The next morning, the palace was bathed in a soft, golden light, filtered through the large, sheer curtains.
The scent of warm bread and mint tea floated in the air, enveloping the vast dining hall in a familiar warmth.
Assad sat at the table. His face was closed off, his features drawn. Dark circles underlined his eyes, betraying a sleepless night haunted by ghosts.
Yasmina, his younger sister, watched him from the corner of her eye, a teasing spark shining in her hazel gaze.
"Hey, big brother, did you fight a bear last night?" she teased softly, laughing.
Those dark circles… it looks like you got punched in your dreams!
A fleeting, almost imperceptible smile brushed Assad's lips. But he said nothing.
Their mother frowned. She gently set down her cup, her soft voice tinged with concern.
"Assad, my son… Are you ill? You look so pale. Your eyes…"
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze.
"It's nothing, Mother. Just travel fatigue. And… jet lag."
He forced a smile, then distractedly poked at his plate without much conviction.
At the other end of the table, his father was flipping through a newspaper absentmindedly. His calm demeanor contrasted with the anxiety hanging around the table.
Assad briefly lifted his eyes. He met the sharp, piercing gaze of the patriarch. For a moment, he felt as if his father saw everything. Every flaw in him. Every shadow.
The man slowly folded his newspaper, set it beside his plate, and said in a grave voice:
"After lunch, Assad.
Come to my office.
I need to talk to you."
It was neither an order nor a request.
It was a fact.
Inevitable.
Assad nodded. His stomach tightened.
---
The meal ended in a mixture of light conversations, muffled laughter… and creeping shadows.
Assad ate little. His mind was already elsewhere.
As he climbed the stairs to the upper floor, each step seemed heavier.
In front of the heavy door of his father's office, he took a deep breath. Then he knocked softly.
"Come in."
His father's voice was calm but firm.
Assad pushed the door open.
The office was spacious, bathed in light dimmed by heavy curtains. Shelves bowed under leather-bound books. On one wall, a huge ancient map of the country displayed its faded hues.
His father stood facing the window, hands crossed behind his back.
"Sit down, Assad."
He obeyed without a word, taking a seat in a worn leather armchair opposite the massive desk.
Silence. The only sound was the discreet ticking of an old clock.
Then his father turned. His dark, impenetrable gaze.
"You know why I called you back."
"Yes, Father."
"Good."
He sat, folding his hands as if in prayer.
"Time is not on our side.
The country is unstable.
Alliances are fragile.
Enemies, numerous."
He paused.
"In two months… at the great assembly… you will have to officially present yourself as my successor."
Assad's heart skipped a beat.
He had always known this moment would come. But hearing it spoken aloud… was different.
"Two months.
That's all we have.
Two months for you to learn to govern."
Assad swallowed hard.
"I will do my best."
A sad smile touched his father's lips.
"Your 'best' won't be enough, Assad.
Not here."
He rose, approached the bookshelf, and absentmindedly stroked the leather bindings.
"I will teach you the history of our people.
The fault lines.
The games of shadow and light."
He turned toward him, eyes shining with a hard gleam.
"You will have to read politics as one reads poetry: between the lines.
Guess the betrayal before it blooms."
He stepped closer to the desk, leaning slightly.
"Here, a smile can kill more surely than a sword.
A word whispered during a banquet can topple an empire."
Assad listened, tense, absorbing every word like a sacred law.
"We have allies. Enemies. Neutrals.
You must dance with each without ever showing your true face."
He pulled a key from a drawer, placed it on the desk.
"It opens the old wing of the library.
You will find secret archives there.
Forgotten treaties.
Broken oaths."
Assad took the key, clutching it in his palm like a talisman.
His father continued, quieter:
"The task is immense.
You will stumble.
You will doubt.
But you are not alone."
He paused.
"I am here.
Your mother too.
And this people, even if they do not know it yet… need you."
Assad lowered his eyes. A bitter emotion tightened his throat.
He saw again the faces at dinner at Samir's parents'.
The poor light.
The wobbly table.
The younger brother, thin. Silent.
A broken dream.
A stolen future.
And he… had contributed to this wreck.
He raised his head. His gaze was different.
"I will learn, Father.
I will know."
His father looked at him long, then nodded.
"Then come."
He pointed to a large map against the wall: a detailed map of the country, its tribes, its resources.
"Let's begin."
---
Days passed like a heavy breath on the skin.
Every day, Assad sat to his father's right, in the large halls bathed in golden light, where the kingdom's decisions were made.
He attended strategic meetings. Economic conferences. Military councils.
He listened. Watched. Absorbed.
His father taught him everything.
The unwritten laws of the desert.
The silent alliances between tribes.
The betrayals masked by smiles.
"A leader has no right to make mistakes," he repeated.
"One wrong step, and an entire people falls."
Assad endured. He resisted. Even when exhaustion carved his features. Even when the weight of knowledge threatened to crush him.
And he understood.
Their country had no vast fertile plains.
Its wealth lay underground.
Oil. Rare minerals. Coveted resources.
Foreigners in smooth suits and wide smiles roamed ceaselessly.
"They want everything, Assad," his father had whispered to him.
"Our lands.
Our traditions.
Our souls, if possible.
Give them nothing."
It was no longer a question of ideals.
Power was a cold war. Permanent. Relentless.
And Assad, made wary by the foreigner, felt a new armor growing within him.
---
His life became mechanical.
Up at dawn. Lessons. Meetings. Dinners. Study vigils.
The only moment of respite: standing by his bedroom window, gazing at the city spreading out like a trembling carpet of light.
But even then, duty never left him.