"The crown does not weigh heavy on the head that chose peace instead."
The body weakens before the spirit ever does.
I had grown ill — the kind of sickness that hums beneath the bones, silent and slow like a candle nearing its final flicker. The air felt colder. My skin thinner. Sleep deeper.
And yet, not a single royal came to see me.
Not one — except my son, Hassan. But he did not come with love in his heart. He came demanding his inheritance, his voice echoing in the dimly lit room like a curse. My body burned with fever, and still he said, "Mother, where is the wealth?"
What use is a child if he comes not with prayers but with ledgers? With such a son, I thought, perhaps it is better to leave this world quietly — unburdened.
And then, as if sent from heaven's mercy, she came.
Sister Sarah.
Old now. Her back slightly hunched, hands trembling with age — yet her presence was firm, like the arms of God wrapping me in unseen light. Behind her walked Sister Juliet, carrying linen and medicine, but mostly love.
Sister Sarah sat at my bedside and took my hand, eyes glistening. "When you were young, I took care of you. And now that you are old, I will care for you again. Don't you dare die and make my efforts worthless, Salma."
I smiled through tears. "Sister Sarah, I won't."
But inside, I wasn't sure.
I was fading.
Juliet, ever faithful now, searched through old letters and contacts. She found a forgotten number — that of the Khasims, the distant family once tied to me through blood and burden. And strangely, the world noticed. News of my sickness — of the once-princess abandoned, alone in her last days — began to stir the people.
Critics cried injustice. Streets echoed with protests. Some mourned while I still breathed. Others rioted for what they called the fallen crown.
And so, under pressure and public shame, the palace came for me at last.
I was carried not like royalty, but like a relic — something the kingdom remembered too late. And there, in a room cloaked in gold and silence, they laid me on silk sheets inside the palace I had once called home.
But it was no longer mine.
My uncle, the Emir, still driven by power even in my dying breath, brought out documents. He placed a pen in my weak fingers.
"Sign," he said.
And I did.
Then, with what voice I had left, I looked at him — at all of them — and spoke:
> "What is the worth of being a princess… if this is the life I was destined to live?
I would have lived better if you had never found me.
I would have chosen the peace of St. Andrews,
The holy silence of chapel bells,
The warmth of orphaned arms and Sister Sarah's tea.
I would have chosen that life, again and again."
The palace had returned me — but only to watch me die.