emotional void where maternal joy should have resided.
Hamza was awake now, his dark eyes—so like his father's—taking in the spectacle around us with the unfocused curiosity of the very young. He seemed remarkably calm for such a momentous occasion, occasionally making soft cooing sounds that the crowd interpreted as princely approval, eliciting gentle laughter and more whispered blessings.
Halfway down the aisle, I caught sight of Idris standing beside the throne, and for a moment, my carefully maintained composure almost cracked. He looked magnificent in his ceremonial robes—deep blue silk with gold embroidery that caught the candlelight with every movement. But it was his expression that nearly undid me: pure, radiant pride mixed with love so intense it was almost painful to witness.
This was what I should be feeling, I realized with another pang of that familiar guilt. This overwhelming joy, this fierce protective love, this sense of completion that seemed to transform him into something luminous. But where those emotions should have been, I found only the same careful numbness that had become my closest companion.
"Lady Yasmin will carry the prince for the blessing," Mira whispered as we reached the midpoint of the aisle, where custom dictated a brief pause.
I felt my grip tighten instinctively on Hamza's small form. "No," I said quietly, but firmly enough that several nearby courtiers turned to look. "I'll carry him myself."
"Your Highness," Mira's voice held a note of gentle concern, "it's tradition. The ceremony is long, and holding him throughout—"
"I said no." The words came out sharper than I intended, drawing more curious glances. I forced my voice to soften, aware that every word would be analyzed later for hidden meanings. "I prefer to hold my son myself."
It wasn't tradition that concerned me, though I couldn't have explained what did. Perhaps it was some primal instinct that had survived the emotional wasteland I'd become—the need to keep my child close when danger felt so near. Or perhaps it was simply that holding him was the only thing that felt real anymore, the only action that seemed to have weight and meaning.
Lady Yasmin nodded graciously, though I caught the brief flash of confusion in her eyes. Around us, I could hear the soft murmur of speculation beginning to build. A mother who wouldn't let others carry her child during the ceremony—was it devotion or something else? Weakness? Fear?
Let them wonder, I thought with grim determination. Let them whisper and speculate. I would not let Hamza out of my arms today.
We resumed our procession, and with each step toward the dais, I felt the temperature in the room seem to drop. Prince Faisal's gaze never wavered from my face, and I could see the cruel amusement playing around the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying this—my discomfort, my fear, the power he held simply by existing in the same space.
As we reached the final approach to the dais, Prince Faisal stepped forward with fluid grace, his ceremonial sword gleaming at his side. Custom dictated that he, as the second prince, would offer the first blessing to his nephew—a gesture of family unity and support for the succession.
"Sister," he said, the word dripping with mock warmth as he offered an elegant bow. His voice carried clearly across the silent hall, ensuring that every word would be heard and remembered. "How lovely to see you again. And carrying such precious cargo."
The way he said 'cargo' made my skin crawl, as if Hamza were nothing more than a valuable object to be traded or stolen. I inclined my head stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.
Faisal's smile widened, and he took another step closer, near enough that his voice could drop to a more intimate tone while still being audible to the front rows of the audience. "I must say, I'm impressed by your... resourcefulness. When you fled my protection all those months ago, I wondered how you would manage. A helpless girl, lost in the wilderness with no one to defend her."
His words were carefully chosen, designed to sound like concerned family reminiscence while actually being something far more sinister. I could feel the assembled nobles listening with rapt attention, sensing undercurrents they didn't fully understand but finding fascinating nonetheless.
"I was never lost," I replied quietly, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I always knew exactly where I was going."
"Did you?" Faisal's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "How fascinating. And where was that, exactly?"
"To fulfill my destiny as Princess Idris's wife and the mother of his heir." The words felt like ash in my mouth, but they served their purpose—reminding everyone present of my current status and the protection it afforded.
Prince Faisal chuckled, a sound like winter wind through dead leaves. "Destiny. What a pretty word for abandonment and betrayal." His voice remained conversational, but his eyes had gone cold as stone. "Tell me, sister, do you ever think of poor Gheeda? Your dear friend who trusted you so completely?"
The name hit me like a physical blow, and I felt Hamza stir restlessly in my arms as my grip unconsciously tightened. Ghada. Sweet, loyal Ghada who had followed me into the desert, who had believed in my wild plan to escape, who had paid the price for my desperation with her life.
"It's Ghada," I managed, my teeth clenched and my voice trembling despite every effort to steady it.
"Same thing." Faisal leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Do you think she would be proud of how quickly you forgot her? How eagerly you embraced the bed of her murderer's brother? How you let yourself be pampered and adorned while her bones bleach in the desert sun?"
Each word was carefully placed, designed to slice through whatever defenses I had managed to construct. I could feel my carefully maintained composure beginning to crack, rage and guilt warring in my chest like battling storms.
"That's enough." Idris's voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. He had approached without my noticing, moving with the fluid grace of a predator who had sensed a threat to his mate.
Prince Faisal straightened slowly, his expression shifting from cruel amusement to something more calculating. "Brother," he said with elaborate courtesy. "I was simply offering my congratulations to your lovely wife. And perhaps sharing some memories of our time together."
"Your congratulations are noted," Idris replied, his tone carrying all the authority of a crown prince addressing a subordinate. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand had moved unconsciously toward the ceremonial dagger at his belt. "Now step aside. The ceremony must proceed."
For a moment, the two brothers faced each other in silence—two wolves fighting over prey. The air between them seemed to crackle with barely contained violence, years of rivalry and resentment distilled into this single moment of confrontation.
The assembled court held its collective breath, sensing the danger but not understanding its source. This was royal family drama played out before hundreds of witnesses, the kind of scene that would be whispered about in corridors for years to come.
Finally, Prince Faisal smiled—a cold, predatory expression that made my blood freeze. "Of course, Your Highness," he said, the title carrying just enough emphasis to make it sound like mockery. "Far be it from me to delay such an... important occasion."
He stepped aside with exaggerated grace, but not before his gaze flicked once more to Hamza, sleeping peacefully in my arms. There was something in that look—hunger—that made every protective instinct I possessed scream warnings.
Idris moved to my side immediately, his presence like a shield against his brother's malevolence. His hand found the small of my back, a gesture of support and possession that would be clearly visible to everyone present.
"Are you all right?" he murmured, his voice pitched for my ears alone.
I nodded, though we both knew it was a lie. But this was neither the time nor the place for honesty. The ceremony demanded that we present a united front, a picture of royal harmony.
"Prince Ali will offer the first blessing," the herald announced, his voice booming across the now-silent hall.
I turned toward the eldest prince, and what I saw made my breath catch in my throat. Ali had stopped his restless drumming and was staring directly at Hamza with an intensity that made the air feel thick with tension. His face had transformed from bitter resignation to something far more dangerous—a cold, calculating hunger that made every protective instinct I possessed scream warnings.
"The child," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent space, each word precisely enunciated. "My nephew. The new heir to the throne that should have been mine."
The crowd stirred uneasily at his blunt words. This was not the gracious blessing they had expected, not the display of family unity that should mark such an occasion.
"Ali." Idris's voice held a warning note, but his brother continued as if he hadn't heard.
"Such a small thing," Ali mused, his eyes never leaving Hamza's sleeping face, "to determine the fate of a kingdom. One tiny life standing between order and chaos." His smile was sharp as a blade. "How... fragile such arrangements can be."
The threat in his words was barely veiled, and I instinctively stepped backward, clutching Hamza more tightly against my chest. But Ali's gaze followed the movement, his smile widening.
"Don't misunderstand me, dear sister," he said, the endearment dripping with false warmth. "I offer only my... protection to my beloved nephew. After all, accidents can happen so easily. A fall from a window, a poorly prepared meal, a hunting accident when he's older..." He paused, savoring the fear in my eyes. "The crown has changed hands for less."
"Enough." Idris's command cut through the tension like a sword stroke. "Guards."
The men in royal livery moved forward immediately, but Ali raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.
"Peace, brother," he said, his tone suddenly light and reasonable. "I meant only to offer my blessing, as tradition demands." He looked directly at me, and his smile was winter itself. "May Prince Hamza live a long and prosperous life. May he grow strong and wise under his father's protection."
The words were perfectly proper, but the way he spoke them—the emphasis on 'father's protection,' the slight pause before 'long'—turned them into something else entirely. A reminder that protection could be withdrawn, that life was fragile, that power could shift in ways no one expected.
"And may he always remember," Ali added, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper but somehow carrying clearly across the hall, "that the throne belongs to those strong enough to claim it."
A chill ran through me so profound that Hamza stirred and began to fuss, as if he had felt it too. I found myself looking around the hall with new eyes, seeing not celebration but potential threats in every shadow, every face, every movement.
"The ceremony will continue," the herald announced, but his voice lacked conviction now. The magic of the moment had been broken by Ali's ravings, and no amount of ritual could restore it completely.
But continue it did, because kingdoms did not pause for madness or prophecy. The remaining blessings were offered—by Faisal, whose words were perfectly correct and utterly cold; by various nobles whose enthusiasm seemed forced after Ali's outburst.
Through it all, I held Hamza close, feeling his small, warm weight against my chest like an anchor in a storm. And I tried not to think about arrows, or blood on stones, or the way Prince Faisal's eyes followed my every movement with the patience of a hunter who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.
The ceremony concluded with the traditional presentation—the moment when I would walk to the great window and show the kingdom's heir to the people gathered in the courtyard below. It should have been triumphant, the culmination of everything we had worked toward.
Instead, as I approached the window with my son in my arms, Ali's words echoed in my mind like a curse.
And in the crowd of faces far below, I could swear I saw movement that didn't match the general celebration—a figure in the shadows of a distant balcony, something glinting in their hands.
Time seemed to slow as understanding flooded through me. This was the moment. The danger I had felt throughout the ceremony, the sense of impending doom that had made me clutch Hamza so tightly—it all led to this.
The arrow was coming, and I had perhaps seconds to decide: save myself, or save my son.
For the first time since his birth, the choice was easy. Whatever emptiness existed in my heart, whatever distance I felt from the role of mother, one truth remained absolute: I would not let harm come to this innocent child.
I would not fail him as I had failed Najwa, Halima, Amina, or Ghada.
As the arrow flew toward us through the morning air, I shifted my body, turning so that my back was to the window, shielding Hamza with every inch of myself I could manage.
The impact, when it came, was like being struck by lightning—a searing pain that stole my breath and sent waves of agony radiating through my chest. But even as I felt my strength begin to ebb, even as blood began to bloom across the front of my ceremonial gown, I held my son tighter.
He was safe. That was all that mattered.
The sounds of the ceremony—the gasps of horror, the shouts of alarm, the thunder of running feet—seemed to come from very far away as I sank to my knees, Hamza still cradled protectively in my arms.
I had found my answer at last. I might not know how to be a mother, might not feel the overwhelming love that was supposed to come naturally, but I knew this: I would die before I let anyone hurt my child.