The Shadow and The Scale

The days stretch gently in the royal infirmary.

Zayn sleeps through most of them, his tiny frame barely shifting beneath the embroidered blanket. But the healers begin to smile more with each visit. His color improves. The bruises fade. The wound on his head, though still tender, begins to close.

He stirs in small moments. A flutter of lashes. A twitch of fingers. A breath that catches like a whisper about to speak.

Each moment becomes a miracle for Queen Anila.

She remains beside him every day, humming lullabies, sometimes speaking softly about her own children or about the stars. She brushes his hair, smooths his brow, wipes away sweat when fever visits. It's a quiet devotion—a bond that forms even without words.

Prince Ahmad visits every morning before his lessons. He brings books sometimes, even though he can barely read all the words. He sets them by the bedside.

"I thought maybe… if he hears stories, he'll dream better ones," Ahmad says shyly one morning.

Naima often toddles in behind him, her tiny arms full of wildflowers picked from the courtyard. "One for Zayn," she says, each time, adding to a growing collection of petals and leaves by the window.

Even King Hamza comes in late at night, after the castle has fallen quiet.

He rarely speaks. He stands at the door, arms folded, eyes fixed on the child who arrived like a ghost. He watches. Thinking. Weighing.

And yet—each night—he always says the same thing before he leaves.

"You're safe now, Zayn. Rest."

---

On the sixth day, Zayn opens his eyes.

It happens just after dawn. The sky glows soft and golden beyond the windows. Anila is humming an old lullaby when his lashes flicker, then lift. Two wide, dark eyes blink slowly, confused by the light.

She gasps, setting aside the cloth she's been folding.

"Zayn?" she says, gently.

He doesn't respond—not with sound—but his gaze shifts. He sees her.

He sees the room.

His small fingers curl slightly at his side.

Anila holds her breath. "You're safe. Do you remember anything?"

Zayn stares at her for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he shakes his head.

Her heart aches, but she smiles anyway. "That's all right. You don't have to remember yet."

He tries to sit up, but winces. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, little one. Your body's still healing."

He lies back, eyes darting nervously. His mouth opens slightly, as if to speak, but no sound comes.

"It's all right," she assures him. "No rush."

She pours him a cup of warm broth and lifts it to his lips. He drinks, slow and cautious. The warmth seems to ease the tension in his limbs.

"You're Zayn now," she tells him softly. "That means beauty. And grace. Your name is a gift. And you're part of our family now."

His brow furrows slightly, as if trying to grasp the meaning of the words.

But when she smiles at him, something shifts in his eyes—something like trust.

---

The days after are filled with quiet progress.

Zayn doesn't speak, not yet. But he begins to respond more. A nod here. A hesitant blink. The slight turn of his head when someone enters the room.

He is still afraid of loud noises. The clang of armor, the bark of a guard outside, makes him flinch. Sometimes he clutches the blankets tightly until the sound passes.

The healers confirm what the king feared—the head wound was deep. It may have caused some memory loss. Zayn cannot remember his name, his family, where he came from.

But he watches everything.

When Ahmad visits, Zayn tracks his every move with curious eyes. When Naima dances across the floor humming to herself, he stares at her as if she is made of light.

One afternoon, she sits beside his bed and offers him her stuffed bear.

"His name's Button," she says proudly. "You can borrow him till you get better."

Zayn doesn't take it at first. He just looks at her, then at the bear, then back.

Naima gently sets it on the blanket near his hand. "Button doesn't like being alone either," she adds softly.

Zayn blinks, then slowly—so slowly—his fingers curl around the bear's worn paw.

From across the room, Queen Anila wipes her eyes.

---

By the second week, Zayn begins to walk again.

Carefully, with support, first within the infirmary and then into the quiet garden just outside. He clings to the stone railings, but he walks. Ahmad helps him sometimes, offering a shoulder to lean on with the seriousness of a child trying to act grown.

"He's getting stronger," Ahmad reports to his father one night. "He doesn't fall as much anymore."

Hamza nods. "That's good."

"He watches everything we do," Ahmad continues. "I think he's really smart."

Hamza looks toward the garden where Zayn sits quietly beside a fountain, watching birds flutter above.

"Yes," the king says. "I think so too."

---

Zayn begins to draw.

Not with chalk or paint—but with twigs in the dirt. Simple lines. Circles. He draws the courtyard, the trees, the knights training in the distance. Always watching. Always remembering.

Ahmad catches him one day, copying the sword stances of the palace guards.

"You want to be a knight too?" Ahmad asks, amused.

Zayn looks at him. Then gives the tiniest, almost invisible smile.

It's the first smile anyone sees.

And Ahmad, unsure why, feels suddenly proud.

---

Late one evening, Queen Anila tucks Naima into bed and returns to the infirmary.

Zayn is awake, sitting upright, eyes tracing the moon through the tall window.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asks.

He shakes his head. Still no words.

She sits beside him and gently places a book on the bed. "This was one of Ahmad's favorites. It's about a boy who couldn't find his voice until he discovered a gift no one else had."

Zayn stares at the cover.

"You don't have to talk yet," she says. "Just listen."

And so she begins to read.

As her voice carries through the room, Zayn leans back against the pillows, eyes softening. The stars outside blink gently, as if listening too.

She reads until his breathing evens, and his eyes close again.

---

By the third week, Zayn has not only recovered—he's begun to settle in.

He's quiet, yes. But not broken.

He eats with the family now, though he rarely speaks. He sits beside Naima, who tells him silly stories. He watches Ahmad's sparring lessons from the balcony and follows the rhythm of the drills with invisible steps of his own.

He observes. He remembers. He learns.

And though no one knows who he was…

He is becoming someone new.

A son of the palace.

A shadow of a past forgotten…

And a spark of something no one sees yet.

Something waiting to awaken.