Then the Imam’s men escort him out too, not arrested, but removed, like the past being carried away.
The door closes, and the sound is not loud, but it feels final.
In the days that follow, everything changes.
The court recognizes Yusha’s identity after records and witnesses confirm it.
Ibrahim’s network begins to collapse as people finally speak, emboldened by the fact that the hunted prince is no longer hiding.
The village whispers shift into something else: awe, shame, respect.
And through it all, you sit beside Yusha in rooms you never imagined, listening to men in suits talk about justice like it’s a new invention.
One afternoon, Yusha takes you to a garden inside the palace grounds.
You can’t see the fountains, but you hear them, and the sound is bright like laughter.
He describes the flowers with the same poetry he used by the river, but now his voice is lighter.
“This rose is red,” he says. “Not like blood. Like a promise.”
You smile, because you realize his words have always been your sight.
“Are you afraid?” you ask him.
He pauses. “Yes,” he admits. “Because power is a beast.”
Then he squeezes your hand. “But I’m more afraid of losing you.”
You swallow, heart full.
“I’m afraid too,” you whisper.
Then you lift your chin. “But for the first time, I’m afraid while standing, not while hiding.”
Later, when the official ceremonies happen, you don’t wear a crown.
You don’t need one.
You wear a simple scarf, and you walk beside Yusha with your cane tapping marble that once would have rejected you.
People bow, not to your blindness, but to your presence.
Your sisters come.
Aminah stands at a distance, quiet.
You recognize her steps, the slight hesitation that wasn’t there when she used to spit cruelty at you.
She doesn’t apologize in a big dramatic speech.
She just says your name for the first time. “Zainab.”
And in that single word, you hear regret.
