The long-awaited day had dawned over the palace of white stone, bathed in golden light. In the shadow of the crenelated walls, the gardens exhaled a soft scent of jasmine and fresh earth. Every fountain whispered like a discreet murmur, and in the air floated a contained excitement: the servants were bustling, and everywhere, fresh flowers had been arranged to celebrate the coronation.
Nahia walked with measured steps along the rose-lined paths. Her sister Amaya, a basket of gardening tools in hand, followed her cheerfully. Since arriving at the palace, the two young women had volunteered to help beautify the gardens for this exceptional day.
Even though they were neither servants nor gardeners, they worked with care, eager to be of service.
"Just one more flowerbed and we can go get ready," Amaya whispered, brushing aside a brown lock that had slipped from her veil.
Nahia smiled, knelt before an old gnarled rosebush, and began cutting a stubborn thorn. Her gloved fingers pulled cautiously, but a thorn caught the fabric. With a sigh, she tugged a little harder, and the branch suddenly gave way. The momentum sent her forward, slipping on the damp gravel.
A silent cry left her lips. The stone basin, with its hard edges, rushed toward her.
But she never hit the ground.
A strong, steady hand caught her wrist. In the span of a heartbeat, she was pulled against a solid chest that absorbed the shock of her fall.
Everything seemed suspended. The sound of the wind in the leaves, the voices of gardeners in the distance, even the inner turmoil in her heart.
When she looked up, she met a gaze of almost translucent light gray. Her breath caught.
Prince Assad.
He said nothing. Not even a word of surprise. His noble, stern face was perfectly impassive.
Nahia felt heat rise to her cheeks beneath her veil. She quickly pulled back, withdrawing her wrist from his hand as if burned.
"I... thank you," she stammered, ashamed of her clumsiness.
Assad remained still for a moment, his hand still suspended in the air, hesitating. Then, in a low, almost cold voice:
"Be careful."
And without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared among the fragrant hedges, leaving behind a troubling emptiness.
Amaya, who had seen everything, came running.
"It was the prince!" she whispered, eyes shining. "He saved you, Nahia!"
Nahia placed a hand on her chest. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. But she forced a smile and resumed her work, though her hands now trembled slightly.
She felt nothing precise for him... But she knew that moment would remain etched in her memory.
---
The entire palace vibrated with anticipation. Murmurs filled the air: today, a new sovereign would be crowned.
The throne room overflowed with restrained excitement.
Under the stark light filtering through the windows, the marble floor gleamed like a silver lake. Dark tapestries flapped faintly against the stone walls. A sea of tense faces filled the room — lords in dazzling tunics, foreign dignitaries with cold stares, silent servants standing against the columns.
At the back of the hall, beneath a crimson velvet canopy, the ancestral throne loomed, imposing. At its base, a low platform awaited.
When Sheikh Khalil appeared, a collective breath passed through the assembly.
He moved slowly, leaning on a heavy carved ebony cane. The weight of illness bent his once-broad shoulders; his ceremonial robe seemed to float around a body grown too frail.
But his eyes still shone with fierce strength.
Assad stood a little behind, with his mother Laila and his sister Yasmina by his side. He was upright, draped in a black tunic embroidered with gold, his hand clenched around the hilt of his scimitar.
The Sheikh reached the platform. A soldier discreetly stepped forward to offer his arm, but Khalil waved him off with a proud gesture.
When he turned to the assembly, the silence became absolute.
He spoke with a veiled but powerful voice, each word rolling like a drumbeat in the tense silence.
"For decades, I have worn this crown. I have ruled this land in peace and in blood. I have been this people's shield... and sometimes, its sword."
A faint ripple passed through the crowd.
Khalil drew a difficult breath, leaning more heavily on his cane.
"But man is not eternal. And I... I feel that the time is near when my weakened hands will no longer hold the sword."
His gaze swept over the crowd, grave and dignified.
"For many months, while illness confined my body to bed, it was my son — Assad — who led this country. Quietly. Loyally. With a firmness I never demanded, but which he made his own."
Nahia's eyes, somewhere among the palace women, instinctively found the black, upright silhouette of the prince.
Sheikh Khalil lifted his chin slightly, defying the weakness threatening his voice.
"I do not pass on just a crown. I entrust Assad with something more precious than gold: the fate of our people."
For a moment, his gray eyes, now clouded by illness, rested on his son. In that look, there was pride... and a silent pain.
"Assad ibn Khalil, step forward."
The prince ascended the platform slowly, each step echoing in the solemn silence.
Kneeling before his father, he bowed his head.
Khalil placed the crown — heavy and magnificent, adorned with enamel and dark steel — upon his son's bowed head.
"By the will of the heavens and of men, I proclaim you Sovereign of this land."
A respectful murmur rippled through the assembly.
When Assad rose, he was no longer the prince.
He was the Sheikh.
The new ruler stood still for a moment, head slightly bowed, as if savoring the weight of the moment.
Then he lifted his gaze — pale gray, cold eyes — and faced his people.
He spoke.
His voice, deep and resonant, filled the hall.
"People of the desert and the oases... People of the mountains and the plains...
"Ten years ago, I was still a young man. Reckless. Impulsive. Weak."
He let a heavy silence fall.
"Many doubted I could one day walk in my father's footsteps. Many still whisper, in the shadows, that I am not ready."
His gaze swept the crowd with icy determination.
"Today, I stand before you. Not as the young man I once was, But as the man forged by these years of trials."
A wave of emotion moved through the crowd.
"I no longer have the naivety of my past. I no longer have the arrogance of youth. What I possess now, I built in silence, in pain, in duty."
His voice dropped, vibrating with unwavering resolve.
"I am your Sheikh. I will be your shield against the storms. Your sword against your enemies. Your flame in the darkness."
He extended his hand, palm open to his people.
"To those who stand with me, I will give my life. To those who betray me, I will give my wrath."
Then Assad concluded, his voice filled with glacial solemnity:
"Today marks the end of an heir... And the birth of a sovereign."
Under the silent vaults, Assad stood motionless for a moment, the crown still cool against his brow.
His gaze swept the crowd without flinching, until it met Khalil's.
The Sheikh, frail but upright on his seat, stared at him with the same gray eyes, their look unreadable — pride, sorrow, perhaps a silent farewell.
An invisible breath seemed to pass between them.
A final exchange.
A final transfer.
Not of imposed power, but of accepted weight.
Assad bowed his head slightly — in respect, in gratitude, in oath.
Then he turned.
Beneath the gold and purple drapes, he descended the marble steps, his footsteps echoing like war drums.
Not to walk toward glory.
But to walk toward his people.
A light breeze lifted the curtains.
Day broke, flooding the palace in bright, white light.
And in this irreversible morning, an heir bid farewell to the prince he once was.
And a sovereign was born.