The night had cast its dark mantle over the palace, wrapping its ancient walls in solemn silence.
The hallways seemed to hold their breath, the very stones frozen under the weight of stories too old to be whispered.
In her chambers, Laila sat upright and still in a chair carved from shadows and light. Her gaze was lost in the uncertain dance of the flames in the fireplace. Around her floated a sweet and familiar scent — spices mingled with orange blossom — a comfort that failed to ease the dull heaviness in her chest.
What she had seen that evening… she could not forget.
Assad, her son. The cold and unshakable man, master of an inner kingdom few dared to enter. And yet, before a mere servant with ebony hair and a humble gaze, he had acted… without thought, driven by a rare, almost human impulse.
Laila had always known her son carried storms within him. But never had she imagined that a fragile girl could unlock those secret tempests.
A soft, almost timid sound pulled her from her thoughts. Yasmina, her daughter, stepped into the room barefoot, as if not to disturb the gravity of the moment.
— "Mother… you're still awake?" came the gentle voice.
— "How could I sleep?" Laila replied in a whisper.
Yasmina knelt beside her, resting her head lightly on her mother's knees — an old gesture, full of tenderness.
— "I saw it too," she said at last. "Assad… he was afraid. Not for himself, not for us. For her. For Nahia."
The name drifted through the air like both a promise and a threat.
Laila sighed, heavy with memories.
— "She's just a servant… How could he come to feel anything for her?"
Yasmina slowly lifted her eyes, her gaze soft yet firm.
— "She may be just a servant to the world," she murmured. "But she has a heart. A light. And sometimes, it's those we think most insignificant who stir the hardest of souls."
"She doesn't try to uncover his secrets. She is simply… herself. And perhaps that's the most dangerous thing of all."
A silence settled, full of all the things left unspoken.
— "Mother… give him a chance. Let him choose."
Laila looked at her long and hard, then slowly took her daughter's hand.
— "Did you see his eyes?" she asked softly. "They weren't just filled with fear. There was something else. Something I haven't seen in a long time."
Her gaze darkened.
— "When I look at Assad, I see his father. Not the man the world admires today — cold and impenetrable — but the one he once was. That man who could love without restraint, to the point of becoming dangerous."
She paused, bitten by her own memories.
— "Your father protected himself, built a fortress of ice around his heart. He thought being a ruler meant suffocating his feelings. And I watched him… slowly fade from within."
Laila's eyes gleamed with extinguished rage.
— "Assad grew up in that shadow. He believed that strength meant never showing weakness. But by burying his emotions, he's burying himself."
She leaned closer to Yasmina, her voice trembling.
— "And I… I let him. I never showed him he had the right to be weak. To be afraid. To love."
A cruel world, Laila thought.
— "Tonight, I saw the child he could have remained, falter, hesitate, act on instinct to protect another lost soul. My heart shattered and rejoiced all at once."
She fixed her gaze on Yasmina.
— "This may be his only chance. His only escape."
— "Then we must act… before his wounds grow too deep," murmured Yasmina, her eyes full of gentleness.
Laila nodded with a soft sigh.
— "Yes, but it will take time. He'll protect himself, hide behind fear, and sometimes refuse to face what hurts."
She gently caressed her daughter's cheek.
— "I'll speak to him."
— "Be gentle, Mother," Yasmina pleaded.
— "I won't be a queen. I'll be his mother."
With a slow and steady step, Laila left the room.
In the darkened corridors, the torches cast towering, dancing shadows. The servants turned away in silence, honoring the solemnity of the moment.
Arriving before the heavy doors of Assad's quarters, she stopped.
One beat. Two beats.
She knocked softly.
— "Enter," came Assad's voice — dry and distant.
The door opened to reveal a man standing, facing the night.
The wind made the curtains sway as if they were dancing with ghosts.
He didn't turn right away, but he knew.
— "You came," he said at last, his voice low, without warmth.
She closed the door behind her, stepping forward slowly.
She observed her son: straight back, tense shoulders, every movement burdened with invisible weight.
He had changed, hardened. But to her, he was still the child she had never known how to protect.
— "I saw what you did tonight," she said gently.
A twitch passed through Assad's jaw. He didn't respond.
— "I saw. I understood. You're afraid, Assad. Not of us, not of the throne, not of the banquet. You're afraid of what you feel."
A heavy silence.
Finally, he turned around.
His gaze was hard, but his eyes betrayed a hidden vulnerability.
— "It was nothing," he whispered. "A reflex."
She stepped closer.
— "It was not nothing."
She stopped two meters away — close enough to hear his breath, far enough to leave him a way out.
He looked away, toward the garden swallowed by darkness.
— "She means nothing to me," he added coldly. "A servant. An incident. It's over."
A sad smile touched her lips.
— "You can keep telling yourself that… But I saw your heart beat."
He clenched his fists.
— "My heart has never mattered, you know that. Here, it's alliances, battles, power. Not feelings."
His voice trembled with restrained anger.
— "Is that what you want life to be? Just survival? Wearing a mask until it consumes you?"
He stared her down, a mix of pain and defiance in his eyes.
— "I learned to survive. That's what you taught me."
The blow struck deep. She wavered inside.
— "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I stole the best part of you trying to protect you."
He lowered his head, wounded by words he refused to accept.
— "I don't have the luxury of love," he growled. "Not here."
— "Then build that world, Assad," she whispered firmly. "Build a world where you can breathe."
A suspended moment.
Laila placed a hand on his tensed arm.
He wanted to step back, but stayed frozen — like a drawn bow ready to snap.
— "It's not her you fear," she murmured. "It's yourself."
He closed his eyes, tense.
— "Give yourself a chance. Just one. Before it's too late."
A long silence.
Then, without a word, Assad turned away, gently pulling back.
— "Good night, Mother," he murmured, voice dimmed.
Laila felt her heart shatter, but she did not show it.
She stepped back slowly, dignified, and crossed the doorway.
As she closed the door, a breath — almost inaudible — reached her.
A whisper.
A prayer.
— "Thank you."
Laila's fingers trembled against the wood.
But she did not return.
She left her son alone with his demons.
For the first time in a long while, a seed had been planted in that stone heart.
And sometimes, even in the most arid of soils, some seeds still manage to bloom.