[AMAL POV]
Two years had passed since the great hall burned, and I had learned the art of patience. At twenty-seven, I had perfected the mask of the dutiful servant—my face composed, my voice respectful, my movements precise. The Second Prince, now simply called Prince Faisal, trusted me with his correspondence, his schedule, his minor secrets.
He had no idea that every piece of information I gathered was carefully catalogued and stored away for a purpose he would never suspect.
"The morning reports, Your Highness," I said, placing the scrolls on his desk with practiced efficiency. The prince's study had been rebuilt grander than before, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and walls lined with books he rarely read.
"Thank you, Amal." He barely glanced up from the trade agreement he was reviewing. "The ambassador from Cordoba arrives tomorrow. Ensure the blue guest chambers are prepared."
"Of course, Your Highness. Will there be anything else?"
"Not at present."
I bowed and withdrew, my footsteps silent on the polished marble floors. In the corridor, I paused to observe the guards' rotation—a habit I had developed over the years. The morning shift changed at the third hour, leaving a brief window when the eastern gate was less closely watched.
Details. Everything depended on details.
The laundry chambers were busy when I arrived, steam rising from the great copper vats where palace linens were boiled clean. The women worked in comfortable silence, their movements synchronized by years of routine. I found Ghada near the drying lines, her dark hair now streaked with premature gray, her hands skilled as she folded the Prince's ceremonial robes.
"How did he seem today?" she asked without looking up.
"Distracted. The Cordoba negotiations are troubling him."
"Good. Distracted men make mistakes."
Ghada had changed in the years since the fire. The whipping had left more than scars on her back—it had carved away the last traces of the gentle girl who had once worried about her father's approval. Now she was harder, more calculating, her intelligence sharpened by suffering into something that could cut.
After her punishment, she had been reassigned to the laundry—a demotion that was meant to humble her. Instead, it had given her access to every corner of the palace. Laundry women were invisible, trusted with the most intimate garments of the royal family, present in chambers where secrets were whispered and plans were made.
"The shipment from Alexandria arrives next week," she said quietly, shaking out a silk scarf. "The caravan will have forty guards, but they'll be tired from the journey. They always rest for three days before returning."
"And the route?"
"Same as always. Through the mountain pass, then south to the coast."
I pretended to examine a tapestry hanging nearby. "The merchant captain?"
"Hamid ibn Rashid. He's been trading with the palace for fifteen years. Honest, but not curious. He asks few questions about his passengers."
"Payment?"
"The jewelry box in the Prince's private chambers. I've been watching his habits—he checks it every seventh day, always after the evening prayers. If we time it right, we'll have six days before he notices anything missing."
Six days. It might be enough, if everything went according to plan.
We had been preparing for this moment for the two years, ever since Najwa had disappeared. I still remembered the morning I had found her chamber empty, the bed neatly made, no sign of struggle or distress. The guards claimed she had simply walked out to her freedom.
I had searched for her for months, questioning merchants, checking with physicians, following every rumor. But Najwa had vanished as completely as if she had never existed. The not-knowing was worse than grief—it was a constant ache that reminded me every day of what this place had cost us both.
But her disappearance had also freed me in a way I hadn't expected. For years, I had stayed because I felt responsible for her, because I couldn't abandon the broken woman my choices had created. Now, with that burden lifted, I could finally act on the plan Ghada and I had been discussing in whispers and glances.
"There's something else," Ghada said, moving to a different section of the drying lines. "I overheard the Prince's conversation with the Commander of Guards yesterday. They're planning to expand the palace guard by fifty men."
"Why?"
"Unrest in the eastern provinces. There are rumors of bandits, but the Prince thinks it's more organized than that. He's worried about another rebellion."
This was troubling news. More guards meant more complications, more eyes watching, more opportunities for our plan to fail. But it also meant the Prince would be more distracted, more focused on external threats than internal ones.
"When do the new guards arrive?"
"Within the month. Before the harvest festival."
The harvest festival. I had been planning to use the celebration as cover for our escape—the palace would be full of visitors, the staff overwhelmed with preparations, security focused on protecting the royal family during public appearances. But fifty new guards could change everything.
"We may need to move sooner than planned," I said.
"How much sooner?"
"The Alexandria caravan. If we're going to do this, it has to be then."
Ghada was quiet for a long moment, her hands stilling on the fabric she was folding. "That's two weeks away. Are you certain we'll be ready?"
"We have to be."
The truth was, I wasn't certain of anything. Six years of careful planning, of gathering information and resources, of building the perfect moment for escape—and now we might have to abandon half of it because of circumstances beyond our control.
But that was the nature of life in the palace. Nothing was ever certain except the certainty of change.
"I'll need to accelerate the timeline," I said. "The documents, the travel permits, the money—it all has to be ready within ten days."
"What about the horses?"
"Leave that to me. I have an idea."
We finished our conversation in the language of glances and subtle gestures we had developed over the years. To anyone watching, we were simply two servants going about their duties. But beneath the surface, we were finalizing plans that would either give us freedom or get us killed.
That evening, I made my way to the stables under the pretense of checking on the Prince's new mare. The stable master, an old man named Kassim, had known me since I was eighteen and had always been kind to me.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said, stroking the mare's neck. "Arabian bloodline, bred for speed and endurance."
"His Highness chose well," I agreed, running my hand along the horse's flank. "Tell me, Kassim, what do you know about the merchant caravans that trade with the palace?"
"Quite a bit. I've been shoeing their horses for twenty years. Why do you ask?"
"The Prince wants to know more about their routes, their schedules. He's concerned about security."
It was a lie, but a believable one. Kassim nodded gravely.
"Smart of him. The roads aren't as safe as they once were. The Alexandria route is still the most secure—they travel in large groups, well-armed, and they know the mountain passes like the back of their hands."
"And their horses?"
"The best. They wouldn't last a day in the desert otherwise. Strong, fast, bred for long distances."
"Could palace horses keep up with them?"
"Depends on the horse. These new Arabians could, certainly. But why would palace horses need to—" He stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Amal, what are you really asking?"
I had known this moment would come. Kassim was too intelligent to be fooled for long, and I needed his help if our plan was to succeed.
"I'm asking whether you believe every person deserves the right to choose their own path in life."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "That's a dangerous question."
"Only if you give the wrong answer."
"And what would be the right answer?"
"The one that lets you sleep peacefully at night."
Kassim looked around the stable, ensuring we were alone. "I've been watching you for more than five years, girl. You've never been happy here, not really. And after what happened to your friend..."
"You knew about Najwa?"
"I know about many things. Including the fact that she didn't just walk out of those gates on her own."
My heart clenched. "What do you know?"
"I know that certain people in this palace have long memories and longer reaches. I know that some problems are solved quietly, away from prying eyes. And I know that what happened to her could happen to anyone who becomes inconvenient."
"Then you understand why I have to ask these questions."
"I understand more than you might think." He moved closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Alexandria caravan leaves in two weeks. They always need additional horses for the return journey—palace horses are prized in the eastern markets. If someone were to arrange for a few extra animals to be available..."
"What would such an arrangement cost?"
"Not money. But a promise."
"What kind of promise?"
"That whoever benefits from this arrangement will remember an old stable master who chose to look the other way when it mattered."
I felt tears prick my eyes. "Kassim—"
"Don't. Just promise me you'll be careful. And if you find what you're looking for out there, remember that not everyone in this palace is your enemy."
The next ten days passed in a blur of careful preparation. I forged travel documents using the Prince's seal, copying his signature from hundreds of letters I had written on his behalf. Ghada gathered information about the caravan's route, their planned stops, their cargo. We accumulated supplies gradually—dried food, water skins, coin sewn into the lining of our clothes.
Most importantly, we practiced the art of being invisible. We memorized the guards' schedules, identified the blind spots in their patrols, learned the rhythm of palace life so completely that we could move through it like ghosts.
Three days before the caravan's departure, I was summoned to the Prince's study for the evening briefing. He seemed more troubled than usual, his brow furrowed as he reviewed reports from the eastern provinces.
"The situation is deteriorating," he said without preamble. "There have been attacks on three merchant caravans in the past month. The provincial governors are requesting additional troops."
"Will you grant their request, Your Highness?"
"I don't have a choice. The trade routes must be protected." He looked up at me. "I'll need you to draft letters to the garrison commanders. They're to send half their men to the eastern provinces immediately."
Half their men. That meant the palace guard would be even more depleted than we had hoped.
"Of course, Your Highness. When do you need the letters?"
"Tomorrow morning. I want the troops moving within the week."
"Very well. Will there be anything else?"
"Yes." He set down his pen and studied me carefully. "You've been in my service for three years, Amal. You've been loyal, efficient, discreet. I value that."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
"Which is why I'm going to give you some advice. There are rumors in the palace—whispers about servants who might be planning to... relocate. Such rumors concern me."
My blood turned to ice, but I kept my expression neutral. "I'm sorry to hear that, Your Highness."
"I'm sure you are. The thing about rumors is that they're often based on truth, even when the details are wrong. And the thing about truth is that it has a way of revealing itself, regardless of how carefully it's hidden."
"Indeed, Your Highness."
"I would hate to lose a valuable servant to... poor decision-making. Particularly when that servant has family and friends who might suffer for her choices."
The threat was clear, even wrapped in courtly language. He knew. Maybe not the details, but he knew something was being planned.
"I understand, Your Highness."
"Good. Then we understand each other." He returned to his papers. "You may go."
I left the study on unsteady legs, my mind racing. How much did he know? How much time did we have? Should we abandon the plan, wait for a better opportunity?
But as I walked through the palace corridors, past the guards and servants and courtiers who had shaped my life for six years, I realized that there would never be a better opportunity. The Prince's warning had been meant to frighten me into compliance, but it had done the opposite.
It had reminded me that I was already trapped, already at risk, already living on borrowed time.
The only question was whether I would spend that time as a prisoner or as a free woman.
On the morning of the caravan's departure, I rose before dawn and made my way to the Prince's chambers to deliver his correspondence. The palace was quiet, the corridors empty except for the guards who nodded respectfully as I passed.
The Prince was already awake, dressed in his riding clothes. "The letters to the garrison commanders?"
"On your desk, Your Highness." I placed the scrolls in their proper position. "The messengers are waiting in the courtyard."
"Excellent. And the preparations for the Cordoba ambassador?"
"Complete. The blue chambers are ready, the welcoming feast is planned for tomorrow evening."
"Good." He moved to the window, gazing out at the garden where the first light of dawn was touching the fountain. "It's going to be a busy few days."
"Indeed, Your Highness."
I waited for him to dismiss me, but he remained at the window, his posture thoughtful.
"Amal," he said finally. "Do you ever wonder what your life might have been like if you had made different choices?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... I'm not sure I understand, Your Highness."
"I mean, if you had chosen a different path. Marriage, perhaps. A family. A life outside these walls."
"I serve at Your Highness's pleasure. I have no other ambitions."
"No?" He turned to face me, and I saw something in his eyes I had never noticed before—a kind of sadness, or perhaps regret. "How disappointing. I had hoped you might have dreams beyond this palace."
"Dreams are luxuries I cannot afford, Your Highness."
"Indeed they are." He moved to his desk and picked up his pen. "You may go. I won't be needing you until this evening."
I bowed and left, my heart pounding. There had been something final in his words, something that felt like a goodbye.
In the corridor, I found Ghada waiting with a basket of laundry. She fell into step beside me, her expression carefully neutral.
"It's time," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Are you ready?"
I though of Halima and Amina. I thought of Najwa, somewhere beyond these walls—alive or dead, I would never know. I thought of the Prince's warning, his final question about dreams and choices. I thought of the years stretching ahead, an endless succession of mornings delivering correspondence and evenings taking dictation, growing old in service to a man who saw me as nothing more than a useful tool.
"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."
By sunset, we would either be free or dead. After six years of careful planning, the choice was finally simple.
Freedom or death. There was no third option.
Not anymore.