In the end, he was right once again, Shahab mused with a faint smirk as his measured steps echoed through the grand halls of the royal palace. The polished marble gleamed under the soft light of chandeliers, and at his approach, servants and guards alike paused to bow and step aside, their deference as automatic as the tides.
Two decades ago—well, to be fair, twenty years ago still placed him in his early forties, so calling himself "young" might have been generous—he had dared to dream of his grandson claiming the throne from his son-in-law. A son-in-law who, by all accounts, was a walking disaster in royal garb.