[AMAL POV]
Around us, the memorial service was winding down. People embraced, shared final prayers, and began to drift toward the exits. But I noticed that some remained—perhaps a dozen individuals who seemed to be waiting for something.
"The others are leaving," I observed.
"Yes," Ghada said. "The memorial is over. But the real meeting is about to begin."
She looked at me expectantly, and I realized this was another test. I could leave now, claim I needed to return to my duties, and report what I had learned. Or I could stay and discover what the "real meeting" entailed.
"I'll stay," I said.
Once the casual mourners had departed, the atmosphere in the room changed completely. The remaining people—mostly women, and Old Samir—arranged themselves in a loose circle. Amina stepped forward, her earlier maternal demeanor replaced by something harder, more commanding.
"Sisters," she began, her voice carrying easily through the room, "and you, old friend," she nodded to Samir, "we gather tonight not just to honor Najwa while she still draws breath, but to ensure her sacrifice—and the sacrifice of all who suffer under tyranny—has meaning."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. I noticed that several of the women had their hands positioned near concealed weapons—knives, I assumed, hidden beneath their robes.
"The attack on the warehouses was just the beginning," Amina continued. "The Whispering Sands have shown us what's possible when we stop accepting oppression and start fighting back."
"What are you proposing?" asked a woman I didn't recognize.
"Tomorrow night, the prince's father is hosting a feast for visiting dignitaries. The palace will be full of nobles, merchants, and foreign ambassadors. All of them complicit in the system that keeps us enslaved."
"What are you proposing?" asked Ghada, her voice tight with anticipation.
"It's the perfect opportunity to send a message they can't ignore," Amina replied.
My blood turned to ice. They were talking about attacking the feast—possibly assassinating the sultan himself. The scale of what they were contemplating was staggering.
"How many of us would die in such an attempt?" asked another woman.
"Does it matter?" Amina's eyes blazed with determination. "Our deaths would inspire others. The whole kingdom would rise up. The age of tyrants would end."
"Easy words when you're asking others to die for your cause," muttered someone from the back.
"I'll die alongside you," Amina shot back. "We all will. That's what makes this different from the coward's way—petitions and prayers that change nothing."
Samir nodded from where he sat, his weathered hands gripping his walking stick. "The girl speaks truth. I've seen too much suffering to believe in mercy from tyrants."
The debate continued, but I was no longer listening. My mind was racing with the implications. If they succeeded, even partially, the royal family would respond with unprecedented brutality. Every servant in the palace would be suspect. The executions would number in the hundreds.
And Najwa would be among the first to die.
"What would you have us do?" Ghada asked suddenly. "Those of us who want to help but... have responsibilities?"
"Everyone has a role to play," Amina replied. "Some will carry weapons. Others will gather information. Still others will ensure escape routes remain open."
"Information?" I found myself asking.
"Guard rotations. The layout of the feast hall. Which nobles will be present and where they'll be seated." Amina's eyes met mine. "Kitchen staff would be perfectly positioned to gather such intelligence."
The room fell silent. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, waiting for my response. This was the moment—the point where I would either fully commit to the deception or find some way to escape.
"I..." I began, then stopped. Through the single window of the room, I had seen something that made my heart stop.
A flicker of movement on the roof of the adjacent building. The brief reflection of moonlight off metal.
We were being watched.
"I need to think about this," I said quickly. "It's... it's a big step."
"Of course," Amina said, though I detected disappointment in her voice. "But don't take too long. Tomorrow night may be our only chance."
The meeting began to break up, people departing in small groups to avoid suspicion. I lingered, pretending to help Ghada extinguish the candles, but really watching the window. The watcher was still there—a dark silhouette against the stars.
As I finally left the servants' quarters, my mind was churning with conflicting loyalties and impossible choices. The rebels were planning something that could destroy the kingdom, but their grievances were real. The royal family was brutal and oppressive, but the alternative seemed to be chaos and bloodshed.
And somewhere in the palace prison, Najwa was counting on me to save her life—a life that hung by an increasingly thin thread.
I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the figure stepping out of the shadows ahead of me. I stopped abruptly, my hand instinctively moving to the small knife I kept hidden in my robes.
"Peace, Amal," said a familiar voice. "It's only me."
Khalil emerged from the darkness, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He wasn't wearing his usual advisor's robes—instead, he was dressed like a common servant, his face partially covered.
"My lord," I said, bowing my head. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm sure you didn't." He moved closer, and I caught the scent of leather and steel. "Walk with me. We have much to discuss."
We walked in silence through the palace corridors, past sleeping guards and empty chambers. Finally, Khalil led me to a small garden courtyard where a fountain bubbled quietly in the moonlight.
"Tell me about the meeting," he said without preamble.
I recounted everything—Samir's plans, the proposed attack on the feast, the recruitment of servants to gather intelligence. As I spoke, Khalil's expression grew darker.
"Tomorrow night," he repeated when I finished. "You're certain?"
"That's what he said."
"And they want you to provide information about the feast?"
"Guard rotations, seating arrangements, that sort of thing."
Khalil was quiet for a long moment, staring at the fountain. "This is worse than we anticipated. If they attack the feast, with foreign dignitaries present..."
"It would be seen as an act of war?"
"It would be seen as terrorism. The sultan would have justification to crush not just the rebellion, but any hint of dissent throughout the kingdom." He turned to face me. "How many people were at the meeting?"
"Twelve, maybe fifteen."
"Not enough for a full assault. They must be planning something more subtle—poison, perhaps, or a single assassin."
"What should I do?"
"You'll attend the feast tomorrow night. As a kitchen servant, you'll have access to the entire hall. You'll watch for any sign of the rebels' plan and report immediately to either myself or Farah."
"And if they discover I'm a spy?"
"Then you'll die. But if you don't stop them, hundreds of innocent people will die, including every servant in the palace." His voice was grim. "The choice is yours, Amal. But choose quickly."
As if summoned by his words, a figure appeared at the courtyard entrance. It was Farah, moving with her characteristic silent grace. She approached us with urgent steps.
"My lord," she said, bowing to Khalil. "Forgive the interruption, but there's news from the city."
"What kind of news?"
"The warehouses weren't the only target. The rebels also hit the tax office and the main armory. They took weapons, gold, and..." She paused, glancing at me uncertainly.
"Speak freely," Khalil commanded.
"They freed the prisoners from the city jail. Including several men who were arrested for questioning about the rebellion."
"How many escaped?"
"Forty-three. Including some who were scheduled for execution."
Khalil cursed under his breath. "They're building an army. And tomorrow night, they'll have the perfect opportunity to strike at the heart of the kingdom."
"There's more," Farah continued. "One of the escaped prisoners was seen near the palace. The guards think he might be trying to make contact with sympathizers inside."
"Who?"
"A man named Yusuf ibn Marwan. He was a merchant before his arrest, but our sources say he's been coordinating rebel activities in the capital."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Yusuf ibn Marwan—Ghada's father, the man she had said was executed for tax evasion. He was alive, and he was here.
"My lord," I said carefully, "there's something else you should know. Ghada—the girl I told you about—her father was supposedly executed two years ago. But his name was Yusuf ibn Marwan."
Khalil and Farah exchanged glances. "You're certain?" Khalil asked.
"That's what she told me. And she's been one of the most vocal supporters of the rebellion."
"Then we have our connection," Farah said grimly. "The girl's father is coordinating with the rebels inside the palace. Tomorrow night's attack will be a coordinated assault from within and without."
"We need to arrest her immediately," Khalil said.
"No," I said quickly. "If you arrest her now, the others will scatter. We'll never know the full scope of their plan."
"Then what do you suggest?"
I took a deep breath, knowing that what I was about to propose would put me in even greater danger. "Let me get closer to her. If her father is here, she'll try to make contact. I can follow her, find out where the rebels are hiding."
"It's too dangerous," Farah protested. "If they suspect you..."
"They won't. My reputation from trying to escape three times before is admirable to them." I looked between them.
Khalil studied me for a long moment. "You realize what you're asking? If you're discovered, we can't protect you. You'll be on your own."
"I understand."
"Very well." Khalil's voice was formal now, official. "You'll continue your infiltration of the rebel cell. But at the first sign of immediate danger, you'll report to us immediately. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord."
As I walked back to my quarters, I felt the weight of the decision I had made. I was now a double agent, trusted by neither side, walking a razor's edge between loyalty and betrayal. One wrong word, one suspicious glance, and everything would collapse.
But as I reached my small room and prepared for sleep, I heard something that made my blood freeze: the sound of quiet footsteps in the corridor outside, stopping at my door.
Someone was listening.
I lay perfectly still, barely breathing, as the footsteps eventually moved away. But sleep was impossible now. Tomorrow night, the fate of the kingdom would be decided. And I was the only one who could prevent a massacre.
I barely slept that night, every creak of the palace walls making me start awake. The footsteps outside my door had eventually faded, but the knowledge that someone had been listening gnawed at me like a physical wound. By dawn, I had convinced myself it could have been anyone—a guard making rounds, another servant unable to sleep, perhaps even a cat stalking through the corridors.
But doubt is a poison that spreads through the mind, and by the time I made my way to the kitchens for the morning meal preparation, I was jumping at shadows.
"You look terrible," Fatima observed as I stumbled through the doorway, my veil slightly askew. "Are you ill?"
"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, which was true enough. "Too much on my mind."
She nodded sympathetically. "We're all on edge. The whole palace feels like a pot about to boil over." She gestured toward the main preparation area, where servants were already busy chopping vegetables and kneading dough. "At least we have the feast to keep us occupied. Nothing like feeding a hundred nobles to take your mind off your troubles."
The feast. In all the chaos of the previous night, I had almost forgotten that today was the day of the planned attack. Somewhere in the palace, Amina and her cell were making their final preparations. Somewhere else, Khalil and his guards were planning their counter-measures. And here I was, caught between them like a grain of sand between two grinding stones.
"Amal!" Yasmin's voice cut through my thoughts. "Come help with the spice preparations. We need to get the lamb seasoned before the morning prayers."
I spent the next several hours lost in the familiar rhythm of kitchen work—grinding spices, preparing marinades, checking the great ovens that would roast the meat for tonight's feast. The physical labor was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my mind, and for brief moments I could almost forget the dangerous game I was playing.
But then Ghada appeared at my elbow, her face flushed with excitement.
"Amal," she whispered, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "I need to speak with you. Privately."
My heart began to race. "What about?"
"Not here. Meet me in the herb garden during the noon rest. It's important."
She melted back into the crowd of workers before I could respond, leaving me to wonder what new complication had arisen. The herb garden was a small courtyard behind the kitchens, rarely visited except by the cooks gathering fresh ingredients. It would be private enough for whatever Ghada needed to discuss.
The morning dragged on with agonizing slowness. I watched the sun creep across the sky, marking the passage of time toward whatever revelation awaited me. When the noon call to prayer finally echoed through the palace, I slipped away from the kitchens and made my way to the herb garden.
The space was smaller than I remembered, barely large enough for a dozen people to stand comfortably. Raised beds lined the walls, filled with mint, parsley, and other cooking herbs. The air was thick with their scent, almost overwhelming in the afternoon heat.
Ghada was already there, pacing nervously between the beds. But she wasn't alone.
A man sat on a low stone bench in the corner, his back to me. He was dressed in the simple robes of a servant, his head covered against the sun. But there was something about his posture, the way he held himself, that suggested he was not what he appeared to be.
"Amal," Ghada said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I want you to meet someone very important to me."
The man turned, and I found myself looking into a face that was both familiar and strange. He was older than I had expected, perhaps fifty, with gray threading through his dark beard. His eyes were the same brown as Ghada's, but they held a weariness that spoke of years of hardship.
"This is my father," Ghada said, tears streaming down her face. "Yusuf ibn Marwan."