[AMAL POV]
The announcement came during the morning gruel distribution. Head Guard Malik stood in the doorway of the servants' hall, his leather boots clicking against the stone as he surveyed the room. Conversations died mid-sentence.
"The Second Prince requires a personal maid for his southern estate," he announced. His voice echoed off the damp walls. "One will be selected from this wing. Candidates will present themselves for inspection tomorrow at dawn."
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, like water breaking through a dam, whispers erupted from every corner.
"Did you hear that?"
"A personal maid—"
"They say his last one—"
"Quiet!" Malik's voice cut through the chatter. "Anyone caught gossiping will be removed from consideration."
He left. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, but the tension remained, thick as smoke.
I sat on my straw mat, watching the other women. Fatima was already braiding her hair, her movements quick and nervous. Across the room, Zahra was scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails with desperate intensity. Even Najwa, usually so composed, kept smoothing her headscarf with trembling hands.
"You're not going to try," Najwa said. It wasn't a question.
"Why would I?"
"Because you're thinking about it." She moved closer, lowering her voice. "I can see it in your eyes. That look you get when you're planning something stupid."
Before I could respond, Amina burst through the door, her face flushed with excitement. "I just heard from the kitchen girls! They say he's beautiful. Like a painting come to life."
"They also say he's killed three maids this year," I added dryly.
"Those are just rumors—"
"Are they?" Fatima's voice carried the weight of experience. "Because I was there when they carried out Leyla's body. And Maryam's. And that girl from the eastern wing whose name I can't even remember anymore."
The room fell silent again. Amina's enthusiasm dimmed like a candle in wind.
"But this is different," she said quietly. "This is a chance to leave. To see the world beyond these walls."
"To die somewhere else," Najwa corrected.
I stood up, brushing dust from my dress. "I'm going to present myself."
The words surprised even me. I hadn't planned to say them, but once they were out, I couldn't take them back.
"Don't be stupid," Najwa said.
"I'm not being stupid. I'm being practical."
"Practical?" Her voice rose. "You call volunteering for a death sentence practical?"
"I call it an opportunity."
That night, I couldn't sleep. The other women tossed and turned on their mats, but I lay still, staring at the ceiling and planning. If I was going to do this, I needed to understand what I was up against.
I slipped out of the sleeping chamber and made my way to the upper kitchens. The corridors were dark, lit only by the occasional oil lamp, but I had memorized every stone, every turn. I knew which boards creaked, which shadows offered concealment.
The kitchen was empty except for Yasmin, the head cook, who was preparing bread for the morning meal. She looked up as I entered, her expression unsurprised.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked, kneading dough with practiced efficiency.
"Tell me about him."
She didn't ask who I meant. "The Second Prince? What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
Yasmin sighed, wiping flour from her hands. "He's clever. Cleverer than his brothers, cleverer than his father. But he's also..." She paused, searching for the right words. "He's like a blade that's been sharpened too many times. Beautiful, but brittle. One wrong move and he'll shatter. And when he shatters, people die."
"What happened to his other maids?"
"What always happens. They displeased him." She resumed kneading, her movements more aggressive now. "Leyla spilled juice on his favorite robe. Maryam was caught reading one of his books. The Hoor—" She shook her head. "No one even knows what she did wrong."
"But you know something."
Yasmin's hands stilled. "I know he's not like other men. He doesn't want what they want. He wants... control. Complete control. Over everything and everyone around him."
"Then why choose a new maid at all?"
"Because he's bored. And bored princes are dangerous princes."
I left the kitchen with more questions than answers, but one thing was clear: this wasn't just about survival. It was about understanding the game well enough to play it.
Dawn came too soon. The servants' hall buzzed with nervous energy as twenty-three women lined up against the wall. Some had managed to find cleaner dresses, others had arranged their veils more carefully. A few, like Najwa, stood with resigned dignity, knowing they wouldn't be chosen but refusing to cower.
I had done nothing special to prepare. My dress was the same rough brown cloth, my veil properly arranged. But I had washed thoroughly and stood straight, keeping my eyes lowered respectfully when the guards looked my way.
The Second Prince entered at precisely noon.
I had expected someone imposing, someone who commanded attention through presence alone. Instead, he was almost ordinary at first glance—medium height, lean build, dressed in simple blue silk. It was only when he began to move that I understood the danger.
He didn't walk; he glided. Each step was precise, calculated. His eyes swept the room like a predator assessing prey, and wherever his gaze landed, women lowered their heads further, pulling their veils closer.
"Line up," he commanded. His voice was quiet, but it carried absolute authority.
We arranged ourselves in a single row. The prince began at the far end, moving slowly from woman to woman. He didn't speak to any of them, didn't ask questions. He simply observed their posture, their bearing, the way they held themselves. When he was done with each woman, he moved on without a word.
Fatima was third in line. When he reached her, she curtsied so deeply she nearly fell. He watched her struggle to regain her balance, his expression unreadable, then moved on.
Zahra tried to stand taller and present herself well. He observed her trembling hands, then moved on.
Amina's whole body shook so violently that her veil fluttered. He paused in front of her longer than the others, tilting his head slightly, then shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Finally, he reached me.
Up close, I could see that his eyes were grey, the color of storm clouds. They held intelligence and something else—a cold curiosity that made my skin crawl. He studied my stance, my composure, how I held my hands. I forced myself to remain still, to keep my gaze lowered respectfully.
"You're the one who tried to escape," he said.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And failed each time."
"Yes."
"Yet you're still here."
"Yes."
He circled me slowly, like a cat circling a mouse. "Why?"
"Because I'm alive, Your Highness. And as long as I'm alive, I have choices."
He stopped in front of me again. "Do you think you have choices now?"
"I think I have this moment."
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or recognition. "Interesting."
He moved on to the next woman, but I could feel his attention returning to me throughout the rest of the inspection. When he reached the end of the line, he turned back to face us all.
"You," he said, pointing at me. "Step forward."
My heart hammered as I moved to the center of the room. Around me, I could hear the soft sighs of relief from the other women, mixed with disappointment from those who had hoped to be chosen.
"You'll report to the west wing kitchens tomorrow at dawn," he continued. "You'll work there for three days. If you prove satisfactory, you'll be reassigned to my personal staff. If not..." He smiled, and it was like watching winter settle over a garden. "Well. We'll see."
"And if she runs again?" one of the guards asked.
The prince's voice dropped like a blade. "Then cut off her feet."
He left without another word, his guards trailing behind him like shadows.
The west wing kitchens were a revelation. After three years in the servants' quarters, I had forgotten that such places existed in the palace. The ceiling soared overhead, supported by carved beams that gleamed with polish. Copper pots hung from iron hooks, their surfaces bright enough to serve as mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of spices I couldn't name, exotic and intoxicating.
But the women who worked here moved with the same fearful efficiency I recognized from below. They spoke in whispers, their eyes constantly darting toward the doorways. Fear, I realized, was the same everywhere in the palace—it just wore finer clothes here.
"You're the runner."
The voice belonged to a woman stirring something in a pot large enough to bathe in. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with silver threading through her black hair and scars on her knuckles that spoke of years wielding knives. When she turned, her eyes were hard as amber.
"I'm here to work," I said.
"Good. I'm Noor. I run these kitchens." She handed me a knife—a blade so sharp it seemed to sing against my palm. "You'll start with the vegetables. Everything must be perfect. The prince doesn't tolerate mistakes."
I began to work. The knife felt strange in my hand after so long with dull, rusty blades. This one could split a hair, could part flesh as easily as silk. The other women watched me from the corners of their eyes, measuring my skill, my threat level.
"She's good," one of them murmured.
"Too good for the scullery," another replied.
On the second day, I noticed the boy.
He was perhaps fifteen, with a thin face and pale eyes that held too much knowledge for his years. He swept the corridors outside the kitchen, never speaking, never making a sound beyond the whisper of his broom against stone. But every time I looked up, he was there. Sweeping the same spot. Over and over.
"That's Hakim," Noor said when she caught me staring. "He's been mute since birth. Or so he claims."
"You don't believe it?"
"I believe he's learned that silence keeps him alive." She lowered her voice. "The prince collects broken things. Fixes them. Then breaks them again."
On the third day, the test came in the form of tea service.
I was preparing mint tea—not the coarse leaves from the servants' quarters, but the finest quality, leaves so delicate they seemed to dissolve on the tongue. I had watched the ritual countless times, memorizing every movement. The water had to be at the perfect temperature, the leaves steeped for exactly the right amount of time, the honey stirred in with precise clockwise motions.
My hands were steady as I worked. The silver tray gleamed beneath the tea glass, and the liquid within was the color of pale gold. I had done everything correctly.
Then the door opened.
The Second Prince entered, followed by a man I didn't recognize—tall, dark-skinned, with intelligent eyes and the bearing of nobility. They were deep in conversation about trade routes and taxation, but the prince's attention shifted to me as soon as he saw the tea service.
"Ah," he said, interrupting his companion mid-sentence. "Perfect timing."
He gestured for me to approach. I lifted the tray, keeping my movements smooth and graceful, and knelt before him to present the tea.
He lifted the glass, inhaled the fragrance, then took a sip. His expression revealed nothing. He set the glass down and looked at me.
"Stand," he said.
I rose, keeping my eyes lowered.
"Look at me."
I raised my eyes to meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral and respectful.
"You learn quickly," he said finally.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
He turned to his companion. "What do you think, Khalil? Does she meet your standards?"
The man called Khalil studied me with the same intensity as the prince, but his gaze felt different—calculating rather than predatory. "She has potential," he said finally. "But potential means nothing without loyalty."
"Loyalty can be taught," the prince replied. "Or encouraged."
They spoke as if I weren't there, as if I were a piece of furniture to be evaluated and placed. I forced myself to remain still, to show no reaction to their words.
"Very well," the prince said at last. "You'll pack your belongings tonight. Tomorrow, you'll travel with my retinue to the southern estate. You'll serve as my personal maid and assist with... special projects."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"One more thing." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "If you ever try to run again, I'll have you flayed alive. Slowly. In front of the entire household. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
He smiled that winter smile again. "Excellent. You may go."
I curtsied and left the room, my legs somehow still supporting me despite the terror coursing through my veins. Behind me, I heard the prince resume his conversation with Khalil, their voices fading as I walked down the corridor.
I had gotten what I wanted. Access to the prince's inner circle, a chance to learn the palace's secrets, an opportunity to understand how power truly worked in this place.
But as I made my way back to the servants' quarters to pack my few belongings, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just signed my own death warrant.
The game was about to begin, and I was no longer sure I understood the rules.