The sun hung high in the sky when the heavy palace gates opened before Assad's procession.
The prince, dusty and stained with dried blood, rode at the front of his men. His mount, weary, struggled beneath him. But Assad held his head high. Proud. Resolute. That of a leader who had fulfilled his duty.
In the grand courtyard, soldiers, servants, and advisors rushed forward as soon as they spotted the convoy.
The news had preceded their return: victory over Nabil Al-Fayez. The messengers had carried the rumor faster than the wind.
People stepped aside respectfully, murmuring prayers as they passed.
Triumph was here.
Assad did not stop.
He dismounted in one smooth move, handed the reins to a squire, and strode swiftly through the palace. His boots struck the marble slabs.
His black cloak, fringed with dust, trailed behind him like a shadow.
---
In the throne room, Sheikh Khalil awaited him.
Upright. Steady despite the illness that had plagued him for months. He held a carved cane in his hand, but his gaze… it shone with a bright spark.
When Assad knelt, sword still at his waist, his father inclined his head slightly and spoke in a low but firm voice:
— Rise, my son.
Assad obeyed.
Khalil's gaze lingered on him. Proud. Moved.
— You have done what a sovereign must do. With honor. With wisdom. Nabil Al-Fayez and his accomplices will no longer trouble our people.
A solemn silence fell over the room. Only the distant sound of fountains disturbed the air.
Khalil continued slowly:
— In two days, the ceremony will take place. You will become Sheikh before the elders, the tribes, the people. Prepare yourself, my son. The weight of the crown is heavy... but I know it will not break your brow.
Assad lowered his head slightly. Something kindled within him. The fire of responsibility.
---
In the palace gardens, life buzzed with fevered activity.
Among jasmine hedges and clear fountains stood Nahia and her little sister Amaya, busy with the rose bushes. They were now living in the palace and took part in the preparations joyfully.
— Hold the basket, Amaya! Not like that! laughed Nahia as she gathered white lilies.
Amaya burst out with a crystalline laugh. Her black hair caught the sunlight.
All around them was frenzy.
The seamstresses worked, arms full of fabrics. Gardeners cut the finest branches. The kitchens rang with conversations about the feast to come.
And everywhere, whispers spread like a discreet rain:
— He's back… Assad has returned victorious…
— Have you seen him in the courtyard? Already like a king…
— He will be magnificent at his coronation…
Nahia remained silent. She occasionally looked up when her name was whispered. Her gaze drifted almost mechanically toward the shadow of the prince between two columns or beneath an archway.
She didn't know him. Not really.
But she watched.
Not with admiration. Nor affection.
With curiosity alone.
Like someone observing a storm on the horizon: quiet, unpredictable, perhaps dangerous.
— Nahia, look! exclaimed Amaya. They're bringing the fabrics for the dais!
Nahia smiled. She returned to her work.
These coming days would change everything.
She did not yet know.
---
In the palace's north wing, Assad stood alone on his terrace.
The sky was ablaze. Gold. Purple. A sea of fire suspended above the world.
In two days, he would no longer be simply a son.
He would be a guide. A judge. A protector.
The wind carried the scent of flowers. A laughter rose, light, somewhere in the gardens.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
And that fragile laughter imprinted itself on his memory like a hidden promise amid the tumult.
---
The Eve of the Coronation
The palace vibrated with an almost electric energy.
Corridors buzzed with voices, hurried steps, excited whispers.
In the kitchens, pots boiled without rest. Spices danced in the air. Warm bread. Golden meats.
Stewards shouted, arms waving.
Everything had to be perfect.
In the gardens, final lanterns were hung. Silk ribbons draped among the branches. The fountains, meticulously cleaned, chimed.
Under an old almond tree, Nahia and Amaya arranged armfuls of flowers.
Their cotton robes floated gently.
They worked alongside other young girls. All were weaving garlands for the royal dais.
— Careful, Amaya, murmured Nahia. These are the flowers for the ceremony…
Amaya nodded, cheeks pink with nerves.
All around, whispers continued:
— Do you think he's still asleep?
— He is so impressive…
— When he passes by, it's as if the world holds its breath…
Nahia listened without replying.
She observed without joining in. She sensed Assad's aura, that cold, almost distant presence. But it stirred neither turmoil nor warmth in her.
She saw him. That was all.
He was there, a fact. A name carved into the air.
And she, she was just a shadow among flowers.
---
In his chambers, the prince stood before a mirror.
His ceremonial tunic, black and embroidered with silver thread, waited on the bed.
He stared at his reflection.
Without really seeing it.
Outside, the sky was dark. Thousands of stars. A silent weight.
An immense weight.
One day. And everything would change.
He inhaled deeply.
A gentle knock sounded at the door.
— Your Highness, whispered a servant. Sheikh awaits you.
Assad slipped on a light tunic and walked out.
---
His father stood near the window. A warm rug covered his legs.
He was flipping through an ancient book.
— Come forward, my son.
Assad kneeled.
The Sheikh raised a trembling hand. Touched his cheek. Gently.
— Tomorrow, you will wear the crown. But remember...
He fixed him with clear eyes.
— It is not the gold of the diadem that makes a Sovereign. It is the weight of his choices. The courage to listen… even to those who go unheard.
Assad lowered his head.
These words. He would engrave them in his soul.
— You will not be alone, Khalil continued. The blood of your people runs in you. You will carry their hopes. Their fears. Their love.
A thick, deep silence followed.
Then Khalil handed his son a carved ring.
— Wear this tomorrow, Assad.
---
Late at night, the palace fell slowly asleep.
Voices died away. Corridors emptied.
But in a quiet corner of the garden, Nahia still sat, her basket forgotten.
She looked up toward the tall tower.
A faint light still shone.
Somewhere up there…
He watched.
And without knowing why, she continued to watch. Not out of desire. Nor affection.
Simply… by instinct.