The sky was still dark, but the palace had already awakened.
Assad had risen alone. Not because someone had called him, but because sleep had abandoned him. As if this night had rejected him. Perhaps the ones to come would too.
In the shadow of his chamber, he put on a black shirt, smooth and impeccable, like donning a uniform before a long march. Each button was fastened slowly, precisely, almost ceremonially. There was no urgency, only a sharpened awareness: this morning carried weight. It was neither an official farewell nor a day of war. But it was a threshold.
The palace, usually vast and infinite, seemed to have contracted. The corridors echoed with muffled whispers. Servants moved like shadows. The physician drifted between rooms, pale and silent. Even the air seemed suspended. Something was about to give way.
When Assad entered his father's chamber, the dim light drew fragile contours around the former Sheikh. He was not seated this time. He lay on a stretcher. Draped, ready. His back was no longer straight as before. But his gaze remained unbent. Lucid. Alive.
He saw his son and offered him a rare smile — whole, unmasked, stripped of protocol. A smile from man to man.
— Assad, he said simply, his voice hoarse yet firm.
Assad stepped closer without a word. This was not an exchange. It was a passing. He was not there for orders, nor promises. He was there because it was his place. Because there was no other place to be.
The old man extended his hand. Assad took it. Firm. Present.
— I leave you neither testament nor directives, he said. Only what I have placed within you. That will be enough.
Assad nodded slowly. He made no vow. But his silence was clear: he understood.
The former Sheikh continued, more slowly:
— To govern is not to speak loudly. It is to listen when everything is silent. To stand when everything pushes you to bend.
A pause. Then:
— And about Zeyneb… I do not ask you to love. I ask you to respect. Not for her. For yourself.
Assad did not avert his eyes. He received every word. This was not advice. It was a reminder.
They fell silent. And in that silence, Assad felt the weight of the world settle slowly on his shoulders.
— I do not fear what awaits me, said the former ruler at last. And neither should you. If I do not return, remain upright. If I do return, I want to see your head held high, not bowed.
He paused. Then, almost as a confidence:
— But I will try to return.
Assad tightened his grip. He said nothing. But the promise was made.
The door opened softly. Yasmina entered in silence.
She had not wept. Yet her eyes shone with fragile light, a blend of tenderness and courage.
The old man opened his arms. She came to him gently. She rested her forehead against his chest, as if that single gesture could stop time.
— I will take care of the palace, she whispered. And of Assad too. Even if he will never say it, he will need someone to watch over him.
The old man nodded, his features at peace. He had nothing more to add.
Yasmina lifted her head, pressed a kiss on his cheek, and slowly withdrew. Every movement measured, as though not to shatter the moment.
A servant announced Laila. She entered, straight, with the Sheikh's mantle folded in her arms.
But that mantle would never be worn again.
She stopped at the foot of the stretcher. Her husband lay with half-closed eyes. She did not look at him long. Today, it was not him she had to speak to.
She turned her gaze to her children.
— I will go with him, she said. Because that is my place. And because I could not live waiting for his return within these walls.
Her eyes lingered on Yasmina. She stepped closer and drew her gently into her arms. A firm embrace, heavy with restrained tenderness.
Then, in a whisper so low even Assad could not hear:
— Take care of your brother. Even if he pretends to need no one.
She pulled away reluctantly. Then stepped toward Assad.
She lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled only faintly as they caressed her son's cheek. A simple gesture, yet charged with all the words left unspoken through the years.
Her eyes darkened, then softened.
— I hope you will be happy, Assad. And that you will know how to be a sovereign… and a just husband.
She lingered there, a moment longer. As if she wished to hold the instant in her palm. Then she withdrew.
The attendants appeared, discreet. The stretcher was lifted. The procession descended the stairs in silence.
Yasmina followed to the porch. Assad too.
Outside, the sky was paling. A faint white light spread across the stones of the courtyard. The ambulance waited. Engine quiet. Door open. Ready.
Laila climbed in, behind the stretcher. And before the door closed, she turned one last time.
Her gaze moved to Yasmina. Then to Assad. And once more to Assad.
She did not speak.
But everything she might have wanted to say was there, in her eyes.
Then the door shut. And the ambulance drove away. Silently. Carried into the first light of dawn.
Assad stood still.
Something within him had fractured. Not yet pain. Not yet a cry.
But a silent fissure. A wave coursing through him.
Yasmina watched him. Wordless. She felt it. She knew it.
This was not the passing of a torch. Not the assumption of power.
Assad was already the Sheikh. But in that gaze, in that departure, another inheritance had taken root.
More intimate. Heavier. The kind one does not see.
It was not triumph. It was not tragedy.
It was a soft fracture, but a real one.
An era had ended. And something invisible, immense, had settled on his shoulders.
Not a new title.
But solitude. A new depth to the burden he already carried.
He could no longer look back.
And now, more than ever, it was his to bear.