The palace of Al-Zahra was never silent.
Even at dusk, when the sun bled into the dunes and lamps were lit along the corridors, the palace breathed—footsteps on marble, murmured counsel, distant fountains whispering secrets meant only for stone.
The Queen sat alone by the open window of her chamber.
Beyond it, the city stretched endlessly, a sea of lights beneath the darkening sky. From here, everything looked peaceful. Ordered. Loyal.
Yet her thoughts refused to obey.
Aydin.
The name surfaced uninvited.
She had met hundreds of men—kings, generals, scholars, poets. Men who bowed too deeply or stared too boldly. Men who measured her worth in power or beauty.
But the chariot rider had done neither.
He had not tried to impress her.
He had not flinched under her gaze.
And when their eyes met, he had looked away—not in fear, but restraint.
That unsettled her.
"You are distracted," said a voice behind her.
She did not turn. "Am I not allowed to be human, my brother?"
The Queen's brother stepped into the lamplight, silk robes flowing, a smile playing easily on his lips. He wore charm the way others wore armor.
"The kingdom prefers you flawless," he said lightly. "Distraction invites weakness."
She faced him now, her expression calm. "And yet weakness has not undone us."
"Not yet," he replied.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long.
Then she looked away.
Later that night, the Queen dismissed her attendants earlier than usual. She removed her veil and crown, setting them aside like burdens she did not wish to carry.
She thought again of the southern gardens.
Of the sudden halt of the chariot.
Of the child saved without hesitation.
Of hands steady on reins, yet gentle with strangers.
She closed her eyes.
"Why do you trouble me?" she whispered—to a man who could not hear her.
Across the city, Aydin walked the narrow streets toward his home.
The lamps cast long shadows that stretched and twisted along the walls. Somewhere nearby, laughter spilled from an open doorway. Life, unafraid.
He paused briefly, resting a hand against cool stone.
He had not meant to remember her voice.
Yet it lingered—soft, measured, carrying something lonely beneath command.
He exhaled and continued walking.
This was dangerous.
Not the palace. Not the guards.
The feeling.
The next morning, rumors stirred the markets.
"The Queen traveled without ceremony yesterday."
"She rode like a commoner."
"They say she smiled."
Aydin kept his head down as always, fastening the harness of his chariot.
But when a royal seal appeared on the road later that day, his breath caught.
A guard approached.
"The Queen requires a rider," he said. "Immediately."
Aydin bowed.
"Yes."
As he guided the chariot forward, the palace rose once more before him—unchanged, imposing, watching.
Some meetings were coincidence.
Others were fate insisting.
And fate, it seemed, was not finished with them yet.