Dawn had barely stretched over the palace domes, yet already the wide stone courtyards buzzed with activity.
Under Assad's sharp commands, soldiers gathered, tightening belts and adjusting weapons.
The air smelled of leather, sweat, and hot dust stirred by motion.
The horses pawed the ground, restless and snorting.
Assad stood tall on the stone terrace, watching his troops fall into formation.
His travel tunic — plain linen and brown leather — contrasted with the usual richness of his princely attire.
This morning, he was no heir.
He was a war leader.
— Check your flasks, your blades, and your nerves! — a captain barked, his voice cracking through the cold air.
At his side, three of Assad's most loyal officers waited to receive final instructions.
Assad took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the reddish horizon.
Out there, beyond the dunes and barren mountains, lurked the threat that darkened his future coronation: Nabil Al-Fayez, the treacherous former counselor.
— We leave in an hour, Assad declared firmly.
— The road will be harsh. Two days' march. No long halts. We'll approach the village from the east, circling around the Wind Dune. Then we set up quietly. No one must alert our targets.
A murmur of approval passed between the officers.
— And the villagers? one asked.
— They have nothing to do with our quarrel, Assad replied without hesitation.
— They must remain unharmed. Our fight is with Nabil and his men only.
The officers nodded in respectful silence.
They all knew Assad wished to be a just ruler.
This battle would be the first stone in the foundation of his reign.
---
An hour later, under the rising scorching sun, the column set out.
A hundred men, spears slung over shoulders, bows strapped to their backs, climbed the great dunes with slow but steady steps.
Their silhouettes slowly merged into the golden desert.
The journey was grueling.
Burning days. Freezing nights.
They marched at dawn and dusk, resting only briefly in rare patches of shade.
Sand found its way everywhere: in boots, beneath armor, gnawing at skin and patience.
Assad, always leading, set the example.
He never complained. Never slowed down.
On the second evening, as the sun's final rays kissed the dunes, the village finally appeared.
Nestled at the foot of the red mountains.
Thirty modest adobe houses lined a dried stream.
The soldiers halted at a safe distance, hidden behind a sandy ridge.
Assad gestured for his captains to gather close.
— Look closely, he murmured, pointing to a dark cleft in the rocky wall behind the village.
— The cave. Is that where they're hiding?
A veteran captain with salt-and-pepper beard nodded slowly.
— Yes, that's their den, Your Highness.
— And the villagers?
— They go about their business. Either unaware or pretending not to see.
Assad pondered.
Every move had to be calculated.
A brutal attack might cause panic.
— We strike at nightfall, he said.
— Silently. We surround the cave. No one escapes.
---
When the moon rose, pale and cruel above the mountains, Assad's men were ready.
The signal came with a simple gesture.
Two fingers raised.
The soldiers scattered in silence, like shadows weaving between rocks.
Their footsteps whispered over the sand, muffled by their dark robes.
Assad, flanked by his best men, crept toward the mouth of the cave.
He could already see the glow of a fire deep inside, voices echoing off the stone.
Nabil Al-Fayez and his men suspected nothing.
Assad slowly drew his short sword.
The damasked steel seemed to drink the moonlight.
A whistle sliced the air.
The first arrow lodged in a sentry's throat.
He dropped without a sound.
In one motion, Assad and his men stormed the entrance.
A man charged with an axe.
Assad dodged, drove his blade under the ribs.
A groan. Blood.
— Forward! — he roared.
The cave erupted into savage chaos: metal against metal, cries of pain.
In the narrow space, the battle was raw. Reflexes. Fury. Survival.
Assad parried a blow, elbowed back, slit the man's throat.
His soldiers pushed on, shields raised.
Then Nabil appeared.
Sword in hand. A beast's roar.
Gaunt. Fierce. His eyes still sharp with cunning.
He hurled himself at Assad.
Their blades clashed.
Assad held his ground.
They measured each other. Then the deadly dance resumed.
Nabil struck with desperation. Assad, with resolve.
He feinted, slashed the thigh. Hit the temple.
Nabil dropped to his knees.
Silence.
His men threw down their weapons.
Assad stepped forward.
— You betrayed your sheikh, your people, your honor.
Nabil spat on the ground.
Assad turned away.
— Chain him. He and his dogs will face judgment.
---
Outside, under the moonlight, the squad awaited.
No serious injuries. Total victory.
The villagers hadn't stirred. Assad had kept his word.
The traitors, dusty and bruised, were dragged out of the cave.
Assad climbed onto a rock.
— What we've done here is not only for us.
— It is for the peace of this kingdom. For our children. For our honor.
A deep murmur answered.
As dawn broke, Assad lifted his gaze to the sky.
Soon, he would return to the palace.
Soon, he would be sheikh.
But tonight, he was simply a man who had fulfilled his duty.
And in the sacred silence of the desert…
That was all that mattered.