The morning stretched slowly over the palace gardens. The shadows faded, chased away by golden light. Through the tall sculpted marble windows, Assad silently observed the gentle dance of leaves in the wind. But his mind was elsewhere, captive to thoughts too heavy for such a beautiful morning.
"You still haven't gone to see him?"
Laila's voice, soft and firm, broke the silence.
He didn't turn around. He would recognize that voice among a thousand.
"I wanted to wait until he wakes up," he replied simply.
She stepped beside him, her hands clasped in front of her. She too looked at the gardens, but her thoughts were turned inward, toward the heart of the palace.
"The doctor came at dawn. He says his condition remains concerning. He's holding on, but he weakens a little more each day."
Assad nodded slowly. He knew. Every time he stepped into his father's chambers, the strength of old seemed more distant. The gaze of the old Sheikh, once piercing, was now veiled by an exhaustion Assad dared not name.
"He's waiting for you," Laila added. "Even if he doesn't say it."
So he nodded, wordless. Together, they left the room, their footsteps echoing on the pale tiles. The silence between them wasn't empty: it was filled with unspoken truths, memories, and a shared worry neither of them would ever confess.
---
The old Sheikh's chambers were bathed in the dim light filtered by drawn curtains. The scent of incense lingered in the air, familiar and soothing. The old man lay on his grand carved bed, his features hollowed, his breathing slow but steady.
When Assad entered, he opened his eyes with difficulty, but a flicker passed through them.
"Assad..."
"Father."
He stepped closer without a word and knelt beside him. The old man studied him for a moment, as if still measuring the stature of the son who had become a Sheikh.
"Have you thought about what I told you... yesterday?"
Assad didn't answer right away. He lowered his eyes. Of course, he had thought about it. But the answer wasn't simple. Not for him.
"I'm still thinking about it," he murmured.
The old Sheikh gave a brief, almost imperceptible smile.
"You're like me… You carry everything, even what isn't yours to bear."
Assad looked up, surprised. The old man slightly turned his head toward him.
"I know, Assad. I know the chains you drag behind you like ghosts. These four years you spent here, wandering the halls like a shadow, avoiding gazes, punishing yourself… I saw it all. Even when you thought you were alone."
Assad felt his throat tighten.
"You think it's your fault. That if you had been faster, stronger, more... something, the tragedy wouldn't have happened. That you could have saved him. That your place was in the ashes, not in this palace. But it's time, my son... it's time to stop dying slowly for what fate stole from you."
The Sheikh's breathing became shorter. He paused, closed his eyes, then opened them again with effort.
"You were eighteen, Assad. Eighteen, and the world collapsed beneath your feet. Even I don't know if I would've stood tall in your place. I sent you away to protect you, to give you time… but it wasn't enough. Some wounds can't be healed by running from them."
He inhaled slowly, as if every word tore away a fragment of his strength.
"I saw you come back, but never truly return. You walked these halls like a ghost. You sat at the table of the living with a heart haunted by the dead. It was more than mourning, Assad. It was an inner exile. And I resented you, at times. For shutting yourself away, for refusing to speak. But today, I see clearly. That silence was your way of surviving."
He reached out a hand, weak but determined, and placed it over his son's.
"But now… you must live. Truly. Not for me, not for this throne, not even for those you think you need to fix. Live for yourself, Assad. For what you love, for what you desire, not just for what is expected of you."
The old man's gaze wavered briefly, then settled with rare clarity.
"Pain has shaped you. But don't let it define you."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with things no words could truly express.
Then, gently, almost out of rhythm:
"The daughter of Al-Rami… Zeyneb. She comes from a great lineage. Noble, educated, respected throughout the provinces. A woman like her... would strengthen your position. She would understand your role. Your obligations."
Assad froze. He heard, yes. He even understood. But his mind, in that precise moment, was not in that room.
It was somewhere else.
A memory flashed through him like lightning: a falling veil, a frightened gaze, tousled hair. A name never spoken here, but one that echoed within him with brutal clarity.
Nahia.
He straightened slowly, hiding the storm within his heart. His father was already asleep, exhausted by the effort of those few words.
Assad stayed a moment longer, watching him. Listening to the slow breath of this man who, even weakened, remained a mountain in his memory.
Then he rose, silent, and left the room.
But in the corridor with its red carpets, as his steps brought him back toward the duties of the palace, one truth followed him:
He couldn't run from this choice forever. And the decision he would make… would forever alter the fragile balance between duty, power… and love.