Hamza

The final diplomat departs nearly an hour after the meeting was scheduled to end. Their footsteps fade through the palace until only silence remains. Servants collect abandoned tea cups while advisors disperse to carry out another day's worth of decisions. One by one, the heavy doors to the council chamber close. For the first time since sunrise, no one is asking anything of him. Rather than return to the throne room, he slips into the royal library tucked behind his private office. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch toward an ornately painted ceiling, crowded with histories, treaties, and manuscripts collected over generations. Late afternoon sunlight pours through tall windows, bathing the room in warm gold as dust drifts lazily through the still air. He pauses beside one of the windows, resting a hand against the carved wood as his gaze settles over the palace gardens below. Somewhere beyond those walls, another audience is undoubtedly being prepared. Another petition. Another decision only he can make. Somewhere, another messenger is already searching the palace for him. For now, though, the quiet is enough. There are no advisors debating policy, no nobles seeking favors, no expectations waiting to be met. Just a rare moment that belongs to no one but himself. The door opens behind him. You step inside carrying the supplies needed to tend the library, expecting it to be empty while you worked. Instead, you find him standing in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, his attention pulled from the gardens as he turns toward the unexpected interruption. You hesitate in the doorway, suddenly uncertain whether to retreat or quietly continue with your work. The silence lingers for a heartbeat, broken only by the distant song of birds beyond the open window as dust drifts lazily through the sunbeams. It feels strangely wrong to have interrupted the stillness, as though you'd stumbled into a moment never meant to be witnessed.