The Vessel

[AMAL POV]

I felt something twist in my chest—a treacherous flutter of hope that I immediately crushed. This wasn't concern for me. This was concern for his heir, his reputation, his kingdom. Another performance in the endless play of royal marriage.

"I fell," I said, my voice flat. "Several times. I told you, I'm clumsy."

His eyes snapped to mine, and I saw something that might have been hurt flicker across his features. "Don't lie to me, Amal. Not about this."

The use of my name, spoken in that gentle tone, made my throat close up. I hated how it affected me, hated how my body still responded to his voice despite everything.

"I'm not lying," I whispered.

He moved closer, and I couldn't help but flinch when his hand reached toward my face. The movement was so subtle I thought he might not notice, but his fingers froze in mid-air, and something cracked in his expression.

"You're afraid of me," he said, and his voice was so soft I barely heard it.

"I'm not—"

"You flinched." His hand hovered near my cheek, not quite touching. "You flinched when I tried to touch you."

The lump in my throat grew larger, threatening to choke me. I wanted to tell him everything—about the stones, the hatred, the way his people had turned against me. But I also wanted to preserve what little dignity I had left.

"Where did you fall?" he asked instead, his fingers finally making contact with a bruise on my temple. His touch was impossibly gentle, and I hated how it made me want to lean into it.

"The stairs near the east wing," I lied smoothly. "And the courtyard stones by the fountain. The path to the stables is uneven too."

Each lie came easier than the last, but his gentle exploration of my injuries made it harder to breathe. His thumb traced a particularly dark bruise on my collarbone, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

"This one?" he asked, his touch feather-light.

"The fountain steps. I tripped and hit the edge."

"And this?" His fingers ghosted over a mark on my shoulder.

"The stable path. I stumbled and fell against the wall."

He was quiet for a long moment, his hands mapping each injury with careful precision. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with an emotion I couldn't identify.

"Khalid," he called to his aide, who had been waiting by the door. "I want every stair, every path, every stone surface that the Princess uses regularly examined and repaired. If there's so much as a loose pebble, I want it fixed."

"Your Highness, that would be—"

"I don't care. I want crews working around the clock. The Princess will not be injured by poor maintenance again."

He turned back to me, and something in his expression made my chest tighten. "I won't have you hurt," he said quietly. "Not by anything. Not by anyone."

The words should have sounded possessive, controlling. Instead, they sounded almost... protective. And I hated how desperately I wanted to believe they were real.

"It's not necessary," I said, my voice hoarse. "I'll be more careful."

"It is necessary." His thumb traced another bruise, this one on my wrist, and I couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through me. "You're carrying my child. My heir. You're..." He paused, seeming to struggle with something. "You're important."

Important. Not precious, not cherished, not loved. Important. Like a valuable possession that needed to be protected from damage.

"I understand," I said, pulling away from his touch. "I'll be more careful with your investment."

Something flashed in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or anger. But before he could respond, Master Kaira cleared her throat.

"Your Highness, I'd like to examine the Princess again in a few days. To ensure the injuries haven't affected the pregnancy."

"Of course," Idris said, his mask sliding back into place. "Whatever she needs."

As he prepared to leave, he paused at the door and looked back at me. "Amal... if anyone hurts you again, I want to know. Immediately."

The concern in his voice sounded so genuine that for a moment, I almost believed it. Almost let myself hope that somewhere beneath the political calculation and royal duty, there might still be something real.

But I had learned my lesson about hope. It was a luxury I could no longer afford.

"Of course, Your Highness," I said, giving him the formal address like a barrier between us. "I'll be sure to inform you if I fall down any more stairs."

He flinched at the dismissal, but said nothing more. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the ache in my ribs and the treacherous flutter of something that felt dangerously close to longing.

The changes started immediately, but they felt clinical rather than caring. Extra cushions appeared on chairs—not for my comfort, but to protect the precious cargo I carried. Servants began hovering, watching my every move with the intensity of guards protecting a valuable artifact.

"His Highness has instructed that you're not to walk unaccompanied," Captain Ali informed me the next morning. "For your safety."

Safety. The word tasted bitter. I wasn't being protected—I was being managed.

The meals changed too. Smaller portions, more frequent, carefully balanced to ensure optimal nutrition for the growing heir. I wasn't asked what I wanted to eat; the physicians simply decided what was best for the baby and expected me to comply.

"You need more red meat," Master Kaira declared during one of her increasingly frequent visits. "The child requires iron for proper development."

I wanted to tell her that the child also required a mother who wasn't slowly suffocating under the weight of constant surveillance, but I simply nodded and ate what was placed before me.

Idris began appearing more often, but his visits had the quality of inspections rather than concern. He would study me with those dark eyes, taking inventory of my condition like a merchant checking his warehouse.

"You look pale," he observed one afternoon, his tone clinical. "Are you getting enough rest?"

"I'm fine."

"The physicians say you need more sleep. I've arranged for your schedule to be adjusted."

Not asked—arranged. As if I were an object to be repositioned for optimal function.

The most unnerving part was how he would sometimes catch himself staring at my still-flat stomach, his expression unreadable. I began to understand that I had become two people in his mind: Amal the inconvenience, and the vessel carrying his heir. He was interested in only one of them.

The announcement of the ceremony came without warning, delivered by a herald who spoke as if he were announcing a livestock auction.

"The Ceremony of First Blessing will be held in honor of the royal heir," he proclaimed in the great hall. "All subjects are commanded to attend and show proper reverence."

"It's quite an honor, Your Highness," Lady Mariam said, though her smile looked forced. "The kingdom hasn't seen a First Blessing in decades."

The preparations began immediately, and I found myself swept up in a machinery of tradition that moved forward regardless of my feelings. Seamstresses descended upon me like vultures, measuring and pinning and discussing my body as if I weren't present.

"The bodice will need to accommodate growth," one of them muttered, chalk marking the fabric. "Pregnancy changes happen quickly."

"Not too fitted," another added. "We don't want to restrict the child."

The child. Always the child. Never me.

The dress they created was undeniably beautiful—deep blue silk that brought out my eyes, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that supposedly represented fertility and royal bloodlines. But wearing it felt like being dressed for my own funeral.

The morning of the ceremony, I woke to find my chambers invaded by ritual attendants who spoke in hushed, reverent tones about the sacred nature of what was about to happen. They prepared a bath with oils that smelled cloying and heavy, chanting prayers in the old language that I didn't understand.

"Close your eyes, Your Highness," one of them instructed as they began the anointing ritual. "Feel the connection to your child."

I closed my eyes and felt nothing but the weight of expectations and the cold touch of sacred oils on my skin. This wasn't about connection—it was about performance.

The ceremonial jewelry came next, each piece heavier than the last. The diadem pressed against my temples, the earrings pulled at my earlobes, and the ceremonial necklace felt like a collar around my throat.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw exactly what they wanted me to see: a perfect royal vessel, adorned and prepared for display. The woman underneath had disappeared entirely.

​​The Palace of Mirrors had been transformed into something that resembled a masjid more than a celebration hall. Hundreds of candles cast dancing shadows on the polished surfaces, creating an almost hypnotic effect. The gathered crowd fell silent as I appeared, but their expressions weren't filled with joy—they were filled with hunger.

These people had come to witness a spectacle, to see the royal bloodline continue, to participate in the perpetuation of power. I was just the vessel making it possible.

The walk to the dais felt endless. Every step was watched, analyzed, judged. I could feel their eyes on my stomach, searching for signs of the precious cargo I carried. The rose petals scattered at my feet felt like a mockery—beautiful decoration for an ugly transaction.

Idris waited for me at the altar, resplendent in his ceremonial robes. When I reached him, he offered his arm with the precise courtesy of a practiced courtier. His touch was steady, reliable, and completely impersonal.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, the words as empty as everything else about this charade.

The Imam began the ceremony, his voice booming across the hall as he spoke of royal bloodlines and sacred duties. I stood there like a statue, responding to his questions with the words I had been taught to say.

"Do you accept the sacred responsibility of carrying the royal heir?"

"I do." Because I had no choice.

"Do you swear to protect and nurture this child?"

"I do." Because that was my only value now.

"Do you pledge to serve as the bridge between this generation and the next?"

"I do." Because I was nothing more than a bridge, a temporary structure to be discarded once the crossing was complete.

The crowd erupted in cheers. But the sound felt hollow, performative. They were celebrating the continuation of power, not the miracle of life.

What happened next surprised me. Idris turned to face me, and for a moment, something shifted in his expression. Then he knelt before me, placing his hand on my stomach in front of the entire kingdom.

"My heir," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the hall, "and my wife."

The crowd cheered again, but I felt nothing but the weight of his hand and the coldness of the performance. Even this gesture, which should have been intimate, felt calculated—a public display designed to reinforce his image as a devoted husband.

When he rose and embraced me, I stood rigid in his arms, unable to respond to what felt like another act in the endless play of royal marriage.

The rest of the ceremony blurred together—more rituals, more speeches, more displays of wealth and power masquerading as celebration. I smiled when expected, nodded when appropriate, and played my part perfectly.

But inside, I felt myself growing smaller and smaller, disappearing into the role they had created for me. I wasn't Amal anymore. I was the Royal Vessel, the Sacred Womb, the Mother of the Future King.

Everything else had been carved away, leaving only the parts that served their purpose.

The feast afterward was a glittering display of excess. I sat at the high table, picking at food that tasted like ash while nobles approached to offer their congratulations. Each interaction felt scripted, rehearsed, empty.

"Such a blessing for the kingdom," they would say.

"The child will be strong with such noble blood."

"You must be so proud to serve such a sacred purpose."

Proud. Yes, I was supposed to be proud to have been reduced to a breeding vessel.

Idris was attentive throughout the evening, but his attention felt like surveillance. He monitored my food intake, my posture, my interactions with the guests. I was a valuable asset that needed careful management.

"Are you tired?" he asked during a lull in the entertainment.

"A little."

"We should retire soon. You need your rest."

Not because I was tired, but because rest was optimal for the child's development.

When we finally returned to our chambers, I expected him to leave as usual. Instead, he lingered, studying me with that same evaluating gaze.

"Tonight went well," he said finally. "The kingdom is pleased."

"Good."

He turned to leave, his hand already on the door handle, when something inside me cracked. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the way the silence felt too heavy after hours of performance, or the sudden rush of hormones that seemed to hit me in waves these days. Whatever it was, the words tumbled out before I could stop them.

"Don't go."