[AMAL POV]
As the afternoon wore on, the conversation drifted to other topics—the latest fashions from the capital, the upcoming harvest festival, the minor scandals that provided entertainment for women with too much time and too little real purpose. I participated with the appropriate level of interest, offering opinions when asked, laughing at the right moments, maintaining the facade of a woman whose primary concerns were social and domestic.
But my mind wandered to the book I'd been reading that morning—a treatise on governance that I'd found in the castle's library. It discussed the delicate balance between authority and consent, the ways that effective leaders managed to make people want to follow them rather than simply demanding obedience. The author had written extensively about the psychology of loyalty, the techniques that could be used to create genuine devotion rather than mere compliance.
I'd found it fascinating, not because I had any ambition to rule, but because I recognized the strategies described. They were the same techniques Idris used in his daily governance—the careful attention to individual needs, the strategic distribution of rewards and recognition, the way he made people feel seen and valued. He was, according to this book, an exemplary leader.
He was also, I realized with crystalline clarity, applying these same techniques to me. Every gesture of care, every moment of focused attention, every small kindness—they were all drawn from the same playbook he used to manage his subjects. I wasn't his wife so much as I was his most important diplomatic challenge, the foreign princess who needed to be successfully integrated into the kingdom's power structure.
The revelation should have been devastating, but instead, I felt oddly relieved. Understanding the game made it easier to play. I could provide the responses he needed without the exhausting effort of trying to earn something that was never really available.
"Your Highness seems deep in thought," Lady Mariam observed, breaking into my reverie.
"Just thinking about the baby," I said, which was partially true. "And about how much will change when the Prince returns."
"Change?" Lady Zahra asked.
"Well, he'll want to be involved in the preparations for the birth, I imagine. And once the baby arrives, there will be new responsibilities, new routines. Our life will be quite different."
"Different how?" Lady Fatima pressed.
I considered the question. How would our life be different? Idris would apply the same strategic attention to fatherhood that he applied to everything else. He would be present for the important moments, available for the crucial decisions, attentive to the child's needs and development. He would be, by any objective measure, an excellent father.
And I would continue to play the role of the devoted wife and mother, managing the domestic sphere while he managed the political one. We would present a united front to the kingdom, demonstrate the stability and prosperity that came from a well-ordered royal family. The child would grow up secure in the knowledge that both parents were committed to its wellbeing and success.
It would be a good life, measured by any reasonable standard. Safe, comfortable, purposeful. The child would want for nothing, and I would have the satisfaction of knowing I'd fulfilled my duties successfully.
"I imagine it will be very fulfilling," I said finally. "To build a family together, to watch our child grow and learn. To give the kingdom the stability it needs."
The ladies nodded approvingly. This was the response they wanted to hear—the princess embracing her role, looking forward to the future with appropriate optimism.
But that evening, as I sat alone in my chambers with my hand resting on my belly, I allowed myself a moment of honesty. I wasn't looking forward to Idris's return. I was dreading it.
Not because I feared him or disliked him, but because his presence would require me to resume the performance of being half of a loving couple. I would have to interpret his glances, respond to his moods, pretend that his attention mattered to me. I would have to watch him apply his perfect leadership skills to our domestic life and pretend I couldn't see the calculation behind his care.
The baby kicked, a strong movement that made me smile despite my melancholy thoughts
"Just you and me for now," I whispered to my belly.
The baby kicked again, as if in agreement, and I settled back into my chair to read. Tomorrow would bring more visitors, more well-meaning concern, more opportunities to play the role of the devoted wife missing her husband. But tonight, I was simply a woman alone with her thoughts and her unborn child, and that was enough.
The official correspondence arrived twice weekly, brought by military messengers who rode hard from the front to deliver updates on the campaign's progress. But it was the personal letters that created the most stir in the court—the private communications between a prince and his beloved wife that everyone assumed must contain tender expressions of love and longing.
If only they knew the truth.
"My Dear Amal," the letters invariably began, "I hope this finds you and the baby in good health. The campaign continues to progress according to plan, though I confess I find myself eager to return home to you both."
The words were perfectly crafted, exactly what a devoted husband should write to his pregnant wife. But I could see the same careful attention to audience that marked all his public communications. These letters weren't just for me—they were for the court officials who would read them, the scribes who would file them, the historians who would someday study them as evidence of the royal family's domestic happiness.
"I think of you often," he would continue, "especially in the quiet moments before dawn when the camp is still and I can imagine you sleeping peacefully in our chambers. I wonder if the baby is as active as before, and whether you're taking proper care of yourself in my absence."
I would read these passages aloud to the eager ladies who gathered around me, watching their faces soften with romantic satisfaction. They heard love in his words, the natural concern of a husband for his wife and unborn child. I heard something more clinical—the strategic management of a valuable asset, the careful maintenance of public perception.
"The weather has been favorable," he would report, "and the men's morale remains high. I expect to conclude our business here within the next fortnight, though I hesitate to make promises about timing when so much depends on circumstances beyond my control."
Always the careful leader, never committing to specific dates or outcomes that might later be used against him. Even in his personal correspondence, he maintained the habits of diplomacy.
"Please give my regards to Chancellor Khalid and Master Kaira, and assure them that I am taking all necessary precautions with my safety. I know they worry about my welfare, as I know you do."
This was the part that always made me pause. Did I worry about his welfare? I examined my feelings carefully each time I read these words, searching for the anxiety that should accompany news of my husband's dangerous mission. But all I found was a mild concern for the kingdom's stability and a vague hope that he would return unharmed for the sake of our child.
"I carry your letter with me always," he would conclude, "and find great comfort in your words of love and support. Kiss our child for me, and know that I count the days until I can hold you both again. Your devoted husband, Idris."
The problem with these conclusions was that my letters contained no words of love and support. I wrote exactly what was expected—reports on my health, updates on the baby's development, expressions of appropriate wifely concern—but I carefully avoided any language that might be interpreted as romantic affection.
"My Lord," my letters began, "I am pleased to report that both the baby and I remain in excellent health. Master Kaira continues to be satisfied with our progress, and I have been taking daily walks in the garden as she recommended."
I would describe my activities, my conversations with the noble ladies, the books I was reading, the music I was practicing. I would mention the baby's movements, the preparations being made for the birth, the prayers being offered for his safe return. But I never wrote "I miss you" or "I love you" or any of the tender phrases that wives traditionally included in such correspondence.
Instead, I ended my letters with careful formality: "I pray for your continued safety and the swift conclusion of your mission. The kingdom awaits your return. Your faithful wife, Amal."
The ladies who helped me compose these letters never seemed to notice their emotional restraint. They were too caught up in the romance of the situation—the noble prince fighting for his kingdom while his beloved wife awaited his return—to register the careful distance I maintained in my actual words.
"You write so beautifully," Lady Mariam said one afternoon as she helped me seal my latest letter. "The Prince must treasure every word."
"I hope my letters bring him some comfort," I replied, which was true. I did hope they served their purpose, providing him with the domestic stability reports he needed to maintain his focus on the campaign.
"You're so modest," Lady Fatima observed. "But surely you must express your feelings more... personally? In the portions you don't share with us?"
I looked at her carefully, wondering if she had begun to suspect something. "I prefer to keep our most private communications between us," I said, which was both true and completely misleading.
"Of course," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to pry. It's just that you seem so... composed. So controlled. If my husband were away at war, I would be beside myself with worry."
"Worry would serve no purpose," I said, folding my hands over my belly. "The Prince needs to know that his home is stable and well-managed. My duty is to provide that assurance."
"Duty," Lady Zahra repeated thoughtfully. "You speak of duty often."
"Because it's important," I said. "Love is a luxury. Duty is a necessity."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning I hadn't intended to reveal. The ladies exchanged glances, and I realized I had said something that didn't fit their romantic narrative of my marriage.
"But surely," Lady Mariam said carefully, "love and duty can coexist? The Prince clearly adores you, and you must feel—"
"I feel what's appropriate," I interrupted, my voice sharper than I'd intended. "I feel concern for his safety, gratitude for his care, and hope for his swift return. Those are the feelings that matter."
Lady Fatima leaned forward, her expression troubled. "Your Highness, forgive me, but you sound almost... distant. As if you're speaking of a stranger rather than your husband."
The observation was too close to the truth for comfort. I stood carefully, my hand pressed to my lower back where the baby's weight was creating constant pressure.
"I'm tired," I said, which was true. "The baby has been particularly active today, and I think I should rest."
"Of course," the ladies murmured, gathering their embroidery and preparing to leave. But I could see the concern in their eyes, the questions they were too polite to ask directly.
After they left, I sat alone in my chambers, staring at the letter I'd just sealed. Had I revealed too much? Had my careful emotional distance finally become visible to others?
The baby kicked, a sharp reminder of what mattered. I placed my hand over the movement, feeling the strong pulse of life beneath my palm. This child would know love—real, uncomplicated, unconditional love. Whatever performance I had to maintain for the kingdom's sake, whatever role I had to play as the perfect princess, I would make sure this baby understood the difference between duty and devotion.
"Your father will return soon," I whispered to my belly. "And everything will change. But I'll make sure you know what's real and what's performance. I'll make sure you understand the difference."
The arrival of Prince Idris's older brother, Prince Ali, created a stir in the court that I found both amusing and exhausting. He had come, ostensibly, to check on my welfare while his brother was away at war, but I suspected his real purpose was to ensure that the kingdom's domestic stability remained intact during the campaign.
"Sister," he greeted me with the formal warmth appropriate to our relationship. "You look radiant."
"Thank you, Your Highness," I replied. "Your presence brings great comfort during these trying times."
The trying times, of course, were purely theoretical. But I had learned to speak the language of appropriate feminine anxiety, to present the image of a devoted wife bravely bearing her husband's absence while carrying his precious heir.
Prince Ali was older than Idris by seven years, with the same dark eyes and strong jaw but a more relaxed bearing. Where Idris commanded through careful authority, Ali charmed through easy confidence. He was, I realized, equally skilled at managing people—he simply used different techniques.
"I bring news from the front," he said as we walked through the gardens, trailed by the usual retinue of attendants and ladies-in-waiting. "The campaign progresses well. My brother writes that he expects to conclude the business within the month."
"Excellent news," I said, my hand resting on my belly where the baby was shifting restlessly. "The kingdom will rejoice at his safe return."
"And you, sister? Are you eager for his return?"
The question was asked casually, but I caught the slight sharpness in his tone. Prince Ali was observing me as carefully as I was observing him, looking for signs of the domestic discord that could destabilize the kingdom's political structure.
"Of course," I said, injecting just the right amount of wifely longing into my voice. "These weeks apart have felt like years. The baby and I miss him terribly."
"I'm sure you do," he said, but there was something in his expression that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "The court speaks highly of your composure during this difficult time. They say you've been remarkably... steady."
Steady. The word carried weight I wasn't sure I understood. Was steadiness good or bad in a pregnant wife whose husband was at war? Should I be showing more anxiety, more obvious distress?
"I try to remain strong for the kingdom's sake," I said carefully. "His Highness needs to know that his home is secure and well-managed."
"Very admirable," Prince Ali said. "Though I hope you're not suppressing your own needs in service of such strength. It would be natural for you to feel... overwhelmed by the situation."
I studied his face, trying to read the subtext of his words. Was he suggesting that I should appear more vulnerable? That my composure was somehow suspicious?
"I have moments of worry, naturally," I said, allowing a slight tremor to enter my voice. "Especially at night, when the baby is active and I find myself wondering about his safety. But I try to channel such concerns into prayer rather than despair."
"Prayer is always appropriate," he agreed. "Though I hope you're also allowing yourself to rely on the support of those around you. The ladies of the court, Chancellor Khalid, Master Kaira—they're all here to help you through this challenging time."
"They've been wonderful," I said, and meant it. "I don't know what I would have done without their constant care and attention."
We walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the autumn air crisp against my skin. The baby was particularly active today, as if responding to the change in routine that Prince Ali's visit represented.
"May I ask you something personal?" he said suddenly.
I tensed slightly, but kept my expression neutral. "Of course."
"Do you love my brother?"