[AMAL POV]
I felt the blood drain from my face. The escaped prisoner, the man Khalil and Farah were hunting—he was sitting less than three feet away from me.
"Peace be upon you, child," he said, his voice warm despite the circumstances. "Ghada has told me much about you."
"And upon you, peace," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I know this is a shock," Ghada continued, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "We let everyone believe he was dead because it was safer. But he's been in prison these past two years, and now..."
"Now I'm free," Yusuf finished. "Thanks to our brave brothers and sisters who stormed the city jail."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this soft-spoken man with the dangerous rebel leader I had been told to fear. He looked more like a tired merchant than a revolutionary.
"Ghada tells me you've been questioning the prince's justice," he continued. "That you're beginning to see the truth about our rulers."
"I..." I struggled to find words. "I've seen things that trouble me."
"Of course you have. You're not blind." He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "The question is: what are you prepared to do about it?"
This was the moment. I could feel the weight of decision pressing down on me like a physical force. Everything I said now would determine not just my own fate, but the fate of everyone involved in tonight's plan.
"I don't know," I said finally. "I want to help, but I'm afraid."
"Fear is natural," Yusuf said gently. "I've been afraid every day for the past two years. But fear becomes courage when you act despite it."
"Father," Ghada interrupted, "tell her about tonight. About what we're planning."
Yusuf shot her a sharp look. "Ghada, we agreed—"
"She needs to know. If she's going to help us, she needs to understand what's at stake."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "Very well. But what I tell you now must never leave this garden. Do you understand?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"The feast tonight is not just a celebration," he began. "It's a gathering of the kingdom's most powerful men—nobles, merchants, foreign ambassadors. The very people who profit from the suffering of the common folk."
"And?"
"And it's the perfect opportunity to send a message. To show them that their power is not absolute."
"What kind of message?"
"The kind that requires sacrifice." His voice was steady, but I could see the pain in his eyes. "Some of us will not survive tonight. But our deaths will inspire others. The whole kingdom will rise up."
The same words Amina had used. I felt a chill run down my spine.
"How many of you?" I asked.
"Does it matter? One life, ten lives—if it means freedom for thousands, it's a price worth paying."
"But the reprisals—"
"There will be reprisals regardless," he interrupted. "The prince's father grows more paranoid each day. He sees enemies everywhere, real or imagined. How long before he decides that all servants are potential threats? How long before he orders mass executions just to be safe?"
I thought of Najwa, rotting in her cell for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn't wrong about the paranoia.
"What do you need from me?" I asked.
"Information. You work in the kitchens, you'll have access to the feast hall. We need to know the layout, the guard positions, the seating arrangements."
"And then?"
"Then you go about your normal duties. Serve the food, clear the tables, stay out of the way. When it begins, find cover and wait for it to end."
"What exactly is going to begin?"
Yusuf and Ghada exchanged glances. "The less you know, the safer you'll be," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you." He stood, straightening his robes. "I must go. There are others I need to meet with before tonight."
"Father, wait—"
"No, Ghada. We've said enough." He turned to me. "Think carefully about what I've told you. And remember—some causes are worth dying for."
He walked away, leaving me alone with Ghada in the herb garden. The afternoon sun beat down on us, but I felt cold despite the heat.
"He's a good man," Ghada said quietly. "Everything he's done, he's done for the people."
"I'm sure he believes that."
"Don't you?"
I looked at her—young, passionate, convinced of the righteousness of her cause. "I believe he wants to make things better. But I also believe that violence only leads to more violence."
"Sometimes violence is the only language tyrants understand."
"And sometimes it's just another form of tyranny."
She stared at me for a long moment. "You're not going to help us, are you?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you're thinking it."
I sighed. "I need time to consider. This is... it's bigger than I expected."
"Time is what we don't have." Her voice was urgent. "Tonight is our only chance. If we don't act now, we may never get another opportunity."
"And if you do act? What then? You kill a few nobles, inspire a rebellion, and then what? The prince's father calls in the army. Thousands die. The kingdom burns. How does that help anyone?"
"At least we'll die free."
"No," I said firmly. "You'll die as rebels. And your deaths will be used to justify even greater oppression."
Tears began to flow down her face again. "Then what would you have us do? Accept our fate? Live as slaves forever?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know that what you're planning won't end the way you think it will."
"Maybe not. But it will end the way things are now. And that's something."
The call to afternoon prayers echoed across the palace, signaling the end of our conversation. Ghada wiped her eyes and adjusted her veil.
"I have to go," she said. "There are preparations to make."
"Ghada, wait—"
"Will you help us or not?"
I looked into her young face, seeing the desperation and hope warring in her eyes. "I'll provide the information you need. But I want you to promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll try to minimize the casualties. Whatever you're planning, try to make it about the message, not the body count."
"I can't promise that. It's not my decision to make."
"Then whose decision is it?"
But she was already walking away, leaving me alone with the scent of herbs and the weight of an impossible choice.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, mechanically performing my duties while my mind raced with possibilities. I could report everything to Khalil—the location of the meeting, Yusuf's presence, the general outline of their plan. The rebels would be arrested, the attack prevented, and Najwa would be released as promised.
But Ghada would be among those arrested. And Yusuf, who seemed more like a grieving father than a dangerous terrorist, would be executed.
On the other hand, if I said nothing, innocent people would die tonight. The foreign ambassadors, the merchants, even some of the nobles—they weren't all evil. Some were just people trying to live their lives within the system they had been born into.
And if the attack succeeded, the reprisals would be swift and brutal. Every servant in the palace would be suspect. The executions would number in the hundreds.
As evening approached and the feast preparations reached their climax, I found myself no closer to a decision. The great hall was transformed into a scene of opulence—silk hangings, golden dishes, tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits. It was beautiful and obscene at the same time.
I was arranging flowers on one of the tables when Farah appeared at my side.
"Walk with me," she murmured.
We made our way to a quiet alcove overlooking the hall. Below us, servants scurried about making final preparations while guards took their positions along the walls.
"Report," she said without preamble.
I told her everything—the meeting with Yusuf, the planned attack, Ghada's emotional plea for help. As I spoke, I watched her face, trying to gauge her reaction.
"You've done well," she said when I finished. "This information will save lives."
"Will it? Or will it just change which lives are lost?"
She studied me carefully. "You're having doubts."
"I'm having second thoughts about becoming a spy."
"Too late for that now." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "You're in this whether you like it or not. The question is which side you choose to serve."
"What if I choose neither side?"
"Then you serve no one, and everyone dies." She turned to face me fully. "Let me be clear about something, Amal. If you don't report this to Khalil, people will die tonight. Innocent people. Foreign dignitaries whose deaths could plunge the kingdom into war."
"And if I do report it?"
"Then different people will die. People who have chosen to make themselves enemies of the state." She paused. "Including your friend Ghada."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "She's just a girl. She's angry and grieving and—"
"And she's chosen to align herself with murderers and terrorists." Farah's voice was hard. "That makes her a target, not a victim."
"There has to be another way."
"There is. You can convince her to abandon the plan. Turn her into an informant. Save her life and serve the kingdom at the same time."
"She'll never agree to that."
"Then you'll have to choose between your friendship and your duty."
Below us, the first guests were beginning to arrive. Nobles in their finest robes, merchants displaying their wealth, foreign ambassadors in the regalia of their distant kingdoms. They looked so normal, so human, that it was hard to imagine them as the targets of assassination.
"How long do I have?" I asked.
"The feast begins in an hour. You need to make your choice before then."
She left me alone in the alcove, staring down at the scene below. Somewhere in the palace, Amina and her cell were making their final preparations. Somewhere else, Khalil was waiting for my report. And somewhere in the dungeons, Najwa was counting on me to save her life.
I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I found myself thinking about a conversation I'd had with Najwa months ago, before any of this began.
"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?" she had asked.
"Free from what?"
"From all of this. The palace, the rules, the constant fear. Just... free."
"Freedom is just another word for having nothing left to lose," I had replied.
Now, staring down at the feast that would determine the fate of the kingdom, I finally understood what she meant. And I realized that I had finally reached the point where I had nothing left to lose.
The question was: what was I prepared to do about it?
As if summoned by my thoughts, a figure appeared in the doorway of the alcove. It was Ghada, her face hidden behind her veil, but I could tell from her posture that she was terrified.
"Amal," she whispered. "I need to tell you something. About tonight. About what's really going to happen."
And suddenly, I realized that nothing I had been told—by either side—was the complete truth.
Ghada's hands were shaking as she pulled me deeper into the alcove, away from the doorway where passing servants might overhear us. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and I could smell the fear-sweat beneath her perfume.
"What is it?" I asked, though part of me dreaded the answer.
"The plan," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's not what my father told you. It's not what Amina told any of us."
A chill ran down my spine. "What do you mean?"
"I overheard them talking—my father and two men I didn't recognize. They came to the palace through the old water channels, the ones that run beneath the eastern wall." She glanced around nervously. "They weren't dressed like servants. They had weapons. Real weapons, not kitchen knives."
"Who were they?"
"I don't know, but they spoke with authority. And they spoke of fire."
The word hung between us like a curse. Fire in a palace built of wood and stone, filled with silk hangings and oil lamps, packed with hundreds of people...
"What kind of fire?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
"They're going to burn the hall. During the feast. With everyone inside." Her voice broke. "They said it would send a message across the kingdom—that nowhere is safe for the oppressors."
I felt the world tilt around me. This wasn't an assassination plot, not even a rescue mission. It was mass murder on a scale that would make the previous attacks look like childish pranks.
"Are you certain?"
"I heard them planning it. They've been smuggling oil and kindling into the storage rooms beneath the hall. When the feast reaches its height, they'll light the fires and bar the doors." Tears streamed down her face. "Everyone will die, Amal. Everyone."
"Including the servants?"
"They don't care about the servants. My father... he said they were acceptable casualties in the greater cause." She sobbed. "He's not the man I thought he was."
I pulled her close, offering what comfort I could while my mind raced. This changed everything. A targeted assassination was one thing—morally questionable, perhaps, but at least focused. But burning down a hall full of people, including innocent servants and foreign dignitaries...
"We have to stop them," I said.
"How? My father won't listen to me. He says I'm too young to understand the necessities of war." She looked up at me with desperate eyes. "But you could tell the guards. You could warn them."
"If I do that, you'll be arrested too. Your father will be executed."
"I know." Her voice was steady now, resolved. "But if we don't stop them, hundreds of people will die. Including people who've never done anything wrong."
I stared at her, seeing a courage I hadn't expected. She was willing to sacrifice her own father to prevent a massacre.
"There might be another way," I said slowly. "What if we could get word to the other servants? Get them out of the hall before the fire starts?"
"The rebels are watching the exits. Anyone who tries to leave will be stopped."
"Then we need to create a distraction. Something that would give people a chance to escape."
"What kind of distraction?"
Before I could answer, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. We both froze, listening as someone approached the alcove. The steps were measured, deliberate—not the hurried pace of a servant, but the careful tread of someone trying not to be noticed.
"Someone's coming," Ghada whispered.
I peered around the edge of the alcove and saw a figure in a dark cloak moving through the shadows. The person's face was hidden, but something about their gait seemed familiar.
"Stay here," I murmured to Ghada, then slipped out of the alcove.