MURA KINGDOM - ABU'S CHAMBER
"I don't know what to do, uncle."
The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Prince Rachid sat slumped in an ornately carved chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for answers in the painted beams above. He was a handsome young man—frail-looking despite his noble lineage, dressed in ritzy Bazin clothes that seemed too grand for his defeated posture. His pupils were empty, devoid of the fire one expected from a king's son.
Across from him sat Abu, his uncle, a middle-aged man whose concrete jawline and spade-shaped beard gave him an air of authority that Rachid desperately lacked. Abu's eyes gleamed with interest as he observed his nephew's lamenting state, sipping citronella tea with practiced calm.
The chamber they occupied was one of the palace's quieter spaces—a room designed for private counsel, away from the prying eyes and listening ears that infested every corner of Bakar's court. Tapestries depicting ancient battles covered the walls. The furniture was simple but well-crafted. A small brazier in the corner kept the chill at bay.
"Is it about your father?" Abu's deep voice resonated throughout the chamber, breaking the silence. "Did he say something yet again?"
Rachid sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand disappointments. He finally tore his gaze from the ceiling and looked at his uncle with eyes that held no hope, no light, no expectation of comfort.
"Yeah. I crossed paths with him this morning." His voice was flat, emotionless. "He failed not to point out the failure I am. I'm aware I can't ever be a great warrior, let alone reach his level, so why must he bring me down on every possible occasion?"
The grief in his voice was palpable—not the sharp grief of fresh wounds, but the dull, aching grief of someone who'd been cut so many times the pain had become background noise. The voice of one who had no reason to live beyond simple momentum.
He took a sip of the tea that sat in front of him, then lifted his eyes back to the ceiling, as if the painted heavens offered more solace than the real world ever could.
A hint of pity flashed through Abu's pupils. He'd watched his nephew grow up under Bakar's shadow—had seen the boy's spirit slowly crushed beneath the weight of impossible expectations, had witnessed each casual cruelty that reminded Rachid he would never be enough.
"Warfare isn't just physical," Abu said carefully, choosing his words with the precision of a man who knew how fragile his nephew's confidence had become. "It's mental as well as spiritual. You not being a warrior in no way restricts your goal of being a warlord."
He leaned forward, setting down his tea cup.
"Previously, I stated that you were one of the smartest juniors I've come across. The potential to succeed as a strategic master is there, Rachid. Unlock it and you will accomplish great things."
"Sure. Sure."
The words came out mechanical, reflexive. Rachid's demeanor stayed unchanged, his body language screaming that he'd heard this all before. Ostensibly, his uncle's encouraging words were unconvincing, regarded as well-meaning lies told to make him feel better about his inadequacy.
"Sigh." Abu shook his head, recognizing the familiar pattern. "I know you don't consider my words, but you will come to acknowledge them. One day, when the moment comes that requires your particular gifts, you'll understand."
He took another sip of tea, letting the moment breathe before changing the subject.
"Anyways, what do you think of the recent situation? The war decree?"
At the mention of politics, something shifted in Rachid. The dull and lusterless youth was replaced—however briefly—by someone full of vigor and interest. His posture straightened. His eyes focused. It was as if a different person had suddenly inhabited his body.
"The situation isn't optimistic, uncle." The words came quickly now, precisely, with the confidence of someone who actually knew what they were talking about. "From the talks in the royal hall earlier, we might initiate a war. The fact is, we're targeting the largest kingdom, and the information about their military force is next to none."
He warmed to the subject, his hands gesturing as he spoke—animated in a way he never was when discussing his own failures.
"We indeed have the mightiest army, yet war is uncalled for. Taking into account the peace treaty signed 150 years ago... I can't understand his reason. What does father hope to gain that's worth risking everything we've built?"
Abu listened with rapt attention, watching his nephew transform before his eyes. This—this was the Rachid he believed in. Not a warrior, perhaps, but something potentially more valuable: a thinker, a strategist, someone who could see patterns and consequences that escaped even the mighty Bakar.
Abu fell into contemplation, considering the words spoken. Two breaths later, he opened his eyes and gave his thoughts.
"You're right. I see no reason to wage war at the moment. I spoke of this with your father, but he disagreed and shut me down." His expression darkened with memory. "There surely is something more to this that we are unaware of. Some piece of the puzzle we're not seeing."
"Right?" Rachid leaned forward eagerly, grateful to have his analysis validated. "A full-scale war against Gold Land leaves us open to threats from Ankh and the Ace Kingdom. Why take that much risk when triumph is uncertain? Why expose our flanks when we have enemies who would happily stab us in the back?"
His eyes brightened with conviction—the first real emotion Abu had seen from him all day.
"There is a need to undertake actions against these foolish decisions, uncle Abu. Someone has to make father see reason before he destroys everything our ancestors built."
Rachid peered at his uncle meaningfully, and Abu felt a chill run through him like an electric discharge coursing through his entire being.
"Never mention opposing the king again," Abu said sharply, his voice suddenly hard as iron. "Unless our death is your goal."
"But he is—"
"STOP!"
The command cracked through the room like a whip. Rachid flinched, and Abu immediately softened his tone, though the warning remained clear.
"It doesn't matter what he is. You know his temperament, Rachid. When it comes to such decisions, he won't tolerate being opposed. Not from me, not from the ministers, and certainly not from his son." Abu's eyes bored into his nephew's. "Your father has killed men for less than what you're suggesting. Family blood won't protect you if he sees you as a threat to his authority."
Both men fell silent, the weight of Abu's words settling over them like a shroud.
Rachid slumped back in his chair, the brief fire in his eyes guttering out. Once again, he was just a frail young man in clothes too grand for him, staring at problems he had no power to solve.
"So we do nothing?" he asked quietly. "We just... watch while father leads us into disaster?"
"We survive," Abu corrected. "We watch. We wait. We gather information. And when the time is right—if the time ever comes when your voice might actually matter—then we speak." He reached across and gripped Rachid's shoulder. "But not now. Not while the war drums are beating and your father's blood is up. Now is the time for silence and patience."
Rachid nodded slowly, understanding if not accepting.
"Sometimes I wonder," he said after a long moment, "if being a failure in his eyes is actually a blessing. He doesn't see me as a threat because he doesn't see me at all. Maybe that's the only reason I'm still alive."
The words cut deeper than any sword, and Abu felt his heart break a little for this nephew who'd learned to find comfort in being overlooked.
"One day," Abu said firmly, "you will be more than he ever imagined. And on that day, you'll understand why I never stopped believing in you."
"Sure," Rachid said again, but this time there was the tiniest hint of something in his voice—not quite hope, but perhaps the memory of what hope once felt like.
It would have to be enough.
For now, it was all either of them had.