It was the third day since the prince's meeting, yet the air at the estate still felt thick with secrets.
Tariq Aslan stood alone in the estate's eastern courtyard, where the stone pathway was framed by arched columns and trailing vines of night jasmine. The sun had just begun its descent, casting long amber shadows over the carved marble fountain at the center of the courtyard shaped like a phoenix rising in mid-flight, its wings frozen in triumphant ascent.
He stared at the rippling water as if it could offer answers.
The note they'd received days prior still played in his mind like a haunting refrain:
"The eyes you fear are not all hostile. Seek the one who wears no crown but holds the key."
It sounded like riddled prophecy. But in Nuradrah, riddles weren't just for poems;they were blueprints for survival.
"His Grace."
The voice, low and measured, broke his reverie. He turned.
Fawziya stood beneath the shadow of the arched walkway, her long robe whispering against the tiles. She was one of the estate's most senior stewards; her dark braids streaked with silver, her presence cloaked in quiet dignity. Fawziya was a woman of few words, her silence often heavier than most men's speeches. Today, however, her voice bore a deliberate weight.
"There is someone who wishes to speak with you," she said almost as a whisper. "Someone who knew your father. Someone who owes your family a debt long unspoken."
Tariq's brow furrowed. "Who is it?"
Fawziya's gaze flicked toward the outer garden. "He waits at the orchard. He asked for you. Only you."
---
The orchard lay behind the estate, hidden beyond the formal gardens and rarely visited. Once, long ago, it had been a private haven for Zahra's late father; a place for quiet contemplation and political retreat. Now it was wild, overgrown with fig trees and fragrant myrtle, forgotten by most but never truly abandoned.
Tariq walked the winding stone path, heart beating with a cautious rhythm, until he reached the twisted trunk of an old fig tree. There, half-shrouded in leafy shadows, stood a man with his back turned. A wide-brimmed turban obscured his features.
"Tariq Aslan or shall I refer to you as Your Grace? ," the man said without turning, his voice low but unmistakably steady. "You walk like Rafiq. Slow. Certain."
Tariq stilled. "You knew my father?"
The man stepped forward, finally revealing a face lined with the wear of sand, sun, and secrets. His eyes were dark, sharp. Watchful. Wise.
"My name is Samir," he said. "I served as your father's courier during the Southern Trade Wars. He saved my life more than once. He is a good man. This meeting" he paused, pulling out a leather-bound file from his satchel, "is my debt paid in part."
Tariq's guard rose instinctively. "Why would you think we are in danger?"
Samir handed him the file, gaze unwavering. "Because in Nuradrah and the political capital of Siraj, the walls always have ears and some of them report directly to the palace. That folder contains proof. Evidence of Prince Kamal's covert ties to Nadim Kareem. The same Nadim your wife fled from in Doha."
Tariq's breath hitched. " Nadim? They're aligned?"
"Not explicitly," Samir replied, voice tightening. "But Nadim funds several of Kamal's ventures quietly, through fronts and shell corporations. Zahra's refusal wounded Nadim's pride. She ruined his image. Now, he seeks influence in another way."
Tariq opened the folder. Inside were meticulously organized receipts, encrypted message logs, meeting schedules, some of them alarmingly recent.
"This… this is dangerous," Tariq whispered.
Samir gave a thin smile. "So is silence."
---
That evening, long after the estate had gone quiet, Zahra sat in the library beneath the dim glow of brass lanterns. Scrolls, maps, and the documents lay sprawled before her like puzzle pieces of a fallen dynasty.
"Nadim's reach," she murmured, tracing a finger over one of the seals, "It never ended. He's still watching. Still pulling strings."
Tariq placed a hand on hers, grounding her. "It will be fine but we have enough to make a move. But if we go too soon…"
"We lose everything," she finished.
Her eyes met his. No longer the eyes of a woman on the run. But a queen in her own right.
"Then we build an alliance," she said. "One the prince and Nadim won't see coming."
" And I know just the right set of people."
---
Within hours, messages were dispatched each one disguised in plain sight. Tucked into books placed back on mosque shelves. Hidden within prayer rugs in forgotten corners of old districts. Hand-delivered by merchants who owed Zahra favors from long ago.
Zahra summoned three allies from her past:
Liyana Saad, once a cultural minister, now a firebrand activist. She was razor-tongued, strategically brilliant, and utterly fearless.
Rashid Qadir, a reclusive cybersecurity genius who had once erased an entire village's criminal record to protect them from elite exploitation.
Malik el-Bashir, an old confidant of her father. A man known not for loud speeches but for the quiet diplomacy that had ended three tribal wars.
They arrived cloaked in the anonymity of night. No security. No entourage. Just purpose.
In Zahra's private tea room, heavy with the scent of cardamom and fresh mint, the meeting began.
"We have one mission," Zahra began, her tone crisp. "Uncover and expose the web binding Prince Kamal to Nadim Kareem. No spectacle. Just undeniable, unshakable truth."
Rashid leaned over the folder, his eyes scanning quickly. "This is undisputed. But we will need digital proof. Real-time verification. I'll encrypt a trail. Track every step."
Liyana nodded, eyes narrowing. "Once we're ready, we release it our way. Through our networks. No leaks. No panic. We own the narrative."
Malik raised his teacup. "To truth," he said solemnly. "But more so to caution. Shake a palace, and it either crumbles... or crushes."
The next several days passed in a blur of shadows and movement. Quiet meetings under false names. Calls routed through encrypted lines. Every night, Zahra and Tariq reconvened in the rose-lit garden wing, exchanging intel in murmured tones beneath the moonlight.
Their marriage once wrapped in suspicion and necessity had evolved into something unbreakable. Their unity was no longer forged in secrecy, but in shared defiance.
And still, the threat drew nearer.
New guards appeared near the outer walls of the estate. Their faces were unfamiliar, their silence unsettling. They didn't answer to Zahra.
Someone was watching.
But they refused to cower.
They chose courage. They chose each other.
---
At dawn, a courier arrived bearing a small wooden box.
It bore no official seal. Only the inscription:
To The Widow of Crimson.
Zahra opened it in silence. Inside was a scarf; deep crimson, hand-stitched with gold thread.
She unfolded it gently.
Along the edge, in fine Arabic script, was a single phrase:
"A veil can hide the truth or protect it. Which will you choose?"
There was no signature. No emblem.
But Zahra didn't need one.
She knew who just who it was from.
Nadim had found her again and this time she will let him find her.
If it is a confrontation he wants , it is a confrontation he will get. She will not run.
Not anymore.
Cliffhanger
With the walls closing in, Zahra must choose between bold exposure or calculated strategy. One move could secure her future…
Or end it.