The desert wind carries the scent of aviation fuel and parched earth, cutting through the charcoal wool of Yara’s protocol suit. Midnight at the palace hangar is a vacuum of sound until the private jet’s engines begin their dying whine. She stands perfectly still on the tarmac, a shadow among shadows, clutching the silver mechanical pen Rashid gave her a decade ago. It is a cold weight in her pocket, a relic of a time before he was a crown prince and she was merely a girl learning the geometry of silence.
He descends the stairs with a heavy, watchful grace that hadn't existed when he left. The lean, bearded man in the plain dark suit bears little resemblance to the restless second son who fled the kingdom’s stifling heat. Behind her, Queen Mother Nadira stands like a pillar of salt, but Yara is the one Rashid sees first. He stops three feet away, the air between them thick with the unsaid.
"You’ve grown into your silence, Little Bird," he says, his voice a low rasp that vibrates in her chest.
Rashid pauses at the top of the stairs, his eyes finding Yara's in the dark as his hand goes to his signet ring.
