[AMAL POV]
The evening light had faded to deep amber, casting long shadows across my chamber from the ornate brass oil lamps scattered throughout the room. I lay propped against a stack of ivory silk cushions, my body turned slightly toward the tall windows where sheer curtains billowed gently in the night breeze. The loose white cotton nightgown Mira had helped me into hours ago felt like the only thing I could bear against my skin—anything heavier made the constant ache in my shoulder feel unbearable.
My right arm rested in a silk sling across my chest, the bandages beneath my collarbone wrapped tight enough to restrict my breathing but loose enough to allow the wound to heal. Every few minutes, I would shift carefully against the pillows, trying to find a position that didn't send fresh waves of pain radiating down my arm.
The heavy oak doors opened with their familiar creak, and I heard the measured footsteps I'd come to know so well. I didn't turn to look—couldn't, really, without sending fire through my shoulder—but I caught sight of Idris in my peripheral vision as he paused just inside the doorway.
He looked... exhausted. His usually immaculate dark hair was disheveled, strands falling across his forehead as if he'd been running his hands through it. The formal midnight-blue robes he wore were wrinkled and bore faint stains—my blood from earlier, I realized with a detached sort of awareness. His ceremonial sword belt was gone, leaving the robes to hang loose around his tall frame.
"Amal?" His voice was soft, careful. "How are you feeling?"
I continued staring out the window at the darkening sky, my fingers absently picking at the embroidered edge of the blanket draped across my legs. The movement was small, unconscious, but it seemed to catch his attention because I heard him take a hesitant step closer.
"Are you in much pain?" he asked, and I could hear genuine concern threading through his words. "The physician left more laudanum if you need it."
I finally turned my head toward him, the movement slow and deliberate. He stood about six feet from my bed, his hands clasped loosely at his sides, dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made me want to look away again. There was something almost boyish about his uncertainty, the way he seemed to be waiting for permission to come closer.
Instead of answering, I simply looked at him—really looked. Took in the worried crease between his brows, the way his shoulders held tension despite his attempt to appear relaxed, the slight tremor in his hands that he was trying to hide. Then I turned back to the window.
"I see," he said quietly. I heard the soft whisper of his robes as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I... I spoke with Captain Ali about the search. We've questioned everyone who had access to the ceremonial hall, and—"
"Did you find him?" My voice came out rougher than expected, hoarse.
A pause. "Not yet."
I nodded once, unsurprised, and continued my methodical picking at the blanket's edge. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant sounds of the palace settling for the night and the soft flutter of curtains in the breeze.
I could feel him watching me, could sense his desire to do something, say something, but I had no energy left to help him navigate whatever this was. The constant throb in my shoulder seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat, making everything else feel distant and unimportant.
"Would you like me to send for some broth?" he tried again, taking another tentative step closer. "Or perhaps some of that honey tea you enjoy?"
I shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as the movement pulled at my bandages. "I'm not hungry."
He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair, the gesture unconscious and slightly endearing despite my general numbness toward him. "Right. Of course." His fingers drummed once against his thigh before he caught himself and stilled the movement. "Perhaps... would you like some company? I could read to you, if you'd like. Or we could just... sit."
The offer hung in the air between us. I could hear the hope in his voice, carefully controlled but there nonetheless. It should have moved me, I supposed.
"I'm quite tired," I said, not unkindly but with clear finality.
His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. "Of course. You need your rest." But he didn't leave. Instead, he moved closer, settling carefully into the ornate chair beside my bed—the one with deep burgundy velvet cushions that usually served as decoration more than furniture.
I watched from the corner of my eye as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. The position made him look younger somehow, less composed than the prince I was used to seeing in public.
"I thought," he said hesitantly, "if you don't mind... I could stay nearby tonight. Just in case you need anything. I won't disturb you—I could sleep in the chair, or on the divan by the windows."
Something in his tone made me turn to look at him fully. His dark eyes met mine with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—hope mixed with resignation, concern threaded with something that might have been longing.
"That's not necessary," I said gently, trying to soften what I knew was essentially a rejection.
He nodded quickly, too quickly. "Of course not. I just thought... after what happened today..." He trailed off, his fingers twisting together in his lap. "But you're right. You need space to heal."
The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken things. I could see him struggling with something, his jaw working silently as if he were chewing on words he couldn't bring himself to say.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I keep thinking about that moment. When I saw the arrow strike you." His hands tightened in his lap. "For just a second, I thought... I thought I'd lost you both."
The raw honesty in his voice caught me off guard, and for a moment I felt something stir—not the warmth I once might have felt, but at least recognition of his pain.
"But you didn't," I said simply. "We're both alive."
You remain the heir, and your successor stands ready.
He looked at me then with such intensity that I had to fight the urge to look away. "Yes," he said. "Thank Allah."
Another stretch of quiet. I found myself studying his face in the lamplight—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looked down at his hands, the slight tremor in his fingers that betrayed how affected he still was by the day's events.
"I should apologize," I said suddenly, the words coming out before I'd fully decided to speak them.
His head snapped up. "For what?"
"For earlier. When the physician was trying to help me." I shifted against the pillows again, trying to find a more comfortable position. "I made everything more difficult. I was... not at my best."
"Amal." His voice was firm, almost sharp. "You were shot with an arrow while protecting your son. No one expects you to be at your best."
I nodded, accepting his absolution even as I continued. "And thank you. For keeping Hamza safe while I was unconscious. Mira showed him to me earlier—he's perfectly well."
Something shifted in Idris's expression, became softer somehow. "You don't need to thank me for that. He's my son too."
"I know." I met his eyes steadily. "But I'm thanking you anyway."
He smiled then, just a small curve of his lips, but maybe genuine. It transformed his whole face, made him look less like the composed prince and more like the man I had glimpsed in rare, unguarded moments.
The smile faded as he seemed to realize I wasn't returning it, wasn't showing any signs of the warmth he might have hoped for. He looked down at his hands again, and I saw him swallow once, hard.
"Well," he said finally, rising from the chair with careful grace. "I should let you rest."
But he didn't move to leave immediately. Instead, he stood beside my bed, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of sandalwood that always seemed to cling to his clothes, close enough to see the exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes.
"If you change your mind," he said quietly, "about wanting company tonight—"
"I won't," I said.
He nodded, accepting the rejection with more grace than I probably deserved. "Sleep well, then."
I watched as he moved toward the door, his steps measured but somehow reluctant. At the threshold, he paused and looked back at me—just for a moment, as if memorizing the sight of me propped against my pillows, alive and healing despite everything.
"Good night, Amal," he said softly.
"Good night," I replied, already turning back toward the window.
The next morning brought with it a parade of well-wishers and concerned voices that made my head throb almost as much as my shoulder. I had barely managed to force down a few spoonfuls of broth when Mira appeared at my chamber doors with Lady Yasmin in tow.
Lady Karima swept into the room like a storm cloud in emerald silk, her dark eyes immediately assessing my condition with the practiced gaze of a woman who had overseen many recoveries. She was Idris's aunt, his father's sister, and one of the few people in the palace whose presence I genuinely welcomed.
"My dear," she said, settling gracefully into the chair Idris had occupied the night before. "You look terrible."
Despite everything, I found myself almost smiling. "Thank you, my lady. You always know exactly what to say."
"Flattery is for courtiers," she replied briskly, while Mira arranged fresh flowers in the vase by my window. "Truth is for family. And you, my stubborn girl, are family."
She studied me for a long moment, her sharp gaze taking in the careful way I held my right shoulder, the pallor of my skin, the exhaustion that clung to me like a shroud.
"The whole palace is in an uproar, naturally," she continued, smoothing her skirts with elegant hands. "Everyone has theories about who might have done such a thing. Most are convinced it was someone from outside—a foreign assassin, perhaps, or some disgruntled tribesman."
"And what do you think?" I asked, shifting slightly against my pillows.
Lady Yasmin's expression darkened. "I think whoever did this knows this palace very well indeed. The angle of that shot, the timing... it was too precise to be the work of an outsider."
Mira, who had been quietly listening while she arranged the jasmine blossoms, glanced between us with obvious concern. "Surely not someone from our own court?"
"Why not?" Lady Yasmin asked pragmatically. "Power makes men do terrible things. And there are those who might benefit from... removing certain obstacles to their ambitions."
The implication hung heavy in the air. We all knew she was referring to the succession, to Hamza's position as heir, to the way his birth had shifted the delicate balance of power within the royal family.
"Speaking of power," Lady Yasmin continued, her tone becoming more conversational, "I must say, yesterday's events revealed quite a lot about people's true characters."
She paused to accept the cup of mint tea Mira offered her, taking a delicate sip before continuing.
"Prince Ali, for instance, was remarkably composed during the chaos. Almost... detached, one might say. Very clinical in his suggestions about how to handle the search."
I felt my blood chill slightly at the mention of Ali, remembering my own suspicions about him.
"And Prince Faisal?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Loud and bombastic as always," Lady Yasmin replied with a slight curl of her lip. "Making grand declarations about justice and vengeance, but offering no practical solutions. All sound and fury, that one."
She set down her teacup and leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone.
"But the palace is buzzing with talk about Idris's reaction," she said, her eyes growing more serious.
Both Mira and I looked at her with increased attention.
"How so?" I asked, though I remembered his rage from yesterday, the way he'd roared commands with such fury that the walls themselves seemed to tremble.
"Well," Lady Yasmin said, settling back in her chair, "yesterday's events stirred up quite a bit of talk among the older courtiers. Seeing Idris like that—screaming orders, threatening to tear the kingdom apart stone by stone—it brought back memories for those of us who were here thirty years ago."
She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup thoughtfully.
"'History repeats itself,' they're whispering in the corridors. 'Like mother, like son's wife.' 'The curse of the royal bloodline.' You know how palace gossip goes—suddenly everyone is an expert on old tragedies."
Her voice grew quieter, more serious.
"What they're all remembering now, of course, is how his mother died."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt Mira go very still beside me, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
"His mother?" I whispered.
Lady Yasmin nodded gravely. "Queen Luna. She was killed by an archer's arrow when Idris was still an infant in her arms. Just like yesterday—a ceremonial occasion, a crowded hall, a single arrow that found its mark." Her voice grew softer, more sorrowful. "She threw herself over him, just as you did for Hamza. She saved his life, but lost her own."
The room spun slightly around me. Suddenly, so many things made terrible sense—the look of absolute terror on Idris's face when he'd first reached me, the way he'd seemed almost childlike in his fear, his desperate insistence on staying close to me through the night.
"What..."
"He was barely six months old," Lady Yasmin said quietly. "Too young to remember consciously, but..." She gestured helplessly. "The soul remembers what the mind cannot. Yesterday must have been like living through his worst nightmare all over again."
I closed my eyes, feeling something shift inside my chest—not quite forgiveness, but understanding. A crack in the wall I'd built around my heart.
"I had no idea," I whispered.
"Few people remember," Lady Yasmin said. "It was three decades ago, and the official histories prefer to focus on more... pleasant topics. But those of us who were there..." She shook her head. "We remember the sound he made when she fell. Even as a baby, somehow he knew."