[AMAL POV]
I woke before dawn and made my way to the prince's quarters. The corridors were dimly lit by oil lamps, and my footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors. Two guards stood outside the prince's door—silent, watchful men who nodded when I approached.
"He's expecting you," one of them said, opening the door.
After one year of relentless service to the Second Prince — three months of obedience without error, of silence where others would have begged, of anticipating his commands before they left his lips — I was finally granted access to his private chambers. It wasn't a reward, not exactly. More like a signal. A shift in the unspoken balance between us. I had proven myself: not just useful, but unshakably loyal — or so he believed. I had listened, bowed, watched, endured. Never faltering. Never misstepping. And now, the door to the inner sanctum creaked open to me.
The prince's private rooms were a study in controlled opulence. The walls were hung with silk in deep jewel tones—sapphire blue, emerald green, ruby red—and the floors were covered with carpets so fine they seemed to glow in the lamplight. Low divans lined the walls, piled with cushions embroidered with gold thread. A brazier burned in the center of the room, filling the air with the scent of frankincense and myrrh.
But it was the books that made me pause. Shelves lined one entire wall, filled with volumes bound in leather and silk, their spines marked with script in a dozen different languages. I had not seen so many books since... since before. When I had been someone else, in a different life.
So, these are the books that Maryam was killed for reading?
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs. The prince stood in a doorway I hadn't noticed, partially hidden behind a hanging of deep blue silk. He was dressed simply this morning—a long tunic of white linen and loose trousers, his feet bare. Without his elaborate robes and jewelry, he looked younger, more human. But his eyes were the same storm-grey, and they missed nothing.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," I said, lowering my head and adjusting my veil. "I didn't know you were here."
His expression didn't change, but something cold flickered in his eyes. "You're apologizing for doing exactly what I expected you to do. How tedious."
He moved toward the bookshelves with fluid grace, each step deliberate. "Next time you feel the urge to grovel, swallow it. I despise predictability."
He pulled a volume from the shelf—a small book bound in red leather, its pages edged with gold. "Can you read?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. I hesitated, then nodded.
"Show me."
He opened the book and held it toward me, keeping a respectful distance. The script was elegant, flowing—Arabic, but written in a formal style that made my head ache trying to follow it. I could make out some words, basic ones my uncle had taught me during stolen moments in his shop.
"Light," I said slowly, pointing to one word. "And... blessed. I think."
"You think." His voice was flat, unimpressed. "What else?"
I struggled through another line, my pronunciation clumsy. "Something about... gardens? And water?"
He snapped the book shut. "Barely literate. How disappointing. I suppose your uncle didn't have much time for proper education."
My blood froze. "How did you—"
"I know everything about you," he said, his voice as cold as winter stone. "Your family's fall from minor nobility. Your uncle's leather shop where you learned your letters scratching them in dust and scraps. Did you think your past was some grand secret?"
He opened the book in his hands, running his finger along the lines of text. "Do you know what this is?"
I glanced at the page, recognizing the script immediately. "Poetry. Sufi poetry."
"Very good. Rumi, to be precise. 'Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.'" He closed the book with a soft snap. "Beautiful words. But naive. There is no field beyond right and wrong. There is only power, and those who serve it."
He gestured toward a low table where a breakfast had been laid out—flatbread, honey, dates, tea that steamed in delicate glass cups. "You will serve me my breakfast. And you will stand while I eat. I find conversation tiresome in the mornings."
I moved to the table, my hands trembling slightly as I poured tea into his cup. The liquid was the color of amber, and it smelled of cardamom and roses. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the simple task.
"Your hands shake," he observed, not looking up from his meal. "Fear or anger?"
"Neither, Your Highness."
"Liar." He bit into a date, chewing slowly. "You're angry that I know your history. That your secrets aren't secret. Good. Anger is more useful than fear."
He ate in silence for several long minutes, while I stood motionless beside the table. My legs began to ache, but I didn't dare shift my weight.
"Tell me about your uncle," he said finally. "The one who taught you to scratch letters in the dirt."
"There's nothing to tell."
"There's always something to tell. Was he kind to you? Did he believe in your potential? Did he fill your head with dreams of rising above your station?"
I said nothing.
"He did, didn't he? Poor man. Probably thought education would save you. That knowing a few letters would make you valuable, protected." He looked up at me then, his grey eyes sharp as blades. "How wrong he was."
He stood, moving to the window that looked out over the palace gardens. The morning sun turned his white tunic translucent, revealing the lean lines of his body beneath.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," he said without turning around. "I've been watching you for longer than you know. Since your first escape attempt, actually. You were... memorable."
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
"You see, most servants who try to escape do so out of desperation. They run blindly, with no plan, no destination. But you..." He turned back to face me, and I saw something that might have been admiration in his eyes. "You studied the guard rotations. You mapped the corridors. You chose your moments with precision. You failed, but you failed intelligently."
He moved closer, but stopped at a respectful distance. "That kind of intelligence is rare. And useful."
"I don't understand, Your Highness."
"No, you don't. But you will." He gestured toward a small desk in the corner of the room. "You see that correspondence? Letters from merchants, governors, other nobles. I need someone who can read them, organize them, help me understand what people are really saying beneath their flowery language."
I stared at the pile of papers, my mind racing. "You want me to... spy on your correspondence?"
"I want you to help me manage my affairs. Both official and unofficial." His smile was sharp as a blade. "Your literacy may be poor, but your instincts are sound. And unlike my other servants, you have nothing left to lose."
Before I could respond, there was a sharp knock at the door. The prince's expression changed instantly, becoming cold and formal.
"Enter," he called.
The door opened to reveal a tall man in expensive robes—the same man who had been with the prince during the tea service. Khalil, I remembered. His eyes swept the room and settled on me with obvious disapproval.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly. "I have the reports you requested."
"Excellent. You may set them on the desk." The prince's voice was different now—more distant, more regal. "And Khalil? In the future, you will knock and wait for permission before entering my private chambers."
isn't that what happened?
Khalil's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course, Your Highness. My apologies."
He placed a leather portfolio on the desk, his movements precise and controlled. But I caught the way his eyes lingered on me, the calculation behind his polite expression.
"Will there be anything else?" Khalil asked.
"Not at the moment. You may go."
Khalil bowed again and left, but not before shooting me one last, measuring look. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The prince turned back to me, his expression thoughtful. "Khalil has been my advisor for nine years. He's intelligent, efficient, and completely loyal to my interests. He's also becoming... predictable."
He moved to the desk and opened the portfolio, revealing a stack of documents covered in neat handwriting. "I need someone who can see patterns he might miss. Someone who thinks differently."
"Because I'm desperate?"
"Because you're hungry." He looked up at me, and for a moment, his mask slipped. I saw something raw in his eyes—ambition, yes, but also a kind of loneliness that made my chest tighten. "Hungry people notice things that well-fed people ignore."
He closed the portfolio. "We'll start tomorrow. You'll spend the morning here, reviewing correspondence and preparing summaries. In the afternoon, you'll attend to my personal needs—meals, clothing, the usual duties. In the evening..." He paused. "In the evening, we'll discuss what you've learned."
I kept my voice steady. "I understand, Your Highness."
"Good." He moved toward the door. "Oh, and one more thing. Khalil will be watching you very carefully. He believes you're a threat to his position. He's not wrong."
The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the books.
He had just blamed Khalil for failing to knock and wait for permission — even though he clearly had. If he could assign guilt that easily, then he could pin any crime on me whenever he pleased. I had to be more careful than ever.
I stood alone in the prince's chambers, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud. The books seemed to mock me from their shelves—all that knowledge, all that power, just beyond my reach. I approached the desk where Khalil had left the portfolio, my fingers hovering over the leather binding.
"Don't."
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. A young woman stood in the doorway—one I hadn't seen before. Her veil was made of fine silk, deeper blue than the prince's hangings, and her eyes were sharp as obsidian. She wore the simple robes of a servant, but something in her bearing suggested she was anything but ordinary.
"The prince didn't give you permission to touch those papers," she said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "And Khalil will be back within the hour to test whether you've been foolish enough to try."
"Who are you?"
"Farah. I serve the prince's sister, Lady Bushra." She moved closer, her steps silent on the thick carpets. "And you're the scullery girl who thinks she can climb above her station."
The disdain in her voice was unmistakable, but there was something else—a warning, perhaps even concern.
"I didn't ask for this position."
"No, but you'll take it. Because the alternative is death, and you're too clever to choose death." She paused beside the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. "Do you know what happened to the last girl who caught the prince's interest?"
My blood chilled. "What girl?"
"Maryam. A cook's daughter who could read better than most scholars. The prince took her as a personal attendant, just as he's taking you." Farah's eyes met mine over her veil. "She lasted three months before someone accused her of stealing from his private correspondence. They found her in the garden well."
"Accused her of what?"
"Exactly what you'll be accused of if you're not careful. The prince may seem to favor you now, but favor is a dangerous thing in this palace. It makes enemies."
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Farah moved swiftly to the window, her movements practiced and silent.
"Remember what I said about the papers," she whispered. "And remember—trust no one. Not even him."
She slipped behind the heavy curtains just as the door opened. Khalil entered, his expression as cold as winter stone. He surveyed the room with calculating eyes, taking in every detail—my position near the desk, the undisturbed portfolio, the way I stood with my hands clasped behind my back.
"Still here, I see." He moved to the desk, his fingers trailing over the portfolio's edge. "Tell me, girl, what do you know about reading official correspondence?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Nothing." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "How refreshing. Honesty is so rare in this palace." He opened the portfolio, revealing the stack of documents. "These are reports from the prince's various holdings. Grain yields, tax collections, requests for military aid. Tedious work, really."
He selected a document and held it up, the parchment catching the morning light. "Can you read this?"
I stepped closer, keeping my eyes respectfully lowered. The script was formal, but clearer than the poetry the prince had shown me. "It appears to be... a request for additional guards at the eastern border?"
"Very good. And what do you think that means?"
"That there's trouble in the east, my lord."
"Trouble." He set the document aside and selected another. "This one mentions unusual activity among the merchant caravans. Delayed shipments, altered routes. What do you make of that?"
I hesitated, sensing a trap. "Perhaps... bandits?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps something more interesting." He closed the portfolio with a sharp snap. "The prince seems to think you have potential. I'm less convinced."
"I serve at his pleasure, my lord."
"Indeed you do. And his pleasure is... variable." Khalil moved to the window, his back to me. "Tell me, have you ever heard of the Whispering Sands?"
The name sent a chill through me. Everyone had heard whispers of the Whispering Sands—a network of rebels and dissidents who operated in the desert regions, striking at government caravans and spreading seditious ideas among the common people.
"Only stories, my lord."
"Stories." He turned back to face me. "Stories have a way of becoming reality in troubled times. The King understood this. He dealt with stories... definitively."
The implied threat was clear. I kept my expression neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs.
"The prince is not his father," Khalil continued. "He's more... subtle in his methods. But no less effective. I trust you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Excellent. Then we understand each other." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and girl? If you find anything unusual in those reports—anything that doesn't seem to belong—you'll bring it to me immediately. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my lord."
He left, and I sagged against the desk, my legs trembling. The game was more dangerous than I had imagined. The prince wanted me to spy on his correspondence, but Khalil wanted me to spy on the prince. And somewhere in the shadows, Farah had warned me that both paths led to death.
I looked at the portfolio again, its leather binding innocent in the morning light. Inside those documents lay secrets that could elevate me or destroy me. The choice was mine—but was it really a choice at all?