Nahia gently closed the door behind her. Dawn was barely filtering through the curtains when the rustle of fabric made her jump.
Amaya was already awake, sitting on her mattress with her arms crossed.
— "Where were you?" she asked, her voice more worried than angry.
Nahia paused, her breath still laced with the silence of the garden. She avoided Amaya's gaze, the words stuck on her lips.
— "I couldn't sleep… I needed to walk a bit. I sat in the garden and… time slipped away."
Amaya raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
— "Uhm."
She said nothing more. Silently, she tied her veil, grabbed her cleaning bucket, and left.
When the door closed behind her, an irrepressible smile spread across Nahia's lips. She kicked off her sandals, bounced lightly in place, and spun around like a child. She felt light. Almost… free. Her heart was pounding, but she still refused to name what she was feeling.
It wasn't just joy. It was a turmoil, a warmth, a presence still alive within her: Assad's deep voice, the calm of the lake, that strange sensation of having been… seen.
She eventually calmed down, washed, put on her tunic, and headed to Sheikh Assad's quarters.
There, calm reigned.
She didn't have many tasks anymore.
For several days now, she hadn't been assigned laundry or the long hours of dishwashing in the kitchen. Her schedule had been lightened, without any explanation.
But she wasn't fooled.
She knew it was Sheikh Assad's doing.
She cleaned each room with care, focused, her movements precise. Until only one door remained: the Sheikh's office.
Standing in front of it, she hesitated, then knocked softly.
— "Come in," said the familiar deep voice on the other side.
She entered, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her. As she stepped into the room, a weight fell onto her shoulders. Her heart still remembered the night before. But her mind reminded her of the obvious: he was a man of power. And she… just a servant.
— "Peace be upon you, Sheikh Assad," she murmured, without lifting her gaze.
She knew better than to try reading the emotions of those who hold authority.
Assad, seated behind his desk, was staring at her. His gaze fixed on her, his jaw tight. He didn't understand what was happening inside him—and refused to name it.
Since the night before, this discreet, almost invisible woman had occupied his thoughts. Not for her words or actions. But for what she awakened in him: a fracture. A dissonance.
He stood, took a few steps toward her. Then stopped abruptly.
— "Why do you keep hiding behind that veil?" he asked, his voice irritated.
Nahia stiffened. The question struck her right in the heart. She remained silent. It wasn't her place to justify what she wore.
— "I've seen you before," he continued, more calmly. "Your hair… your eyes… This isn't the first time. So why keep hiding?"
She didn't answer. But her hands were trembling slightly.
He stepped closer.
— "Look at me, Nahia."
She froze.
No. That was exactly what she avoided. Meeting eyes. Letting others see what she wanted to keep hidden. Her strangeness.
— "Look at me," he insisted, more gently.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes to him.
And Assad was struck. Again. By the duality of her gaze. One blue eye, the other green. A strange beauty. Almost unsettling. He couldn't look away. And it annoyed him.
He took her chin between his fingers, not harshly. Just enough to stop her from looking away.
— "If only…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Abruptly, he let go of her chin, turned on his heels, and left the room. As if fleeing something. Someone. Or himself.
Nahia stood there, speechless. Silence fell like a curtain.
It took her a while to move. Then slowly, she lowered her head.
Of course. He had fled. Because she had dared to look him in the eyes. Because he had seen what she had always hidden.
He must think I'm a witch… First my hair, now my eyes…
She should have kept her eyes down.
She hurried through the rest of her work. And left without even checking if he had come back.
She walked straight to the gardens, her throat tight.
He was going to get married anyway… With a woman of his status. Me, I'm nothing. Just a servant… with eyes that make men run.
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.
That day, she decided to silence her heart.
---
Assad had taken refuge in the empty corridor. He leaned a hand against the wall, his breath still unsteady. He closed his eyes, Nahia's image burned behind his eyelids.
He had fled.
No, not out of cowardice.
But because he knew… that if he had stayed one second longer, he would have crossed a line he had sworn never to even approach.
That invisible thread between them… It was taut. And it would've taken just one word, one sigh, one touch…
Since the night by the lake, something had awakened in him. Something buried, denied, repressed.
That laugh she had drawn from him… spontaneous, clear… He couldn't even remember the last time he'd laughed like that. Maybe before Samir's death.
Before the world collapsed.
Before he became what he was today: a man of stone.
And there, by the water, with her… he had felt his heart beat again.
This morning, seeing her retreat back into silence, hidden, veiled again, the distance had returned. Brutal. Cold.
He had thought… that she trusted him.
He had thought… he had crossed a boundary.
But she had shut herself off again. And that… that had driven him mad.
Not just with desire. But with frustration. Fear. Helplessness.
And when she had lifted her eyes to him… that mismatched gaze, that haunting strangeness… it was too much.
Too much for a man who had sworn never to love again.
He had felt his control slipping.
So he fled.
Because fleeing… was better than falling.
He walked for a long time, arms crossed behind his back, his steps echoing through the empty halls.
You can't. You're not allowed. You mustn't.
He thought of Samir. Of that lost brother he hadn't been able to save. Of that silent promise he had made: to live for two. To carry his memory.
And how… how could he allow himself to be happy… when Samir had never had the chance?
He stopped in front of an alcove, eyes closed.
He knew the solution.
He knew what he had to do to smother this fire before it consumed everything.
He summoned his steward.
— "Tomorrow morning," he said in a dry voice, "prepare a delegation. We'll go make the official proposal for Zeyneb Al-Rami's hand. Send gifts worthy of her father. Everything must be impeccable."
He added, almost to himself:
— "Even if she told me to wait for her answer… I can't afford to anymore."
The steward bowed. Without asking questions.
Assad remained alone for a moment longer.
Then he raised his eyes toward the invisible heights of the palace.
Forgive me, Samir.
He turned on his heels.
And walked.
Straight.
Cold.
Empty.
That day, Assad buried his heart for the second time.
And without knowing it, he had just set in motion a storm he would no longer be able to stop—
a fire no prayer could ever extinguish.