The next morning, while the palace suffocated under a dull tension, Assad was summoned by the inner council.
In the private audience chamber the atmosphere was heavy with almost tangible gravity. High dignitaries, draped in their long embroidered tunics, exchanged measured glances as Assad took his place at the center of the room.
In the front row sat Nabil Al‑Fayez, the Sheikh's personal advisor for over twenty years. He was a man with a patrician bearing, his elevated posture accentuated by a carefully trimmed beard. His reputation for eloquence and subtle maneuvers was well‑known; no one ignored the quiet influence he wielded in the halls of power.
Since childhood, Assad had always felt an instinctive mistrust of this man. He had learned over the years to read behind the polite smiles, to perceive the bitter undercurrent behind flattering promises. His father, though slow to speak of it, had given him a clear warning:
"Do not trust those who speak too softly."
Nabil inclined his head respectfully, a perfectly calibrated bow, then spoke in a voice as smooth as honey:
— Your Highness, he said, no one here is unaware of how delicate the situation is.
He paused, letting his words float in the heavy air.
— Our beloved sovereign is a man of iron. We pray for his rapid recovery.
Assad, expressionless, responded with a brief nod. He felt some of the gazes—worried, others calculating—pressed upon him.
Nabil continued, his tone contrived with cautious civility:
— However, in these troubled times, it would be imprudent to rush a transition. The country needs an experienced hand to guide it. Your training, while promising, is not yet complete, Your Highness. We humbly suggest waiting… until His Majesty regains his strength and continues your preparation.
A murmur of approval, discreet yet perceptible, swept through the assembly. Glances were exchanged, heavy with unstated implication. Some nodded subtly, others kept their eyes lowered in complicit silence.
Assad let a chilling silence settle. He stared at Nabil intensely, reading in his dark eyes not the concern of a loyal servant, but fear—refined, disguised fear from a man whose interests were slipping away.
Each word, every breath of the advisor revealed his true nature.
Drawing in a deep breath, Assad felt a quiet strength growing within him. When his voice emerged, it was calm yet infused with new authority:
— My father taught me that authority is not asked for. It is taken when duty demands it.
He straightened, dominating the room with his burning gaze.
— Every counsel he gave me, every trial he set for me, was not so that others could dictate my legitimacy… The time has come.
He swept the room with a slow glance, meeting each dignitary's eyes.
— Those who fear the prince's inexperience fear, above all, the end of their influence.
A heavy silence fell over the assembly. Some averted their eyes; others, more seasoned, stood motionless, their faces masking unspoken thoughts.
Nabil's gaze flickered for a fraction of a second—a tiny beating of wings that only Assad, trained to observe the invisible, perceived.
With a polite smile, the advisor bowed again, more deliberately this time, weighing every gesture:
— We are your devoted servants, Your Highness…
In that moment, Assad knew the most perilous battle would not be fought on a battlefield. No. The real danger lurked in the palace corridors, in sidelong glances, in hushed whispers behind closed doors.
---
The day stretched on in a slow agony of heat and doubt. When night draped its veil over the palace, an unreal torpor claimed the halls. The corridors, steeped in chiaroscuro, vibrated with an almost supernatural stillness, as though the very walls held their breath.
Assad, unable to sleep, wandered barefoot through the familiar maze. His simple dark tunic blended into the shadows. For days, insomnia had become his bitter ally—a suspended space where he could hear his tumultuous thoughts away from prying eyes.
He walked aimlessly, letting his steps guide him. His hands lightly brushed the cold marble columns, anchoring himself to the tangible world while his mind wrestled with the gnawing anxiety within.
In a remote wing of the palace, reserved for administrative quarters, he spotted an anomaly: a door slightly ajar. At this late hour, every door should be closed, sealed. The watchers ought to be guardians of the throne, not its betrayers.
Assad slowed. His instinct, sharpened by years of silent observation, prompted him to press himself against the wall and melt into the darkness. He held his breath, listened.
Inside, two voices rose, muffled but clear in the hush of the night.
— "…The prince is young, too young. He is pliable. Not ready," said one voice Assad recognized immediately: Nabil Al‑Fayez.
Cold blood rushed through Assad's veins. He stepped forward, every word reaching him with crystalline clarity.
— "But if he is crowned as planned, he will be harder to control," murmured another, rougher voice—a captain of the guard.
A frigid shiver crawled up his spine. The guard. His supposed protector—now complicit.
— "We must act before he is officially enthroned," Nabil resumed in a stern tone. "The kingdom cannot afford a weak sovereign. And many old supporters of the Sheikh remain… some may accept another heir if we know how to persuade them."
A sordid, muffled laugh echoed within the room.
— "An 'accident' is so easy to stage, especially in these troubled times…"
Each word struck Assad like a blade in his chest. His blood boiled, yet he forced himself to remain still, silent. He retreated slowly, vanishing into the darkness without a sound.
His heart pounded—not from fear, but from righteous anger. From certainty.
---
Back in his chambers, he locked the door behind him and leaned against the heavy wood, closing his eyes to quiet the storm within. His mind replayed each word, each intonation, each breath he'd caught.
The mask had fallen. He now knew exactly what his instincts had been telling him for days:
He could trust no one.
From this moment, he must act in the shadows—quicker, more cunning than his enemies. Strike before they set their trap.
To become what his father had always known he would be:
Not a docile heir,
but a Sheikh.
A Sheikh born in solitude
and forged in betrayal.