In a vast Eastern Empire, where the sun ruled the skies as faithfully as the Sultan ruled the land, time flowed with measured grandeur.

Under the reign of the great Sultan Jalal ad-Din al-Azzam, the empire breathed in gold and dust. Merchants entered the cities atop weary camels, their caravans heavy with silk, spices, and gemstones from distant lands. Laborers carried stone beneath the burning sun, raising walls and domes meant to outlive generations. And within the palace—where marble met gold and fountains whispered secrets—life unfolded in splendor: the Sultan’s harem shimmered behind veiled doors, traders of rare fabrics bowed low in shaded halls, and eunuchs moved swiftly through corridors, resolving matters spoken only in hushed voices.

Beyond the palace walls wandered Amir al-Hakim, the Sultan’s son and heir.

Unlike many princes raised solely among cushions and incense, Amir chose the streets. Draped in modest robes that concealed his status, he walked through bazaars and narrow alleys, observing the rhythm of the empire he would one day rule. He listened to merchants argue over coin, watched craftsmen weigh honesty against profit, and studied faces—tired, hopeful, desperate, proud. He believed a future Sultan must first understand his people.

His steps were unhurried. His thoughts, deep. But on that day, beneath a sky bleached pale by the desert sun, his quiet walk was interrupted.

By you.