Chapter 2 -- A Name for the Lost

The air in the royal infirmary is warm and quiet, filled with the gentle scent of jasmine oil and fresh herbs. Sunlight trickles in through arched windows, casting golden patterns across the marble floor. A steady breeze whispers through the silken curtains, almost as if the wind itself has come to watch over the boy.

He lies motionless on the wide, cushioned bed, small and fragile beneath the heavy velvet blanket. His head is wrapped in white linen bandages, and his arms are covered in healing salves. Purple bruises bloom faintly across his skin, the remnants of cruelty that no child should ever endure.

Queen Anila hasn't left his side since he was brought in.

She sits on the carved wooden chair beside the bed, her robes pooled around her like a curtain of silver and rose-gold. Her fingers gently stroke the boy's hand, brushing over knuckles too small, too thin. Her magic—subtle and rare—flows in pulses through her touch. Healing. Soothing. Trying to coax him back from the edge of whatever darkness holds him.

But nothing changes.

He breathes, faint and slow. No words. No movement. No name.

Anila's eyes are weary but soft. She hums an old lullaby, one her mother once sang to her when she was small and afraid of storms. Now she sings it to this boy—this broken, nameless child who appeared from the river like a secret whispered by fate.

She doesn't know why, but she already loves him.

Across the room, two guards stand silently. One is Arsal, the seasoned knight who pulled the boy from the river. His hand still aches from the cold water, but he doesn't complain. The other is Sir Farid, younger, newer to the palace. His expression is grim. Neither speak. They only watch, knowing that whatever happens in this room tonight may change the future of the kingdom.

The door opens softly. King Hamza steps inside.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence fills the room without a word. His dark crimson cloak trails behind him, trimmed in gold. But the weight of his crown is more than metal today—it's the weight of a decision he never expected to make.

He crosses the room and stops at the foot of the bed. His gaze falls on the boy—on the pale skin, the dark lashes, the curve of bruises on his arms.

Still unconscious. Still a mystery.

"No one's come forward?" he asks quietly.

Anila shakes her head. "Not a single whisper."

He exhales, rubbing his thumb against the hilt of his sword. "Then someone wanted him gone. Wanted him forgotten."

"But the river gave him to us," she says gently. "And we will not forget him."

Hamza walks closer. He kneels beside the bed, his heavy boots quiet on the marble. His eyes are sharp but full of sorrow.

"Look at him," he murmurs. "He's barely two. What kind of monster leaves a child like this?"

He reaches out and brushes a damp curl from the boy's forehead. Beneath the bandages, he knows the wound is deep. The healers had told him—if the boy ever wakes, he may not remember anything at all.

No name.

No family.

No home.

"We'll raise him here," Hamza says finally, glancing at his wife. "But not as a servant. Not in secret shadows. He'll have a name. A life. He'll be protected."

Anila nods. "Then give him one."

Hamza looks at the boy for a long moment. His hand rests lightly over the child's chest, feeling the faint rise and fall of breath.

"Zayn," he says. "It means beauty. Grace. A reminder that even something broken can still be whole. Even lost things can be loved."

Anila smiles softly, and a tear slips down her cheek.

"Welcome to the world, Zayn," she whispers.---------

The morning after King Hamza names the boy Zayn, the palace begins to stir with curiosity.The inner staff have been ordered to remain silent. Only the most trusted healers, guards, and attendants know of the boy's presence. But in a palace woven together by whispers and quiet footsteps, secrets are difficult to keep—especially from family.

Prince Ahmad, just five years old, stands outside the infirmary doors, his small brows furrowed. He is flanked by his governess, but today he's refused lessons, insisting to see his parents. His feet tap anxiously against the stone floor.

He doesn't yet understand politics or danger, but he remembers the boy—remembers his pale face by the river, his small frame wrapped in a soaked tunic. He remembers the look in his father's eyes.

The doors open at last. Queen Anila steps out.

Ahmad straightens. "Mama?"

She crouches to his height, her expression soft. "Come, sweetheart. There's someone I want you to meet."

He walks with her, quiet and curious, through the polished corridor. Princess Naima, barely three years old, waddles beside them, holding her mother's hand tightly. Her other arm is looped around a stuffed bear missing one eye.

"Are we going to see the boy from the river?" Ahmad asks.

Anila nods. "Yes. His name is Zayn now."

Naima frowns. "Is he sick?"

"He's resting," the Queen answers gently. "But he's safe."

The infirmary is quiet as they enter. Zayn still lies asleep, the same slow rhythm to his breath, though his skin has gained a little color. A small white blossom rests in a dish beside the bed, placed there by Anila that morning. It is a symbol of new beginnings in their culture.

Ahmad walks up slowly. His hand instinctively reaches for Naima's, as if shielding her from something she can't quite understand.

He studies Zayn with solemn eyes.

"Will he wake up?" he asks.

"We don't know," Anila replies. "But he's strong."

Naima tugs at Ahmad's tunic. "Why is his head wrapped?"

"He was hurt, Naima," Ahmad says, softly but firmly. Then he places his hand gently over her eyes. "Don't look, okay?"

She frowns beneath his fingers. "I wanna see him."

"Later," he says. "Not like this."

Anila watches them both, her heart full. Ahmad is already protective, already thoughtful. And Naima, even in her innocence, seems to sense the gravity in the air.

"He's going to be your little brother now," Anila tells them.

Ahmad turns sharply. "Really?"

"Not by blood," the Queen says. "But by heart."

Naima blinks, wide-eyed. "Like a baby brother?"

Anila chuckles softly. "Something like that."

Ahmad steps closer to the bed. He looks down at Zayn, studying the features. For a moment, there's silence between the children. Then Ahmad whispers, "Hi, Zayn. I'm Ahmad. When you wake up, maybe we can play outside. I'll show you how to skip stones."

Naima peeks over the edge of the bed, still holding her bear. "You can have my bear when you get better," she says, dropping it gently beside the pillow.

Anila's eyes mist over.

In that moment, the Queen knows this child is no longer just a guest or a mystery—they have accepted him already. Zayn is part of their family now.

Outside, the sun rises higher. The wind picks up in the courtyard, scattering petals through the air like blessings.

The future still holds its secrets.

But in this room, for the first time in many days, peace settles.

Zayn remains asleep, unaware of the voices that now call him brother.

But somewhere, deep in his mind, something stirs.