The Council Chamber was a vast ceremonial hall, more austere than luxurious, reserved for the most sensitive political meetings.
The walls were draped with heavy sand-colored curtains, and tall windows allowed the golden desert light to filter through, softened by thick linen veils.
Assad ibn Khalil was already there, standing before the large oval table of dark wood, his hands clasped behind his back.
His face, usually impassive, was that evening marked by a cold tension.
One by one, his closest advisors entered, bowing respectfully before taking their seats.
There were seven of them: all men of mature age, loyal… or at least supposedly so.
The prince let a heavy silence hang in the air, observing each of them with sharp attention.
Among them, he thought, there might still be shadows loyal to Nabil Al-Fayez.
He couldn't afford a single mistake.
If he revealed too soon what he knew, Nabil would be warned, and their chance to crush him would be lost.
So Assad decided to proceed with caution.
Before revealing anything, he would lay an invisible trap.
He cleared his throat lightly and said in a calm voice:
— My lords, I've summoned you tonight to discuss a matter of internal security.
It seems a rumor is circulating about possible unrest in some southern villages.
Nothing is confirmed. It might just be tension due to recent taxes... or something else.
He deliberately left the ambiguity hanging.
His gaze swept across the table: none of the faces flinched.
Too well controlled.
He continued, still in a neutral tone:
— I ask you to remain discreet. If these rumors were to spread, it could cause panic.
I count on your loyalty, as always.
The exchanged glances were solemn.
But Assad knew: if a traitor remained among them, he would take the bait.
After the meeting, his spies would intercept any messengers, monitor all correspondence.
One misplaced word, one suspicious move, and the mask would fall.
This time, there would be no escape.
As the advisors exchanged cautious pleasantries, Assad glanced quickly at one of his personal guards posted by the door.
A nearly imperceptible signal — a slight movement of the hand — was enough.
The guard bowed slightly in response before discreetly leaving the room to relay the secret order.
The plan was in motion.
In the shadows, his loyal spies — selected from his own men, faithful for years — had been tasked with watching, intercepting, listening.
Every whisper, every carrier pigeon, every attempted message would be tracked.
Assad had planned everything:
Access to the stables would be filtered.
Passages to the lower city discreetly locked down.
Even the servants who had approached the council members would be under watch.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing was to escape his control.
He turned back to his advisors, his face as serene as the surface of calm water.
— In two days, he announced, we will summon the village leaders for an official gathering. I want the situation clarified as soon as possible. Until then, keep this among us.
He emphasized the last words heavily, observing each of their reactions.
Some nodded eagerly. Others barely moved.
One or two subtly looked away.
Assad withheld a cold smile.
The game had begun.
---
In the silent palace corridors, as night began to drape the desert in its shadowed veil, the prince's spies spread out.
They weren't dressed in black like assassins from old tales.
No.
They were invisible.
Ordinary servants, administrative assistants, apprentice soldiers — no one suspected their true loyalty.
Their mission was simple: listen, observe, report.
Any suspicious behavior, any hushed conversation was to be relayed without delay.
---
In the guest wing, a young clerk dragged his documents with clumsy care, seemingly absorbed in his copies.
But his ears caught everything:
The murmurs between two counselors.
The heavy silences.
The exchanged glances.
---
In the kitchens, a maid — invisible to all eyes, so insignificant she seemed — moved about, basket in hand.
She wasn't there to deliver bread.
She was observing.
She took mental note of who spoke to whom, and especially who seemed tense.
---
Meanwhile, in the heart of the stables, a guard loyal to Assad intercepted a crumpled piece of paper that a stable hand was trying to discreetly pass to a cavalryman.
The paper simply read:
"He knows. Act quickly."
No signature. No named recipient.
But Assad had every reason to be satisfied: the proof of a mole was in his hands.
---
At dawn, as the sun stretched its first pale rays across the burning dunes, the spies' report was placed directly in the prince's hands.
The document was thin — barely a few pages — but each line was a ticking time bomb.
Assad read them slowly, methodically.
Names appeared.
Some of his counselors had sent messages.
Others had held late-night meetings in the rear gardens.
And one name, in particular, came up multiple times, tied to signs of unrest and secret communication.
A counselor Assad had already noticed looking slightly away the day before.
Samir Ibn Wallyd.
The prince set the reports down on his desk, clasped his hands before him, and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
The trap had sprung.
But he still had to play carefully.
If he struck too soon, he might lose the trail of Samir's accomplices.
He had to wait, pull the rope tighter…
Then strike all at once.
---
At that moment, a soldier knocked gently at the Council Chamber door.
— Enter, said Assad without opening his eyes.
The soldier stepped in, bowed deeply, then declared:
— My lord, the Council awaits your presence.
Assad slowly opened his eyes.
The moment had come.