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Servants and maids were countless at every corner of the great palace. Each had their own duty to which they were wholly devoted. Some stood firmly guarding the passageways and every gate of the palace.

All of them wore the same color of clothing—both male and female servants—dark blue, a kind of uniform.

Gradually, each one began to step aside from whatever they were doing, moving to the edges and bowing their heads, because of the sound of the queen’s approaching footsteps—the jingling of her golden anklets announcing her arrival from afar. From her childhood till now, she had grown up in the palace, accustomed to the anklet’s chime announcing her presence wherever she went. Now that she was grown and in power, her rule was in her blood.

As she approached the entrance that would lead her to the King’s private chamber, she suddenly stopped. Without saying a word, she slowly turned her gaze to her right-hand side.

Her attendant, standing beside her, quickly stepped forward, turned, and looked at the six maids following them. With a single glance, she commanded them to step back. They withdrew slowly and bowed their heads.

The Queen, Zaarah, released a hidden sigh and entered through the door that had long been opened for her. Her attendant followed behind, and the door was shut.

It was a vast, magnificently decorated parlour, adorned with royal chairs of red and golden hues, shining like pure gold. Everything in the room matched that red-and-gold splendor. Five split air conditioners worked continuously, filling the hall with coolness—a sign of immense wealth invested into the palace.

There was no one in the parlour, for this was only the first hall that led to the royal audience chamber, then further to the King’s private quarters.

She stopped once again, sighing for the third time, her heart pounding. Without turning to look at her attendant, her trembling voice broke the silence:

“This message from the Sultan shakes my heart deeply… for it is a message of sorrow. Any servant or courtier who might have carried this message could have lost his life; that is why I chose to deliver it myself.”

Her attendant heaved a heavy sigh, her eyes filled with sympathy as she thought: “May Allah aid you, my Queen, and ease your sorrow. Though you have suffered loss, may He grant you strength to deliver the Sultan’s message…”

But Queen Zaarah interrupted sharply:

“Childbirth has become a source of fear for us… rather than joy.”

Her attendant replied softly, “My Queen, may Allah remove your fears. But you must still show the Prince your joy at the birth of his child, for he himself is grateful to Allah for the blessing granted him. May Allah protect what has been born and make it a source of pride.”

The Queen whispered Ameen beneath her breath, gathering courage and composure. She adjusted her veil, which covered her long flowing hair, adorned with a golden chain on her forehead. Her dark-purple gown, decorated with dazzling gemstones, trailed behind her as she walked.

She crossed the hall, her attendant following, until they reached the door to the King’s inner chamber. The guards opened it with care. The attendant remained behind, bowing low, while the Queen entered alone.

The chamber was a masterpiece, silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.

There he sat—the King—an aged yet regal man, clothed in splendor, his face marked by authority and power that ran through his royal bloodline. His eyes, fierce and commanding, struck fear into her heart, and she nearly faltered before steadying herself.

She approached with trembling steps, lowered her gaze, and, voice shaking, said:

“May Allah protect you… A message from Georgia…”

When his piercing eyes fixed upon her, she nearly collapsed but quickly steadied herself again and continued:

“The Prince has sent word: his wife has delivered… a baby girl.”

She turned her face away, afraid to see his reaction, knowing the anger of men when they hear such news.

For twenty long minutes, silence filled the room. Then, in a thunderous voice full of authority, the King finally spoke:

“You have delivered the Prince’s message. Inform him it has been received.

As for your reward for bearing this message—you shall not see your son again for one full year. He shall not return unless his wife conceives again, and this time, she must give birth to a son. Only then shall he return. If she bears another daughter, they shall remain there until she gives birth to the Prince whom his father demands.”

As he finished, he rose to leave.

The Queen lifted her eyes, filled with sorrow, knowing she would not see her beloved son for yet another year. It had already been five years since his marriage. His wife had borne only daughters, and each time the King exiled them far away, forbidding their return until a male heir was born. One daughter had already died, and still the King refused their return. Her heart longed desperately for her son, yet again the King’s harsh decree tore them apart.

Softly, she whispered:

“May Allah soothe the heart of the King of Kings. I accept my punishment, if it brings joy to my Sultan. The Prince’s message has been delivered.”

Turning, she left with dignity. The attendant quickly followed, her head bowed, sensing the Queen’s heavy grief.

Back in her own quarters, Queen Zaarah dismissed everyone. Entering her private chamber, she went straight to her bedroom, where she found her maid Rumana arranging her new clothes.

Rumana turned with a bright smile and said gently:

“Welcome back, Ammy.”

But the Queen’s face was stern. “I need rest,” she said coldly.

Rumana bowed and moved toward the door. But the Queen’s voice halted her:

“Ummu-Rumana…”

“Yes, Ammy,” Rumana answered softly.

“I want no disturbance from anyone. No one is to enter my quarters. I need peace.”

“As you wish, Ammy. Rest well,” Rumana replied, sorrow tightening her heart. She left quietly, burdened by the Queen’s troubled state.

She rejoined the other servants outside. Together, they whispered in worry about their Queen, who had withdrawn into silence. Each feared the wrath of the palace if any mistake was made, for the Sultan was known for his merciless punishments, even against his own family.

Thus, palace life continued—ruled by power, fear, and the heavy chains of royal decree.