Chapter One
The jasmine vines clung lazily to the edges of the stone archways, their delicate petals brushed with the golden light of the fading sun, as though the heavens themselves had set them alight. Eman sat with her knees tucked beneath her, fingers gently tracing the folds of silk, an intricate array of colours and textures, each one a potential masterpiece for the next merchant gathering. She hummed softly to herself as she assessed her work, lost in the familiar rhythm of creation, a world of her own.
Her father’s footsteps, deliberate and slow, interrupted the quiet. His pace was uncharacteristically measured, like the heavy tread of someone walking under the weight of something significant. Eman’s brow furrowed slightly as she looked up, sensing the shift in the air before she saw his figure approaching.
“Eman,” he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before.
Her gaze shifted to his face, the kind of face that had commanded respect and admiration in every corner of the marketplace and beyond. But tonight, his expression was a mask. Calm, yet guarded, and weary. He held his turban in one hand, his fingers running through the thinning salt-and-pepper of his beard, a gesture she recognised as one of thought, contemplation.
“Come walk with me.”
She nodded, folding the silks neatly into a pile. There was no protest, not even a question. In moments like these, when her father’s manner changed so suddenly, she knew better than to argue. Something important loomed between them, something she would soon have to face.
They walked side by side toward the edge of the courtyard, where the stone wall met the first of the ancient olive trees, their gnarled trunks twisted like old memories. The garden was beautiful, as it always was, but today, the shadows seemed longer, the air heavier. As they reached the quiet border of the grove, her father paused and turned to face her.
“You remember Prince Ali Ansari?” he asked, his voice still carrying that softness.
Eman hesitated, her fingers tightening around the delicate bracelet on her wrist. “The Silent Prince?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Her father gave a soft, almost reluctant chuckle, but there was no mockery in it. Only a knowing sadness. “Yes. The one who never speaks, though ‘never’ may not be quite the right word.”
Eman’s brow lifted in confusion. “So, what of him?”
Her father stopped walking, and the space between them seemed to stretch. For a moment, his gaze grew distant, as though he was mentally weighing something, searching for the right words. “His family has made a proposal. For you.”
The words hit her like a blow to the chest. Her heart stumbled in her chest, her breath momentarily stolen by the unexpectedness of it.
“Me?” Her voice cracked as she spoke, disbelief and something else she couldn’t name swirling in her chest.
He nodded once, but his eyes, dark and steady, told her more than words ever could. “I didn’t accept it,” he added quickly, his hand reaching out to rest gently on her shoulder. “I told them I would speak with you first. I won’t make this decision for you, Eman. It’s yours to make.”
Eman stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing as her heart began to hammer in her chest. She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest garment merchants in the capital, a woman who’d spent her life as a symbol of elegance, intelligence, and strength. Marriage had always seemed like something distant, a part of a world that felt less urgent than the fine silks and the bustling marketplace that had shaped her life. But now, in the face of this revelation, it was suddenly too close, too real.
“But… why me?” she asked, the question tumbling from her lips before she could stop it.
Her father studied her, his face unreadable for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he took a step closer. His voice softened, laced with a quiet intensity she hadn’t expected. “Because the prince needs to marry. And I suggested you as a potential match for him. I think you two might make a good pair.”
Her breath hitched at the thought of it. The prince needed to marry. That was all.
“But, Eman,” he continued, his tone now more earnest, “I won’t send you into a life you do not choose. If you meet him and feel nothing, if your heart cannot bear it, I will decline the offer on your behalf.”
She looked down at her feet, her pulse quickening. “He doesn’t speak,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “How could I?”
“Not always,” her father said. “He does not speak, but that does not mean he is incapable of communication. His eyes… they say more than most men’s mouths.”
She swallowed hard. He was right, of course. But the idea of marrying someone who spoke with silence, whose words were forever sealed behind a wall of silence, left her feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never been before.
“You will meet him tomorrow,” her father said. “You will have the chance to see him to decide for yourself.”
Eman felt the ground beneath her feet shift in ways she couldn’t control. Her father was the kind of man who never wavered, never hesitated. To see him standing before her, uncertain, willing to let her make this choice, only made her more aware of the weight of the decision. She nodded slowly, a lump forming in her throat.
The First Meeting
Eman’s stomach twisted in quiet knots as she stood in front of the carefully arranged clearing, adjusting the bracelet around her wrist. Her simple Abaya swayed gently in the breeze, a stark contrast to the lavish silks she usually wore. She had chosen this modest outfit on purpose. She didn’t want the prince to meet her adorned with the artificial glow of wealth or beauty. If he had chosen her based on humility, then she would meet him as she was, as herself.
A guard arrived and gestured silently for her to follow. He led her to a secluded area in the garden where the trees spread their arms wide, their branches forming a canopy of leaves that dappled the ground with soft patterns of light and shadow. He then stepped away without a word, leaving Eman standing alone beneath the canopy. She adjusted her posture, trying to calm her nerves, but the silence was overwhelming.
And then, there he was.
Prince Ali Ansari.
Tall. Graceful. Silent. His presence was commanding, though it did not demand attention. His every movement seemed deliberate, each step taken with a quiet elegance that made the world around him hold its breath. His dark curly hair shimmered in the sunlight, and for a moment, his eyes met hers, deep pools of unreadable emotion before he quickly averted his gaze to the ground. It wasn’t unkind; it wasn’t rude. It was simply……him.
He gave the smallest of bows, his posture so rigid and formal that she almost felt as though she were meeting a statue, not a man.
“Salam, Prince Ali,” she said, her voice gentle, but firm.
He nodded once, a barely perceptible gesture, and the world seemed to pause around them.
They stood there, facing each other in the thick silence. It wasn’t awkward, not in the way she had imagined. Instead, it was a dense, unspoken understanding, like the heavy stillness that settles after a storm. He avoided her gaze, his eyes flicking to her hands, her fidgeting, her nervous movements. He was watching her, studying her, but not judging. Witnessing.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice soft as she sank onto the stone bench that sat beneath the canopy.
He didn’t sit immediately. He stood for a moment, his gaze briefly fixed on the ground before he finally lowered himself onto the bench beside her, his movements fluid but calculated. There was no rush in his actions. Nothing about him felt forced.
Eman noticed the faintest twitch of his fingers. A tremor, subtle but unmistakable. And then, without a word, he reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notepad. A pen followed, both items delicately placed between them on the bench.
He wrote something, then turned the notepad to her.
“Thank you for coming,” it read.
Eman leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning the words before glancing up at him. “You write beautifully,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
He smiled faintly, a gesture so slight it could have been mistaken for nothing. But the warmth in his eyes made the entire world around them seem a little brighter.
She stared at the notepad in her hands, feeling something shift inside of her, something unfamiliar, something fragile. Her heart began to beat faster, and yet, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the prince. He didn’t speak, but his presence was loud enough to fill the silence between them.
“I was told… I didn’t have to accept,” she said, her voice more tentative now, but still steady.
He nodded once, then slowly wrote again:
“You still don’t.”
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought:
“But I would like to know you. With or without the crown.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
She stared at the words. They lingered in the air between them, heavier than any spoken phrase. She wasn’t looking at a prince now. She wasn’t even looking at a title or a silence. She was simply looking at a man, a man who had made the decision to meet her, to offer her a choice, and yet, to leave the decision entirely in her hands.
For the first time, Eman Hammoudi didn’t think of him as the Silent Prince. She thought only of the man beside her, who seemed, for the first time in his life, to be giving her a voice, the power to choose.
And that… that was everything.
