The Orphan Boy

[AMAL POV]

Three weeks into my new life, I practiced perfection in the mirror. Not the unguarded smile that had once belonged to a different woman, but the calculated expression Mira had spent hours teaching me—welcoming enough to disarm, restrained enough to command respect.

"Chin up slightly, Your Highness," she murmured, adjusting my posture with practiced hands. "Remember, you must appear accessible without seeming common."

I shifted accordingly, studying the stranger who stared back at me. Gone was the desperate creature who had fled through moonlit forests. In her place stood a woman draped in deep sapphire silk, her hair woven with threads of gold, her skin painted with an artist's precision. Every inch proclaimed nobility.

"Better," Mira approved. "Now, when Lady Yasmin mentions her daughter's betrothal, you'll—"

"Express measured interest without appearing eager for gossip," I finished. "Inquire about the match but never the dowry. Praise the girl's character but avoid commenting on her beauty."

"Precisely. You learn quickly."

Learn. Yes, that was what I did now. I learned to be the flawless princess, the ideal political asset, the woman Idris required me to become. The work was exhausting, but I threw myself into it with grim determination. If I could not have love, I would have competence. If I could not have happiness, I would have purpose.

The marked woman had died in those woods months ago. The grateful bride had perished on my wedding night. The fool who had believed in fairy tales was nothing but ash.

What remained was a princess learning to master the game.

"Your Highness," a servant appeared at my door. "The children from the orphanage have arrived."

My throat tightened. My first charitable engagement, carefully orchestrated by Idris's advisors to capitalize on my origins. The reformed outcast, now extending gracious aid to society's unwanted.

"I'm ready," I said, and almost believed it.

Twenty-three children stood in formation, their faces scrubbed clean, their patched clothes mended with obvious care. Ages five to fifteen, all orphans from the city's institutions. Wonder lit their eyes as they gazed upon the palace gardens, but I recognized the wariness beneath—the same guardedness I had worn like armor for years.

"Your Highness," Mother Khadija curtseyed deeply. "The children are honored by your gracious invitation."

"The privilege is mine." I stepped forward, my rehearsed warmth feeling less foreign than usual. "I understand these are your most dedicated students?"

"Indeed, Your Highness. Despite their circumstances, they have shown remarkable devotion to their studies."

I knelt before the smallest child, a slip of a girl with enormous dark eyes. "What's your name, little one?"

"Zahra, Your Highness," came the whispered reply.

"Beautiful. Are you learning your letters?"

She nodded solemnly. "Mother Khadija says if I read well, I might find position in a fine household."

The words struck me with unexpected force. Here, in Idris's territory, such hopes were possible. Girls could learn, could read, could dream of futures beyond servitude or suffering. It was a stark contrast to his brother's domain, where a book in a woman's hands meant beatings, imprisonment, or worse.

This gentler world unsettled me more than brutality ever had. I had learned to navigate cruelty, but kindness remained foreign territory.

"Reading is important," I told Zahra, ignoring how my silk skirts pooled in the dirt as I knelt. "But remember—you have value exactly as you are, not merely for what service you might provide."

The child's eyes widened. Behind her, Mother Khadija nodded approvingly.

As I rose to continue down the line, my gaze fell upon a boy near the center of the group, and the world tilted. Perhaps ten years old, with delicate features and the most striking green eyes I had ever seen. Something about his face sent my pulse racing—the curve of his cheek, the way he held his head as if listening to music only he could hear.

"And you are?" I asked, kneeling before him.

"Ahmed, Your Highness." His voice was clear, melodious.

I stared, my mind reeling. Those eyes, that gentle bearing—he was the living image of someone I had loved deeply. "How old are you, Ahmed?"

"Ten, Your Highness. I've lived at the orphanage for three years."

Three years. My heart hammered against my ribs. He would have arrived at age seven, precisely when... I forced my breathing to remain steady, my expression composed, though inside I screamed with recognition and desperate hope.

"Would you like to see the rose garden?" I addressed the group while my eyes remained fixed on Ahmed. "The flowers came from the far southern provinces."

As we walked, I found myself drawn to his side by an invisible thread. He was quiet, observant, possessed of an intelligence that reminded me painfully of his mother. When we paused beside a fountain, he asked the question that changed everything.

"Your Highness," he said, those green eyes serious beyond his years, "is it true you were once marked?"

The words hit like a physical blow. Around us, the other children fell silent. I felt Mother Khadija's sharp intake of breath.

"Ahmed," she said firmly. "Such questions are inappropriate—"

"It's all right," I said quietly, though my heart threatened to burst from my chest. I looked at him—this boy who might be the son of the woman who had died saving my life. "Yes, it's true."

"But you're not anymore."

"No. When I married the prince, the mark was removed. But I remember what it felt like to bear it."

"Did people hurt you?" another child asked.

"Sometimes. Often." I chose my words with care, speaking to all of them while watching Ahmed's reaction. "But I learned that others' opinions of you need not define your worth."

"Is that why you wanted to meet us?" Ahmed pressed, and I saw something in his eyes—a sharpness, a depth that was pure Halima. "Because you remember?"

I studied him for a long moment. Too clever, this one. Dangerous, probably, in the way that intelligent children from hard circumstances often were. Just like his mother. "Yes," I said finally. "I remember."

Something shifted in the group. The wariness didn't vanish, but it softened. These children understood abandonment, understood being deemed worthless. They recognized something in me that even the palace courtiers couldn't see.

The performance that followed was simple—songs, recited poetry, a small dance. Throughout it all, I watched Ahmed, memorizing his features, the way he moved, how he protected the smaller children with gentle authority born of premature responsibility.

When little Zahra stumbled during her recitation and looked up with tears threatening, Ahmed stepped forward—but I was already kneeling, whispering, "You're doing beautifully."

She threw her arms around my neck, and for a moment, I let myself hold her. But over her shoulder, I saw Ahmed watching with those devastating green eyes, and I wondered if he could see the truth written on my face.

After the children departed, I caught Mother Khadija before she could leave. "Might I speak with you privately?"

She looked surprised but nodded, following me to a secluded corner of the garden. "Of course, Your Highness."

"The boy, Ahmed." I struggled to keep my voice level. "Could you tell me about him? How he came to the orphanage?"

Her expression grew cautious. "May I ask your particular interest in him, Your Highness?"

I hesitated, then chose a version of truth. "He reminded me of someone. Someone who was... important to me."

Mother Khadija studied my face. "Ahmed is indeed special. He came to us under unusual circumstances—brought by guards from the second prince's palace three years ago."

My heart stopped. "The second prince's palace?"

"Yes. We were told his mother died in service there, with no family to claim him. The third prince—Prince Idris—took responsibility for his care and education." She paused. "We were told the boy had witnessed something traumatic."

"His mother," I whispered. "What was her name?"

"Halima. She was a servant in the second prince's household. From what little we learned, she died protecting someone else."

The world spun around me. Halima's son. Alive. Safe. Protected by Idris, who had somehow known, had somehow arranged...

"Your Highness?" Mother Khadija's voice seemed distant. "Are you well?"

"Yes," I managed, though I felt as if I were drowning. "This woman, Halima—she was the someone I knew. She was very dear to me."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Ah. That explains why Ahmed seemed drawn to you as well. Children often sense these connections."

"Does he know? About his mother, about what happened?"

"He knows she died serving in the palace. He knows she was brave. We thought it best not to burden him with harsh details until he's older." She paused. "He asks about her often. He has a few belongings—a scarf, a piece of jewelry. The guards brought them."

Tears threatened, but I fought them back. "He's been well cared for?"

"Very well. The third prince's support has been generous—Ahmed receives excellent education, proper nutrition, warm clothing. He's treated no differently than any other child, but his needs are always met."

"Thank you," I managed. "For telling me this. For caring for him so well."

"It's been our honor, Your Highness. Ahmed is remarkable. His mother would be proud."

After Mother Khadija left, I stood alone in the garden, my mind reeling. Ahmed. Halima's son. The child she had died believing was lost forever. He was alive, safe, educated, cared for—and he had her eyes, her gentle strength, her quiet intelligence.

"The orphanage visit was adequate," Idris said, not bothering to look up from his papers. "My sources tell me you didn't embarrass yourself this time."

I sat across from his desk, spine straight, hands folded. Perfect posture, perfect composure. "How gracious of you to notice."

"Lady Mira reports you're managing your other duties without incident. The Ladies' Circle, charitable committees, social calls—all sufficiently competent."

"Your praise is overwhelming."

He glanced up with a slight smirk. "There's a state dinner next week. Eastern province representatives. Try not to cause a diplomatic incident."

My jaw tightened. "What exactly are you expecting me to do?"

"Nothing spectacular. Smile, nod, don't speak unless spoken to. Think of it as an advanced orphanage visit, but with higher stakes." He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "The eastern lords value protocol above all else. One wrong word from you could set back negotiations for months."

"I'll do my best."

"See that you do." His attention returned to his papers. "You're dismissed."

I stood and walked to the door, but he spoke again without looking up.

"Amal."

I turned back. "What?"

"You weren't completely terrible today. With the children." He still didn't look at me. "It served its purpose."

For a split second, something warm flickered in my chest—then died just as quickly. Not praise. Just acknowledgment that I'd been useful. "I live to serve."

I left the study with measured steps, but once the door closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and pressed my hands to my chest. My heart was pounding, and I hated myself for it. One neutral compliment, and I had been ready to throw myself at his feet like a grateful dog.

This was the problem. No matter how hard I tried to build walls around my heart, no matter how much I told myself he meant nothing to me, part of me still remembered what it had felt like to believe he loved me. Part of me still craved that feeling, even knowing it had been a lie.

I pushed myself away from the wall and walked toward my chambers, each step deliberate and controlled. In the mirror-lined hallway, I caught sight of myself—poised, elegant, every inch the princess. But I could see the truth in my eyes, the yearning I couldn't quite hide.

Pathetic.

He'd made it clear what I was to him. A tool. A means to an end. The least I could do was stop pretending otherwise.

But when I reached my chambers and closed the door, I found myself touching the place on my chest where his praise had landed, warming me from the inside like a coal I couldn't quite release.

I had so much to learn still. Not just about being a princess, but about protecting my own heart from the man who had broken it so thoroughly.

Ahmed had been right to ask if I remembered. I did remember—what it felt like to be discarded, to be seen as worthless. But I was learning something else too. I was learning that sometimes the person you needed to protect yourself from wasn't the one who had marked you.

Sometimes it was the one who had saved you.

That night, I sat at my dressing table while Mira prepared my nightgown. The routine had become comforting—the careful dismantling of the day's performance, the return to something closer to my true self.

"You did very well today, Your Highness," she said as she brushed out my hair. "The children clearly adored you."

"They were sweet." I caught her eyes in the mirror. "Mira..."

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"How long have you served the royal family?"

"Nearly twenty years, Your Highness. I came to court as a young woman, served the late queen, and now you."

"Have you ever seen a marriage like... like mine and the prince's?"

She paused in her brushing. "What do you mean, Your Highness?"

I chose my words carefully. "A marriage where the couple is still... learning to know each other."

"Most royal marriages begin that way," she said diplomatically. "Love often grows with time and understanding."

Love often grows. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that somewhere underneath his cold calculation, there was still the man who had held me in the forest, who had looked at me like I was precious.

But I had seen behind his mask now. I knew what he really thought of me.

"Mira," I said quietly. "If someone... if someone broke your heart, how would you learn to stop loving them?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "I suppose," she said finally, "you start caring about someone who does."

"And if there's no one else?"

"Then you start with yourself."

After she left, I sat alone, staring at my reflection. The woman in the mirror looked tired. Not physically—the court lifestyle was hardly demanding—but tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

I thought about Lady Mira's words. Start with yourself.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for Idris to see me as something more than a convenient wife. Maybe it was time to stop seeing myself through his eyes at all.