The air in the royal infirmary was warm and quiet, filled with the gentle scent of jasmine oil and crushed healing herbs. Sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, spilling golden ribbons across the marble floor. Silk curtains swayed with the soft morning breeze, giving the room a sacred stillness—as if the wind itself had come to guard the small boy lying upon the pale ivory bed.
He looked impossibly fragile.
Zayn—still unnamed at that time—lay motionless beneath a velvet blanket far too large for his tiny frame. His head was wrapped in soft white bandages, clean but stained faintly with dried blood. Purple bruises marked his arms and ribs, each one a cruel reminder of hands that should have cared for him but had harmed him instead. The ointments spread across his skin glimmered faintly under the light, but despite the healers' best efforts, the child did not stir.
Queen Anila had not left his side.
She sat close to him, robes of rose-gold and silver draped around her like a shimmering waterfall. Her fingers gently traced the boy's knuckles in slow, comforting circles. Even her magic—soft pulses of warm, soothing energy—flowed constantly from her hand into his, trying to cradle him until he returned.
But he did not.
His chest rose only in shallow breaths. No name. No memories. No voice.
Only silence.
Anila hummed an old lullaby—one she remembered from childhood, one her own mother used to sing during stormy nights. She sang it now for a boy she had known for mere hours… yet felt connected to in a way she could not explain.
She didn't know why her heart hurt for him.
She didn't know why her eyes stung when she looked at him.
But she already loved him.
Across the room stood Sir Arsal—the guard who had pulled the boy from the river—and young Sir Farid, faithful and stern. Neither dared to speak. They watched the Queen as if witnessing something sacred.
The door opened quietly.
King Hamza stepped inside.
His imposing presence filled the room—tall, strong, with broad shoulders draped in a deep crimson cloak. His usually sharp eyes softened as they landed on his wife and the injured child beside her.
He approached silently, boots tapping gently against the polished floor, and came to stand at the foot of the bed. His jaw tensed as he took in the sight—the bruises, the bandages, the unnaturally still little body.
"No word?" Hamza asked, voice low with controlled anger.
Anila shook her head. "Not even a rumor."
Hamza exhaled, a slow and heavy breath. "Then whoever hurt him wanted the world to forget him."
"But we won't," she whispered.
He moved closer, kneeling beside the bed despite his royal stature. His large hand brushed back the damp curl falling over the child's forehead. Under the bandages, Hamza knew the wound was deep—one the healers warned could steal every memory the child ever had.
A boy who may wake with nothing.
Or may not wake at all.
"What kind of monster," Hamza murmured, "does this to a child?"
A pain flickered in his expression—pain and something else. A decision forming inside his heart.
He looked at Anila.
"We can't send him away. Not to an orphanage. Not to another family. He was brought to us for a reason."
Her breath trembled. "Then what will you do?"
Hamza touched the boy's tiny hand.
"We'll raise him here," he said. "As ours. Not hidden. Not in shadows. He will have a name… and a future."
Anila's eyes softened with hope. "Then name him."
Hamza studied the child for a long moment—his bruised face, his delicate fingers, the faint rhythm of life still clinging to him despite everything.
"Zayn," he said quietly. "It means beauty and grace. A reminder that even something broken can still shine."
Anila brushed a tear from her cheek and whispered,
"Welcome to Elarion, Zayn."
---
The Next Morning
The palace awoke with hushed whispers.
Only a handful of trusted healers and guards knew the truth, but secrets in a castle never stayed secret for long—especially from children.
Seven-year-old Prince Ahmad stood outside the infirmary doors, arms crossed and brows knitted tightly. His governess hovered anxiously behind him, trying and failing to lure him to his lessons.
Ahmad refused to move.
He remembered the boy from the river—his pale skin, his trembling breaths, the blood on his head. And he remembered how his father had looked, a mixture of fear and determination Ahmad had never seen before.
When the infirmary door finally opened, Queen Anila stepped out.
Ahmad ran to her. "Mama? Can I see him?"
She knelt to his height and smoothed his hair. "Yes, sweetheart. Come. There's someone you should meet."
Little Princess Naima toddled behind them, clutching her one-eyed stuffed bear, her tiny slippers pattering across the marble floor. She blinked up at her mother.
"Are we seeing the river boy?"
Anila smiled faintly. "Yes, my love. His name is Zayn."
They entered the infirmary together.
Zayn still lay unconscious, though some color had returned to his cheeks. A single white blossom rested in a bowl beside him—a symbol of new beginnings.
Ahmad stepped closer, slow and cautious. His small hand reached for Naima's, as if instinctively shielding her.
"Will he wake up?" Ahmad asked quietly.
"We hope so," Anila replied. "He is strong."
Naima looked at the bandages, her young face scrunching in worry. "Why is he hurt?"
Ahmad gently covered her eyes with one hand. "Don't look, Naima."
She pouted. "But I want to see."
"Later," he whispered. "When he's better."
Anila watched them—one protective, one innocent—and her heart swelled.
"He is going to be your little brother now," she said softly.
Ahmad blinked. "Really? Like… for real?"
"Not by blood," Anila said, "but by heart."
Naima gasped softly. "Like a baby brother?"
"Yes," Anila smiled.
Ahmad leaned in beside the bed. For a moment, he simply looked—studying Zayn's small fingers, the soft rise and fall of his chest.
Then he whispered, "Hi, Zayn. I'm Ahmad. When you wake up… I'll teach you how to skip stones."
Naima peeked over the side of the bed and placed her stuffed bear near Zayn's pillow.
"You can have my bear," she whispered. "He makes scary dreams go away."
Anila's eyes filled with quiet tears.
The boy who came from the river—broken, nameless, almost lost—was no longer alone.
He had a mother's touch. A father's vow. A brother's promise. A sister's love.
Family.
Outside, sunlight scattered petals across the courtyard like blessings.
Inside, Zayn slept on—still silent, still drifting.
But deep within the darkness of his unconscious mind…
Something stirred.
A tiny flicker.
A faint spark.
The first hint that the child who washed up in the river carried a destiny far greater than any of them yet understood.