The palace had long since fallen quiet. The evening’s grandeur — the laughter, the blessings, the subtle envy behind jeweled smiles — had faded into memory. In your private chambers, the air was heavy with the faint perfume of incense and wilting jasmine, remnants of the celebration that had unfolded without him.

The candles on the mantel burned low, their light soft against the ivory walls. You sat before the mirror, still dressed in the pale gold silk chosen for the maqbal al-mawlud, its embroidery catching faint traces of light. The silence pressed against your composure, testing its edges.

When the great doors opened, it was without announcement. Sheikh Zayd entered, tall, unhurried, his authority filling the space as effortlessly as breath. His bisht trailed behind him, the scent of oud marking his presence before he spoke.

He paused behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror — his gaze steady, inscrutable. You did not rise. The air between you held everything unspoken: duty, distance, and the quiet ache of expectation unmet.

Outside, Doha slept. Inside, the silence between royalty was louder than words.