A Broken Vessel

[AMAL POV]

"What happened?"

Idris. But this wasn't the controlled, commanding voice I had grown accustomed to. This was something else entirely—something raw and dangerous that reminded me viscerally of my father's rages, of the way his voice would drop to a deadly whisper before the explosion came.

I forced my eyes open and saw him standing at the edge of the courtyard, still dressed in the formal robes he wore for council meetings. But his face... his face was a mask of such terrible fury that I instinctively tried to shrink back against the wall.

"Your Highness," Saleh stammered, his voice thick with terror and guilt. "The Princess... she wanted to ride Malik, and I... I couldn't..."

I watched him cross the courtyard with measured steps, his attention fixed on me with the focus of a predator. Behind him came a small army of servants, midwives, guards—all the apparatus of royal crisis management. But it was his eyes that held me, dark and blazing with a fury that seemed to consume everything in its path.

When he saw the blood on my face, the way I cradled my belly protectively, something in his expression shifted. The controlled anger—the kind I had seen him use to devastating effect in court—gave way to something far more dangerous. His jaw tightened, the muscles jumping beneath his skin, and I watched his hands curl into fists at his sides. This was primal rage, the kind that made my childhood memories of my father's wrath seem like gentle scolding.

"GUARDS!" His voice exploded across the courtyard with such force that several servants actually stumbled backward, their hands flying to their chests in shock. A flock of birds erupted from the nearby olive trees, their wings beating frantically as they fled the sudden violence in the air. "ARREST THIS MAN!"

His arm shot out, pointing at Saleh with such accusatory force that the stable master actually took a step backward, his face crumpling in horror. I could see the way Saleh's shoulders sagged, the way his weathered hands began to shake.

"Your Highness, please—" Saleh began, but his words were cut off as two guards seized him by the arms.

"You had ONE responsibility," Idris continued, his voice rising with each word, spittle flying from his lips in his fury. His face had gone red beneath his olive skin, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. "One! To keep her safe! To keep my heir safe! And you failed! You failed because you're weak, because you're a coward, because you couldn't stand up to a woman!"

The guards began to drag Saleh away, but I could see the man's face over their shoulders—broken, devastated, the look of a man who knew his life was over. His eyes found mine for just a moment, and I saw no accusation there, only a profound sadness that cut me deeper than any anger could have.

And it was my fault. My selfishness, my rebellion, my need to prove something that didn't need proving. I had destroyed this gentle man's life with my reckless stupidity.

Idris knelt beside me with fluid grace, his movements quick and efficient despite the rage that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His hands moved with professional efficiency to check for injuries, but I could feel the tremor in his fingers, could see the way his jaw clenched as he took in the blood on my face, the wetness spreading beneath me on the stones.

"How badly are you hurt?" he asked, his voice deceptively gentle. But I could hear the storm beneath it, the barely contained violence that made my skin crawl with familiar terror. His fingers probed at the cut on my temple, and I hissed in pain, causing him to pull back as if burned.

"I... I don't know," I whispered, afraid to speak louder for fear of what it might unleash. The cramping in my belly was getting worse, sharp pains that made me gasp and curl further into myself. "The baby—"

"The baby," he repeated, and I heard something break in his voice—something that had been holding back a flood of rage so pure it made the air around us feel dangerous. His hands stilled on my shoulders, and when I looked up at his face, I saw something that made my blood turn to ice. "Yes, let's discuss the baby. My heir. My son. The child you were supposed to protect above all else."

The midwives arrived then, their faces grave with professional concern. The head midwife—Hadija—knelt beside me with practiced grace, her hands gentle but thorough as she examined me for injuries. I felt strangely detached from the process, as if I were watching it happen to someone else, but I couldn't take my eyes off Idris's face—the way his expression shifted from controlled fury to something approaching madness.

"Your Highness," Hadija said carefully, not looking directly at him as she worked. "We need to get her to her chambers. Immediately. There are... complications."

"What kind of complications?" His voice was deadly quiet now, which was somehow worse than shouting. The servants around us seemed to shrink back instinctively, recognizing the danger in that tone.

Hadija's hesitation was answer enough. I could see her weighing her words carefully, trying to find a way to deliver devastating news to a man who looked capable of murder. Her weathered hands continued their examination, but I could see the growing concern in her eyes.

"The fall may have... there may be damage to the child, Your Highness. We won't know the extent until we can examine her properly."

The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying. I watched Idris's face as he processed the words, watched something fundamental crack behind his eyes. His breathing became shallow, rapid, and I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was barely human.

"Get her to her chambers. Now."

Strong hands lifted me carefully, and I found myself being carried across the courtyard like a child. But even through the haze of pain and fear, I could feel Idris's presence behind us—a dark storm cloud of fury and grief that seemed to consume everything in its path.

We had reached my chambers, and the midwives were trying to examine me properly, but Idris's voice filled the room like thunder. I could see the servants cringing against the walls, could feel the weight of his fury pressing down on all of us like a physical thing. The very air seemed to vibrate with his rage.

"You could have been killed," he said, his voice rising to a pitch that made my ears ring. "You could have killed my child. Do you understand that? Do you comprehend what you've done?"

I tried to speak, to explain, to apologize, but the words wouldn't come. The pain in my belly was getting worse, sharp cramping that made me gasp and curl into myself. I could see the increasingly worried glances the midwives were exchanging, the way they moved with growing urgency. This was bad. Very bad.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed to whisper.

The words seemed to break something in him. His laugh was harsh, bitter, the sound of a man on the edge of complete breakdown. He raked his hands through his hair, leaving it standing in wild spikes, and I could see the whites of his eyes as he stared at me with something approaching madness.

"Sorry?" he repeated, his voice rising to a near shriek. "You're sorry? My heir—my son—could be dead because of your recklessness, and you're sorry?"

He took a step toward me, and I saw something in his eyes that made my blood freeze—the same look my father had worn during his worst rages, the look that said reason had fled and only violence remained. His right hand was already rising, the fingers curled into a fist, and I could see the intention written clearly across his face.

"You selfish, stupid woman," he snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that was far more terrifying than any shout. "You've destroyed everything. Everything!"

His hand rose, and I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact. But before it could fall, a voice cut through the madness.

"Your Highness, please!" The voice was mature, steady, and I opened my eyes to see Mira, my personal servant, throwing herself between us. She was a woman in her forties, graying at the temples, with the kind of calm authority that came from years of managing royal households. She faced down the Prince of the realm with the unshakeable composure of someone who had seen too much to be intimidated by fury alone.

"Please, Your Highness," she said again, her voice firm despite the danger. "The Princess is hurt. She needs care, not... not this."

For a moment, I thought he might strike her instead. The madness in his eyes was incandescent, barely contained. But then he seemed to remember where he was, who was watching, and the hand that had been raised to strike slowly curled into a fist.

"If she dies," he said, his voice barely human, "if my son dies because of her stupidity, I will make her pay. I will make everyone pay."

The threat hung in the air like a miasma, poisoning everything it touched. I could see the terror in the servants' faces, could feel the way even the midwives shrank back from the raw violence in his voice.

"Get out," I whispered, unable to bear the weight of his rage any longer.

"What?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving, and I could see the shock replacing the fury for just a moment.

"Get out." The words came stronger now, fueled by my own desperation and the familiar terror of male anger. "I said get out."

He stared at me for a long moment, his dark eyes blazing with unspent fury and something that might have been grief. Then, without another word, he turned and swept from the room, his robes billowing behind him like storm clouds. But not before I heard him bark orders to the guards outside, his voice carrying clearly through the heavy wooden door.

"No one leaves this room without my permission. No one. And if anything happens to her—if she dies, if the child dies—I want to know immediately."

The door slammed behind him with such force that the windows rattled, but I could still hear his voice echoing down the corridor, still feel the weight of his threat hanging over us all like a sword.

The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear the midwives whispering among themselves, could sense the servants trying to make themselves invisible. But all I could think about was the look in his eyes—the madness, the grief, the way he had been willing to strike me while I lay bleeding and possibly losing the child we both needed so desperately.

"Your Highness?" Mira's voice was soft, careful. "How... how are you feeling?"

I looked at her, this woman who had risked everything to protect me from my husband's rage, and felt something crack open in my chest. "Like I've killed us all," I whispered.

And in the growing darkness of my chambers, with the rain beginning to fall against the windows and the echo of Idris's fury still ringing in my ears, I finally understood the true nature of my marriage. I was not a wife. I was not a partner. I was a vessel, nothing more, and my value extended only as far as my ability to deliver a healthy heir.

The baby stirred weakly in my belly—or perhaps it was just my imagination, my desperate hope that life still moved within me. I pressed my hands to the swell, whispering promises I wasn't sure I could keep.

But as I lay there in the gathering gloom, I couldn't shake the memory of his raised hand, the madness in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked with grief and rage. I had seen my father's fury too many times to mistake it for anything else—the way anger could consume a man until there was nothing left but violence and the need to destroy.

Some things, once seen, could never be unseen.

And some wounds, once inflicted, could never truly heal.

Outside my chamber door, I could hear the guards taking their positions, could feel the weight of Idris's watch settling over me like a shroud. We were all prisoners now—prisoners of my stupidity, of his need, of the child whose life hung in the balance.

And somewhere in the dungeons below, Saleh was paying the price for my rebellion, just as we all would if the worst came to pass.

The rain continued to fall, and I closed my eyes, praying to whatever gods might listen that the life inside me would survive the storm I had unleashed.

After one hour, the head midwife's words fell into the silence like stones into still water, each syllable creating ripples of devastation that spread through the assembled court officials.

"The child is dead, Your Highness."

Hadija stood with her hands clasped tightly before her, her weathered face grave but professional. She had delivered this kind of news before, but never to a prince, never with such far-reaching consequences. Blood stained her apron, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes from her failed efforts to save what could not be saved.

Idris stood perfectly still by the window, his back to all of us. He had been there for the past hour, staring out at the rain-soaked gardens while the midwives worked, while they examined me with increasing concern, while they whispered among themselves in the language of women who had seen too much death. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clasped behind his back with such force that his knuckles had gone white.

"Dead," he repeated, and his voice was so flat, so empty, that it was somehow worse than his earlier rage. "My son is dead."

The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud, and I could see the way the few remaining servants shifted uncomfortably, their eyes fixed on the floor rather than witness their prince's devastation.

"Your Highness," Hadija began carefully, "the Princess herself is stable. She will recover fully—"

"Leave."

The word was spoken quietly, but they cut through the room like a blade. The midwives exchanged glances, gathering their instruments with practiced efficiency. Even the servants began to retreat, recognizing the danger in that tone.

"All of you," Idris continued, still not turning around. "Out. Now."

The room emptied quickly, leaving only the two of us in the sudden, suffocating silence. I could hear the rain against the windows, the distant sound of the palace continuing its daily routines, oblivious to the catastrophe that had just unfolded.

But I couldn't focus on any of that. The emptiness in my belly felt like a physical wound, a hollowness that echoed with every breath. My baby. My son. Gone.

My breath caught in my throat, a strange hiccupping sound that might have been the beginning of tears or the end of hope. The reality hit me in waves—first the physical absence, the hollow ache where movement had been, then the crushing weight of what it meant. I pressed my hands to my belly, as if I could somehow call the life back through will alone.

"He's gone," I said, and the words came out flat, almost conversational. Strange how the worst truths often sounded so ordinary. "My baby. He's gone."

When Idris finally turned from the window, he moved like a man underwater—slow, deliberate, as if the air itself had thickened around him. His face had changed in that hour of waiting. The fury that had consumed him earlier had burned itself out, leaving behind something I had never seen before. Not grief—grief was too human, too warm. This was absence. A fundamental alteration, as if someone had reached inside him and carefully removed essential pieces.

"Your baby." He didn't ask it as a question. Each word was placed with surgical precision, and I could hear the blade hidden underneath. "How interesting that you think of him that way."

The tone made something cold crawl up my spine. I had heard him use that voice before—with courtiers who had disappointed him, with servants who had forgotten their place. Never with me.

"My son is dead," he said, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he were discussing the weather. "My heir. The future of this kingdom." He tilted his head, studying me with the detached curiosity of someone examining an insect. "And you... my dear wife... you killed him."

The words were delivered with such cold precision that they cut deeper than any scream could have. I flinched, but he wasn't finished.

He moved closer, his footsteps measured and deliberate, each one echoing in the silence like the tolling of a bell. "What now? What will you do? You'll tell me the usual 'Sorry, I didn't mean it, Idris'?" His voice was mocking, dripping with sarcasm that felt like acid on my skin. "How touching. My devoted wife didn't mean to murder my child."

The word 'murder' hit me like a physical blow, and I gasped, my hands flying to my throat. But he was already moving, his hand shooting out to grip my chin with bruising force. His fingers dug into my skin, and I could feel his nails beginning to bite into the flesh.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "Look at what you've done to yourself. Do you know what you are now?"

His nails pressed deeper, and I felt the sharp bite of pain as they broke skin. I could feel the warm trickle of blood running down my jaw, could taste the copper tang of it on my lips. Tears streamed down my face, but I couldn't look away from his eyes—cold, empty, utterly devoid of the warmth that had once made me feel safe.

"You're nothing," he whispered, the words cutting deeper than his fingers ever could. "A cracked toy I was foolish enough to keep. Do you hear me, wife? You had one reason to exist in this palace. One purpose. And you threw it away." His grip tightened, and I whimpered in pain. "For what? A childish outburst? A horse ride?"

His smile was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen—empty, cold, completely devoid of any human warmth. "You really are as stupid and useless as you look."