Silence lingered in the great hall.
Heavy. Dense. Almost tangible.
Assad slowly straightened, eyes locked with his father's.
He had learned at a young age that looking away was a sign of weakness.
And weakness had no place here, in this palace where every smile, every nod, could conceal a dagger poised to strike.
Sheikh Khalil Ibn Othman finally broke the silence.
His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
— "The country has changed, Assad."
For a brief moment, a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes.
Or perhaps Assad only imagined it.
— "And you... have you changed?"
Assad felt a sudden urge to answer with arrogance.
To say yes, he had changed.
That he was no longer the malleable boy they had molded without ever asking who he truly was.
But he swallowed his words.
Here, every word had to be weighed like gold.
— "I've grown, Father," he said, voice steady, firm, devoid of insolence.
— "I've learned."
The Sheikh gave a slow nod.
His fingers drummed on the carved armrest of his throne.
At his right, Nabil Al-Fayez watched the exchange with a falcon's attention.
His neutral face betrayed a hint of amusement.
— "Come," ordered the Sheikh as he rose to his feet.
With slow, solemn steps, he left the Council Hall.
Assad and Nabil followed close behind.
They passed through a maze of corridors, where light and shadow danced on ancient tapestries.
Until they reached a grand terrace overlooking the desert.
The warm wind stirred the white drapes that hung like ghosts around them.
Before them, the city stretched far and wide.
Majestic. Alive.
Bustling souks, white domes, palm groves…
And beyond, the endless expanse of desert.
— "Look," said Sheikh Khalil, extending his hand.
— "All this will be yours one day."
Assad felt a weight drop onto his shoulders.
He had tasted freedom.
Lived lives where titles meant nothing.
Where a man shaped his own fate.
And yet… here, his blood, his name, his roots—
They called him back with inescapable force.
— "You must prove yourself worthy of your heritage," his father continued.
— "These people need a guide. A strong man."
Assad inclined his head slightly.
He knew the ritual.
One did not interrupt the Sheikh when he spoke of legacy and honor.
The Sheikh continued:
— "You will have enemies."
— "Here, in the palace as well as in the city."
— "Some will smile in your presence and plot behind your back."
His gaze briefly brushed over Nabil—without lingering.
— "You will need to be as cunning as you are strong."
Assad understood the warning hidden in those words.
He knew Nabil Al-Fayez was a serpent.
Valuable—but dangerous.
If he was to survive here, he would have to learn to dance with the snakes… without ever getting bitten.
The Sheikh placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
— "Rest for today. Tomorrow, we begin."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared into the stone labyrinth.
Left alone for a moment, Assad closed his eyes.
The wind carried the scent of jasmine and hot sand.
He inhaled deeply.
He was home.
And he had no choice but to reclaim his place.
---
Amira Bint Zayed, the housekeeper, waited near his former chambers.
When she saw him approach, her eyes shimmered with emotion she struggled to hide.
— "Your rooms have been prepared, Assad."
Her voice trembled with a tenderness no protocol had ever erased.
— "Nothing has changed here. Not really."
He thanked her with a sincere smile.
A rare flash of humanity in a world built on masks.
Amira had always been his secret confidante.
The one who had whispered forbidden tales of freedom and justice when he was a boy.
Assad pushed open the heavy door of his old quarters.
Everything was just as he remembered.
And yet… everything felt foreign.
The soft carpets.
The silk curtains.
The golden lanterns…
But most of all, that suffocating sense of being locked again in a golden cage.
He placed his suitcase on the floor, tossed his jacket onto a chair, and stepped toward the wide window overlooking the city.
Outside, the joyful shouts of children mixed with the distant call of the muezzin.
Life pulsed on—unbothered by his return.
Somewhere in this palace, his mother was surely praying for him.
Her fingers gliding over a string of ancient pearls.
Somewhere in the forbidden gardens, Yasmina was no doubt preparing her next rebellion against tradition.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
Everything here seemed unchanged.
But he knew—beneath the quiet surface, tension simmered.
Storms were coming.
And this time, he was no longer the naïve boy they had sent away.
This time, he was ready.
---
Later that evening, as the palace filled with the scent of incense and the soft sound of fountains, Assad was invited to a small dinner with the closest family members.
He found his mother, Laila Bint Malik, seated at the Sheikh's right.
When she lifted her gaze to him, Assad felt his heart crack.
She looked so delicate. So ethereal.
Like a desert flower ready to break under the slightest breeze.
She stood with difficulty.
Circled the table.
And embraced her son without a word.
Her familiar scent—a blend of rose and amber—wrapped around him.
Flooding his mind with memories.
— "My son…" she whispered simply.
No other words were needed.
Across the room, Yasmina made her entrance like a storm.
Draped in deep crimson silk, her black eyes sparkled with defiance and joy.
She crossed the room swiftly and threw herself into Assad's arms.
— "Brother!" she cried with laughter, her slim arms tightening around his neck.
— "You're finally here!"
Assad let out a genuine laugh—his first since arriving.
He held her tightly, recognizing her wild spirit instantly.
— "You haven't changed," he whispered in her ear.
— "Oh, but I have," she grinned.
— "Just not in the way they'd hoped."
Assad glanced toward their father.
The Sheikh watched them—face unreadable.
But in his eyes… a flicker of pride.
Perhaps, in this land of suffocating tradition, hope still lingered.
A fragile flame, waiting to be kindled.
As he sat between his mother and his sister, Assad understood—
> His return was only the beginning.
The true battle—for his freedom, his identity—had just begun.
And he had no intention of losing it.