The following days passed like a warm, suspended, almost fragile dream.
But little by little, something in the air began to crack.
Amira no longer returned.
Not even for a few stolen hours.
Not even to drop off a sack of food or offer a tired smile.
In her place, anonymous messengers sometimes left a basket at the door.
Without a word.
Without a glance.
Just enough to last a few days.
A new silence had settled. Heavier. More anxious.
Nahia said nothing.
Not in front of her sister.
She even smiled sometimes, as if to erase Amaya's worried frowns.
But in her heart, the anxiety sank deeper with every beat.
Something wasn't right.
One evening, as the light gently faded, hurried knocks echoed at the door.
Nahia jumped, got up silently, careful not to wake Amaya, and timidly opened the door.
A young boy stood there, out of breath, his red cheeks revealing he had been running.
In his trembling hands: an envelope.
He handed it to her without a word, then disappeared into the night.
Nahia gently closed the door.
She pressed the envelope to her chest for a few seconds, as if hoping to feel the warmth of a familiar heart.
Then, slowly, she opened it.
Amira's words danced across the paper, trembling but alive:
> My sweet Nahia and Amaya,
Don't worry about me. I'm fine, I promise.
The palace is in a frenzy. The Sheikh's son will be crowned in two weeks.
There's so much to prepare that my days slip away before I can even breathe.
I think of you every moment, even when my steps can't lead me back to you.
Stay safe, take care of each other as you always have.
I hold you close to my heart, even from afar.
With all my love,
Amira.
Tears welled up—
Not out of fear this time.
Nor sadness.
Just that bittersweet taste of distant love, a bond holding strong even through absence.
Nahia carefully folded the letter like a treasure.
Then she returned to Amaya.
The little girl slightly opened her eyes, stirred by her sister's quiet movements.
— Amira? she murmured.
Nahia nodded, a faint smile on her lips.
— She's fine. Just… very busy.
But she's thinking of us.
Amaya closed her eyes again, reassured.
Her hand reached for Nahia's, which she pressed gently to her chest.
And in that still unfamiliar house, that was enough.
A promise scribbled in haste.
A silence shared.
And the stubborn hope of better days.
---
At the palace, the days stretched endlessly.
Since the announcement of Assad's coronation, the Sheikh's son, everything had accelerated.
The hallways echoed with hurried footsteps.
Whispers mixed with commands.
Preparations filled every room.
Amira, the faithful housekeeper, had known these walls for years.
She had watched over Assad and Yasmina when they were still children, gathering their laughter, tears, and confidences.
Today, she saw them walking toward their destinies.
And in her chest, a silent pride pulsed—mixed with a worry she dared not name.
There was no clear threat…
Only the disappearance of Nabil Al-Fayez.
But the palace felt different. Tense. Like fabric about to tear.
Amira didn't complain.
She worked tirelessly.
She directed the staff, organized the quarters, responded to endless demands.
She no longer had a moment to herself.
But her thoughts, constantly, flew back to Nahia and Amaya.
She missed them.
She hoped they were safe. That they remained cautious.
One night, between two sets of instructions, she found a moment.
Just enough to write.
A letter. A few words.
She entrusted it to a young servant—discreet, loyal.
Then, without waiting, returned to her duties.
Her face remained composed.
But in the silence of her heart, a prayer echoed.
That all would go well.
For the palace.
For Assad.
For them.
---
Beyond the great dunes of the East, where the light always seemed filtered by golden dust, a village stood—proud and solitary.
It was there that Nabil Al-Fayez had taken refuge.
Tired, thin, his gaze heavy with cold anger, he had managed to secure their hospitality.
Or so it seemed.
Because these people knew his name.
And that name stirred in them deep distrust—an old disdain.
They had heard the rumors.
The schemes.
The ambition.
The thirst for power.
They knew what he wanted.
And they knew he had never gotten it.
Even now, he returned with the same promises on his lips.
He spoke of a new reign.
Of a recognized village.
Of enriched lands.
Of honored sons.
He bowed. Flattered. Manipulated.
And in the shadow of the palm trees, some listened.
His old allies were there too.
They had not forgotten.
Neither the humiliation,
Nor the fall.
Around the fire, oaths were exchanged.
They had made their decision.
They would attack the palace.
On the eve of the coronation.
When the city would sleep.
When the festivities would distract the guards.
When the watchmen would be tired.
They would strike hard. Without mercy.
Nabil Al-Fayez, standing before the flames, eyes half-closed, already saw the scene.
He would cross the gates of the throne.
Tread upon the royal carpets.
Tear the crown from Assad's hands.
And this time…
Nothing and no one would stop him.