The prince's office was vast and silent, bathed in a soft light filtering through immense windows.
Behind a heavy desk of dark wood, a man stood tall, draped in a spotless white tunic without a belt. His tall and majestic figure commanded natural respect.
Assad ibn Khalil.
Before entering, Amira had asked Amaya to remain in the palace courtyard. She would go alone with Nahia to the prince's office. The young woman had agreed without protest, sensing the importance of what was about to unfold.
Amira opened the door and stepped in, followed by Nahia, who kept her head bowed, hidden beneath a dark veil.
A long silence hung in the room.
Amira bowed slightly, then spoke in a respectful yet firm voice:
— Your Highness... this young woman has important things to tell you.
Assad did not respond immediately. His cold, penetrating gaze slid toward Nahia, unable to make out the features of her face.
His voice, deep and commanding, sliced through the silence:
— I like to see the face of those I speak with.
Nahia felt her heart skip a beat. She instinctively clutched her veil tighter, her eyes still fixed on the floor. Then, slowly, she shook her head in refusal.
Amira gently placed a reassuring hand on her arm and murmured:
— You have nothing to fear from him, Nahia.
A shiver ran down the young woman's spine.
Hesitant, almost clumsy, she slowly lifted her head.
She felt the weight of his gaze before even meeting his eyes.
And when she did, time held its breath.
Beneath the black fabric, two unforgettable eyes met his: one a deep green, the other a pale, almost translucent blue.
Heterochromatic eyes.
Mysterious. Wild. Untamed.
Assad appeared frozen.
A silent shock vibrated in the air.
Never had he seen such a vision.
This veiled stranger, hiding a treasure beneath modest cloth, carried within her a haunting beauty, like a forbidden secret.
His heart clenched against his will, beating faster.
But his face remained impassive. Cold. Expressionless.
He forced his voice to stay icy:
— Your name.
— Nahia, she answered in a breath.
The silence thickened.
Assad narrowed his eyes slightly, observing her for a long moment.
Then, in a curt tone:
— Speak.
Trembling, Nahia told everything. The abandoned house. The voices in the night. Nabil Al-Fayez. The villages allied with the plot. The planned date for the attack.
Assad did not move. He listened, unreadable.
When she finished, a chilling silence fell once more.
He was still staring. As if weighing every word.
Then, in a harsh voice:
— You will stay here.
A beat.
— Until I decide what to do with you.
Nahia's eyes widened, surprised, almost confused.
But Assad had already turned, disappearing into the shadows of an adjacent corridor without looking back.
And yet, in the darkness of his mind, the image of those strange, burning eyes remained etched.
Unforgettable.
Incomprehensible.
Undesirable.
And despite himself, he knew: something had been ignited in that silent exchange.
Something he refused to name.
---
In the stone-walled corridor, Assad ibn Khalil's footsteps echoed with authority. He walked without a word, hands clasped behind his back, absorbed in thought.
Reaching one of the arches overlooking the outside, he paused briefly. The warm evening breeze gently lifted the ends of his white tunic.
Without turning, he addressed a guard standing nearby, his tone calm but unquestionable:
— Send for Amira. Tell her to place the girl in a room in the servants' wing.
The guard bowed immediately, then hurried off.
Assad remained motionless for a while, his gaze lost in the distance.
He said nothing more.
But in his silence, something had shifted.