The sun scorched the cracked asphalt of Malik Ibn Saïd Airport, casting a white, harsh light across the ground. Heat shimmered in the air, twisting above car hoods, clinging to every breath, every inch of exposed skin.
Assad Ibn Khalil walked forward, unfazed, though the heat bit at his temples. Around him, passengers wilted under the suffocating temperature, dragging their suitcases like chains. But he, wrapped in a long beige linen coat, walked with purpose, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Each step he took on this arid land echoed like a war drum against the silence of the past.
Ten years.
Ten years had passed since he last breathed this dry, spiced air—tread upon soil thick with memory.
Ten years away from the crushing expectations of a name too heavy to bear.
Son of the Grand Sheikh…
A title as suffocating as a shroud, as prestigious as it was unjust.
And yet, he had returned.
Heart beating out of sync, Assad tried to ignore the voices of the past stirring within him. But the moment he stepped through the glass doors of the main hall, he saw him.
A silhouette.
Tall, composed, draped in a pristine white tunic, untouched by the heat.
Nabil Al-Fayez.
The man had barely changed. Aged, yes—the crow's feet near his eyes, the salt now overtaking the pepper in his beard—but still sharp, sly, mocking.
A gaze that reminded Assad of long afternoons spent studying, watched by a man who knew every secret of the palace as if he'd carved them into stone himself.
A smile spread across Nabil's lips—half amusement, half satisfaction.
— "Assad Ibn Khalil," he said, his voice deep, heavy with memories.
— "The desert's son has finally returned."
Assad stopped a few steps away, his eyes lingering on the old man.
Part of him wanted to walk past, let silence carry the weight of his indifference.
But he knew—
In this country, everything was appearance.
Even silence was strategy.
He extended a steady, controlled hand.
— "Nabil Al-Fayez. Still as punctual as ever."
A dry laugh escaped Nabil.
— "And you, still as insolent. Seems you haven't changed much."
— "Who I was—was shaped by you," Assad replied, voice neutral, almost cold.
— "Don't give me too much credit, boy. Your father always wrote the script. I merely taught the lines."
He stepped aside, motioning him to follow.
— "Come. The Sheikh awaits."
The word awaits hung in the air like a lie. Assad raised an eyebrow.
His father? Impatient?
The very thought was laughable.
They walked side by side beneath the esplanade, their steps echoing against the stone tiles.
Silence stretched between them—tense, thick with old memories and unspoken truths.
The scent of the desert clung to them—a mix of spice, hot sand, and aged musk.
Assad briefly closed his eyes.
The images hit instantly:
Children's laughter echoing through palace halls.
His mother's soft voice singing at dusk.
His father's shadow, always present. Always looming.
Suddenly, Assad broke the silence.
— "How is my mother?"
Nabil turned slightly, a flicker of softness in his eyes.
— "Still the same. Devoted.
Prayer after prayer, she never forgot you."
A lump rose in Assad's throat. He looked away, fixing his gaze on the golden horizon.
— "And Yasmina?" he asked quietly.
Nabil gave a knowing chuckle.
— "Ah… Your sister has grown into a strong-willed young woman. They say she's just like you.
She questions tradition. Challenges the elders.
Your father has lost sleep over her."
A faint smile curved Assad's lips.
— "Doesn't surprise me. She was always a storm in the making."
A black 4x4 waited for them outside the airport. The driver bowed respectfully.
Nabil opened the door.
— "Still theatrical, I see," Assad muttered.
— "This land is nothing if not dramatic," Nabil replied. "You know that better than anyone."
The ride was quiet, tension settling like dust in the car.
The scenery passed like an old melody—golden dunes, lonely palms, sleepy villages baked in sun.
With every mile, Assad felt his shoulders tighten.
Until the palace appeared.
The Palace of Al-Mazhar.
Majestic. Untouched.
Its golden domes gleamed under the sun, its immaculate walls defied time.
Flags flapped lazily in the warm wind—echoes of an ancient power.
It was more than a palace.
It was a battlefield in silence.
At the entrance, a row of servants had gathered, heads bowed in silence.
And at the front—
Amira Bint Zayed.
The governess. The woman who had watched him grow.
Her hazel eyes shimmered with emotion she didn't bother hiding.
As he stepped onto palace grounds, she moved forward and, breaking all protocol, clasped his hands in hers.
— "My boy… You've finally come home."
Assad leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.
A wave of emotion hit him—raw, overwhelming.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then straightened.
This was not the time. Nor the place.
— "The Sheikh awaits in the Council Hall," Nabil said, his voice suddenly heavy.
Assad nodded.
He knew what was coming.
The Council Hall was frozen in time.
Its ancient murals told tales of conquests, wars, alliances.
And at the far end, seated upon a carved wooden throne—
Sheikh Khalil Ibn Othman.
The man who had built an empire.
The man who had sacrificed everything for honor.
There he was.
Straight-backed. Unyielding.
Eyes like steel, fixed on Assad with piercing intensity.
A hush fell, reverent and cold.
Assad walked forward, calm and steady.
His breath deep.
He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.
— "Father."
The Sheikh inclined his head.
A flicker—barely there—lit his gaze.
— "My son.
Welcome home."
And in that precise moment, Assad understood:
> The true battle had just begun.