[AMAL POV]
The kitchens were a hive of nervous activity when I returned. Servants moved with quick, frightened steps, their conversations dying abruptly whenever someone new entered the room. The news of Najwa's arrest had spread like wildfire, and fear hung in the air like smoke.
"Amal!" Yasmin, the head cook, rushed toward me as I entered. Her face was flushed with worry, her gray hair escaping from beneath her head covering. "How have you been? We heard about Najwa."
"I was questioned," I said, keeping my voice steady. "About what I might have seen or heard."
"And?" Her eyes searched my face desperately. "What did you tell them?"
The lie came easier than I expected. "Nothing. I knew nothing."
Relief flooded her features. "Of course you didn't. Sweet Najwa, she wouldn't hurt a fly. This is all some terrible mistake."
Around us, other servants nodded in agreement. Fatima, who tended the fires, spat into the flames. "Those guards see conspiracies in every shadow. Mark my words, they'll realize their error soon enough."
If only they knew how right they were—and how wrong. I forced myself to nod sympathetically while my stomach churned with guilt.
"Has anyone seen her?" asked Amina, who helped with the washing. "Since they took her?"
"No one's allowed near the prison cells," Fatima replied. "But I heard..." She lowered her voice, glancing around nervously. "I heard they're holding her in the tower. The one overlooking the eastern wall."
The eastern wall. Where the guard rotations were lightest at dawn. Where someone might signal to allies outside the palace. My mind automatically catalogued the information, and I hated myself for it.
"We should pray for her," said Amina, an elderly woman who worked in the laundry. "Allah will protect the innocent."
"Prayer isn't enough," muttered a new girl, I haven't seen before. "The nobles don't care about our prayers. They only understand fear."
Several heads turned toward her, and I saw the warning looks from the older servants. But her jaw was set with defiance.
"What?" she continued. "Are we supposed to pretend this is normal? That they can just snatch any of us whenever they please?"
"Lower your voice," Fatima hissed. "Do you want to join her?"
"Maybe someone should." her eyes blazed with anger. "Maybe we should all stand together instead of cowering like sheep."
The kitchen fell silent. I could hear the crackling of the fire, the distant sound of water dripping from the washing basins. Every servant in the room was thinking the same thing, but no one dared voice it.
Except that girl had just voiced it. And I was supposed to report it.
"You," I said quietly. "You're upset. We all are. But angry words won't help Najwa."
"Won't they?" She turned to face me, her young face twisted with frustration. "The Whispering Sands seem to think otherwise. They're not cowering. They're fighting back."
My blood chilled. Around the room, I saw servants exchanging glances—some fearful, others calculating. This was exactly what the prince had warned me about. The rebellion's influence spreading through whispered conversations and shared grievances.
"The Whispering Sands are murderers," said Amina firmly. "They kill innocent people. Merchants, travelers, even children. That's not fighting—that's butchery."
"Is it?" The girl's voice rose. "Or is that just what the nobles want us to believe? Have you seen these murdered children? Have you spoken to their families? Or have you just believed whatever stories they feed us?"
"Ghada." Fatima's voice carried a warning. "That's enough."
"No, it's not enough. It's never enough." Ghada looked around the room, her gaze settling on each face. "How many of us have lost family members to the prince's 'justice'? How many have watched their villages burned for 'harboring rebels'? How many—"
"Stop." The word came from Amina, but her voice was different now—harder, more authoritative. "You're speaking dangerous truths, girl. And dangerous truths have a way of reaching the wrong ears."
Something in her tone made everyone freeze. I looked at her more carefully, noting the way she positioned herself between Ghada and the door, the way her eyes scanned the room with practiced wariness.
"We all grieve for Najwa," she continued. "But grief makes us careless. And carelessness kills."
Ghada's defiance crumbled under her stare. She nodded reluctantly and turned back to her work, but I could see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.
The kitchen gradually returned to its normal rhythm, but the tension remained. I helped Fatima prepare the evening meal, chopping vegetables and tending the fires, all while my mind raced with what I had witnessed.
Ghada was clearly sympathetic to the rebellion, if not already involved. Amina had spoken with the voice of experience—someone who understood the cost of resistance. And throughout the conversation, I had noticed the way certain servants exchanged glances, the way they positioned themselves to watch the entrances.
I was not the only spy in this kitchen.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red, Farah appeared at my elbow. She moved like a shadow, silent and unnoticed until she chose to be seen.
"Walk with me," she murmured.
We made our way through the corridors, past the other servants heading to their quarters for the evening meal. Farah led me to a small storage room filled with linens and cleaning supplies.
"Well?" she asked once we were alone.
I hesitated, then told her about Ghada's outburst, about the way the other servants had reacted. As I spoke, I watched her face, trying to read her expression in the dim light.
"Ghada bint Yusuf," she said when I finished. "Nineteen years old, from the village of Karak. Her father was executed two years ago for tax evasion."
"How do you know all that?"
"It's my job to know. Ghada has been watched for months. This outburst confirms what we already suspected." She paused. "What else?"
"Amina seemed to know more than she was saying. The way she spoke, the way she positioned herself..."
"Good. You're learning to see patterns. Amina bint Khalil—no relation to the prince's advisor—worked as a messenger before coming to the palace. She knows how to move information without being detected."
"Is she part of the rebellion?"
"That's what we need to find out." Farah moved to the small window, peering out at the darkening sky. "The prince is pleased with your first report. He wants you to get closer to Ghada. Find out who else she's been talking to."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Show sympathy. Let her think you're beginning to question the prince's rule. People like Ghada are always looking for converts to their cause." She turned back to me. "But be careful. Push too hard, and she'll suspect you're a spy. Don't push hard enough, and you'll learn nothing useful."
"And if I'm discovered?"
"Then you'll share Najwa's fate. Only your execution won't be postponed." She moved toward the door. "There's something else. The prince wants to see you tonight. After the evening prayers."
"Why?"
"He didn't say. But Lady Bushra will be there. And Khalil." Her expression was grim. "Whatever it is, it's important."
She left me alone in the storage room, surrounded by the smell of soap and starched linens. I sat on a crate of cleaning supplies and put my head in my hands. In one day, I had become a spy, a traitor to my own people, and a pawn in a game I didn't understand.
But Najwa was alive. That had to count for something.
When I returned to the kitchens, the atmosphere had shifted again. The servants were clustered in small groups, whispering urgently. As I approached, Fatima grabbed my arm.
"Amal, thank Allah you're back. There's news from the city."
"What kind of news?"
"The rebellion has reached the capital. Three grain warehouses were burned today. The guards are searching house by house, looking for rebels." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They say the prince's father is furious. He's declared martial law."
Around us, the other servants nodded grimly. Ghada was nowhere to be seen, but I noticed Amina watching me from across the room. When our eyes met, she nodded slightly—a gesture that could have been greeting or acknowledgment of something deeper.
"Where's Ghada?" I asked.
"Gone to visit her sister in the servants' quarters," Fatima replied. "Poor girl, she's been so upset about Najwa. I think she needed to talk to family."
Or to fellow conspirators. I filed the information away, another piece of the puzzle I was being forced to solve.
As the evening call to prayer echoed through the palace, I made my way to the prince's chambers. The corridors were more heavily guarded than usual, and I noticed that some of the guards were unfamiliar—reinforcements from the city garrison, perhaps.
The prince's door was open when I arrived, but I knocked and waited for permission to enter. Inside, I found not just the prince, but Lady Bushra and Khalil as well. They were gathered around a large map spread across the prince's desk, marked with red ink that looked disturbingly like blood.
"Ah, our little spy," Lady Bushra said without looking up. "Come, see what your friends have accomplished."
I approached the desk cautiously. The map showed the kingdom's major cities and trade routes, with red marks indicating areas of rebel activity. There were far more marks than I had expected.
"The situation is worse than we thought," the prince said. "The rebellion isn't just scattered bandits in the desert. It's a coordinated uprising with cells in every major city."
"Including this one," Khalil added grimly. "The attacks on the warehouses were precisely timed. Someone inside the palace provided information about guard rotations."
"Which brings us to you," Lady Bushra said, finally looking up from the map. "Your report about Ghada confirms what we suspected. But we need more than suspicions. We need proof."
"What kind of proof?"
"Names. Meeting places. Communication methods." The prince's finger traced a line on the map. "The rebels are planning something big. Something that will happen soon. And we need to know what it is before it's too late."
"Tomorrow night," Khalil said, "there's a gathering in the servants' quarters. A memorial service for Najwa—officially. But we believe it's actually a recruitment meeting for the rebellion."
"You want me to attend?"
"We want you to do more than attend," Lady Bushra said. "We want you to participate. Show enough sympathy to the cause that they'll trust you with their secrets."
"And if they don't trust me?"
"Then you'll have to make them trust you." The prince's grey eyes met mine. "Whatever it takes."
I stared at the map, at all those red marks spreading across the kingdom like a disease. Somewhere in the palace, Najwa was imprisoned, depending on me to save her. And somewhere else, Ghada and others like her were planning actions that could bring down the royal family.
"I understand," I said finally.
The next evening arrived with an unseasonable chill that seemed to seep through the palace walls. I adjusted my veil as I made my way through the servants' quarters, my heart hammering against my ribs. The narrow corridors were dimly lit by oil lamps, casting dancing shadows that made every figure seem like a potential threat.
The memorial service was being held in the largest room of the servants' quarters—a space normally used for communal meals during festivals. When I arrived, nearly thirty people had already gathered, their faces somber behind their veils and head coverings. The air was thick with the smoke of incense and the weight of whispered prayers.
But something felt wrong. Why hold a memorial service for someone who was still alive, even if imprisoned?
Ghada stood near the front of the room, her young face streaked with tears that seemed genuine. She had draped herself in the traditional mourning colors—deep blue and black—and her hands trembled as she prayed.
"She is like a sister to me," Ghada was saying to a group of women clustered around her. "Always so kind, always ready to help anyone in need. How can they say she was a traitor? And now, locked away where we can't even see her..."
"They say it because they need someone to blame," replied a voice I recognized as Amina's. The older woman moved through the crowd like water, offering comfort to some, quiet words to others. "The prince's father grows desperate. When desperate men rule, innocent people suffer."
I positioned myself near the back of the room, close enough to hear but far enough to observe. The gathering seemed genuine enough—people shared memories of Najwa, spoke of her kindness, her dedication to her work. But I noticed other things too: the way certain individuals kept glancing toward the doors, the subtle hand signals passed between some of the mourners, the fact that many faces were unfamiliar to me.
As the formal prayers concluded, the crowd began to disperse into smaller groups. I was debating whether to approach Ghada when she appeared at my elbow.
"Amal," she said quietly, her voice hoarse from crying. "I'm glad you came. I wasn't sure you would."
"Najwa is my friend too," I replied, hoping my voice conveyed the right mixture of grief and uncertainty.
"Is she?" Ghada's eyes searched my face. "Then you know she would never have betrayed anyone. She's imprisoned for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And we both know what happens to people who stay too long in the prince's dungeons."
"The prince said she was passing information to the rebels."
"The prince says many things." Ghada's voice carried a bitter edge. "Tell me, Amal, what do you really think happened to her?"
The question hung between us like a blade. I could feel others listening, though they pretended to be engaged in their own conversations. This was my moment—the test Farah had warned me about.
"I think," I said carefully, "that Najwa is innocent. But I also think that innocence doesn't matter to those in power."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that maybe Najwa isn't working for the rebels. But maybe the rest of us should be."
The words felt like poison on my tongue, but I saw something shift in Ghada's expression—a flicker of hope, or perhaps recognition.
"Come," she said, taking my arm. "There's someone I want you to meet."
She led me to a corner of the room where a man sat alone, his back to the wall. He was older, perhaps forty, with prematurely gray hair and scars on his hands that spoke of hard labor. His eyes were watchful, constantly scanning the room.
"This is Samir," Ghada said. "He worked in the stables before... before his injury." She gestured to his left leg, which I now noticed was twisted at an odd angle. "Samir, this is Amal. She works in the kitchens."
Samir nodded politely but said nothing. His silence was somehow more unsettling than conversation would have been.
"Samir has been helping me understand things," Ghada continued. "About how the kingdom really works. About who benefits from the current system and who suffers."
"And what have you learned?" I asked.
"That the royal family takes everything and gives nothing back. That they use fear to keep us in line while they feast on our labor." Ghada's voice was passionate but controlled. "That sometimes the only way to create change is through action."
"What kind of action?"
Samir finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "The kind that reminds tyrants that they bleed like everyone else."
A chill ran down my spine. This was exactly what the prince had warned me about—the rhetoric that turned discontent into violence.
"But surely," I said, "there are other ways to seek justice? Petitions, appeals to the sultan's mercy?"
"Have you ever tried to petition the sultan?" Samir asked with a bitter laugh. "The common people don't even exist to him. We're less than insects."
"Samir lost his leg in the copper mines," Ghada explained. "He was injured in a cave-in, and instead of receiving compensation, he was dismissed for being unable to work. His family nearly starved."
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. "That's terrible."
"It's not unusual," Samir replied. "The nobles grow rich on our backs, and when we're broken, they throw us away like spoiled meat."