Welcome to Zahrania
1980 Words
The Flight of Fate
The private royal jet shimmered under the Tanzanian sun. Zahra had never been on a plane let alone one lined with velvet seats, golden fixtures, and a staff dressed like palace attendants. Everything smelled of rose water and polished leather.
Ayaan, bouncing with energy, looked out the window with wide eyes. “Mama, are we flying over Bagamoyo now?”
Zahra smiled faintly. “Yes, baby. Say goodbye.”
But in her heart, she wasn’t ready. She was leaving behind a life she had built from broken pieces. A life of simplicity. Of freedom.
Zayyan sat across from them, reading files. He glanced up occasionally, but said little. There was still an air of distance between them—a wall of unsaid things.
As the plane ascended above the clouds, Zahra’s fingers curled tighter around the armrest.
They were on their way to a kingdom ruled by traditions she didn’t understand, expectations she didn’t agree with, and people who might see her as a threat more than a mother.
First Glimpse of the Golden Kingdom
The desert shimmered in gold as the plane descended. Zahra pressed her forehead to the window. Zahrania was majestic. Minarets and domes glittered like jewels. Palaces floated atop hills like castles from old Arabian tales.
Ayaan gasped. “Is that where we’ll live?”
Zayyan nodded. “That’s the Royal Palace of Nur al-Hazari.”
A convoy of black limousines awaited them on the runway. As they stepped out, royal guards formed two lines—dressed in white with swords crossed over their chests.
Zahra blinked at the formal display. “Is this really necessary?”
Zayyan offered a small smile. “Here, everything is a performance.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant it proudly or bitterly.
The Palace of Secrets
The palace was vast marble halls, towering ceilings, murals of past rulers on every wall. Zahra felt like a stranger walking through a storybook she didn’t belong to.
Servants bowed. Chamber doors opened with quiet clicks. The queen was waiting.
Queen Layla stood at the far end of the receiving chamber. She was regal, in a dark emerald robe, a veil draped over her silver hair, and eyes sharp as blades.
“Welcome to Zahrania,” she said.
Zahra bowed her head respectfully.
Queen Layla’s gaze moved to Ayaan. Her expression softened—only a little. “You look like your father did at your age.”
Ayaan smiled shyly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The queen turned to Zayyan. “We need to speak. Privately.”
Zayyan gestured for Zahra to wait with Ayaan as he followed his mother into a private corridor.
Zahra’s heart clenched. She was in the lion’s den now and she wasn’t sure who the real predators were.
The Forbidden Wing
Zahra walked quietly beside the palace attendant, her footsteps muffled by an endless red carpet woven with intricate gold patterns. The walls towered with centuries-old paintings, and the air carried a strange silence a mix of reverence and restraint.
As they approached a shadowed corridor branching westward, the attendant slowed. “This part of the palace,” he said softly, “is off-limits.”
Zahra tilted her head. “Why?”
“It is the Western Wing sealed by royal order. It belonged to the former Queen Consort and houses the history the palace would rather forget. No one enters without Her Majesty’s direct permission.”
She stared at the tall wooden doors at the end of the corridor. Thick golden chains held them shut, and the air around them seemed colder as if they guarded ancient ghosts.
Back in her assigned chambers, Zahra was met with luxury that felt surreal—silk linens, fresh white roses, and a set of Swahili books thoughtfully placed on a polished glass shelf.
Zayyan had remembered her language, her roots.
But sleep did not come easily. Her mind raced with questions. Why was that wing locked? What secrets did this palace keep? Why did Queen Layla’s eyes linger so long on Ayaan?
That night, as she drifted between wakefulness and dreams, Zahra heard whispers soft, desperate voices echoing behind the chained doors.
She awoke with a jolt.
The palace was beautiful.
But beauty could lie.
The Whispering Walls
The following morning, Zahra woke to sunlight streaming through tall, embroidered curtains. Everything about Zahrania glittered with perfection, yet it felt... choreographed. Too polished. Too controlled.
She joined Ayaan for breakfast in one of the lesser dining rooms—less formal than the main hall, but still elegant beyond belief. Ayaan was already in uniform for his royal education program, his little chest puffed with pride.
“Did you sleep well, Mama?” he asked, chewing on a date with almond.
Zahra forced a smile. “More or less.”
Before she could ask more about his first day, a soft knock came at the door. A palace historian, old and hunched, entered with scrolls tucked beneath his arm.
“Miss Bakari,” he said with a careful bow, “His Highness thought you might wish to know more about your new surroundings.”
Zahra wasn’t sure whether it was generosity or surveillance.
He unfurled a large parchment onto the marble table—a layout of the palace. It was an intricate map, every wing labeled in Arabic and Zahranian dialects.
But her eyes immediately focused on the dark-shaded section to the west.
“The West Wing,” she murmured.
The historian’s hand paused mid-scroll. “That wing... is not discussed.”
“Why?” she pressed.
He looked at her, then at Ayaan, then closed the scroll.
“Some histories are too dangerous to awaken,” he said, and left before she could respond.
That night, Zahra took a walk alone.
She wore a black shawl and slipped past two dozing guards. She moved like a whisper through the golden halls, until she reached it The Forbidden Wing.
The chains were still in place, but the silence around the doors was louder than ever.
She leaned close.
And heard it again.
A voice.
No voices.
Soft. Weeping. Pleading.
“Return him… return the child… the blood must remain…”
Zahra stepped back, heart thundering.
What child?
Which blood?
The past of Zahrania wasn’t dead.
It was buried. And Ayaan… might be the one who awakens it.
The Queen’s Visitor
Queen Layla stood alone in her private solarium, surrounded by rare desert orchids and the soft hum of early morning. Her gaze was fixed on the garden below, where Ayaan was laughing with a palace tutor—so carefree, so unaware of the storm gathering around his name.
A quiet knock broke her thoughts.
“Let him in,” she said without turning.
The doors opened, and an elderly man with a silver cane stepped inside. His robes were darker than the usual royal silk—woven with deep green and bronze, like the robes worn by those from the High Tribunal.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low.
“Advisor Harun,” Layla acknowledged him. “You’ve seen him?”
“Yes,” Harun replied. “The resemblance is undeniable. His posture, his presence... even the eyes. There’s no denying his bloodline.”
Layla exhaled deeply, her voice softer now. “And the records from Tanzania?”
“Clean,” Harun replied. “Zahra Bakari has no known affiliations with the press or political groups. She has lived modestly. But... she kept the boy hidden.”
“She was protecting him,” Layla murmured. “From us.”
Harun stepped closer. “The royal court will not accept an heir born in secrecy, not without consequence.”
Layla’s face hardened. “And yet if we deny him, the curse repeats. History will eat itself again. We cannot let that happen.”
Harun bowed again. “Then you must decide, Majesty. You either embrace the boy and face the storm... or erase him from royal life and face your soul.”
Layla turned fully now, her eyes cold and wise.
“I have already made my decision,” she said. “Summon Zayyan. Tonight.”
Royal Confrontation
That evening, the palace halls were lit with thousands of soft golden lights, flickering like fireflies against marble. Yet beneath the beauty, tension thickened the air. Word had spread within the inner circles: the Crown Prince had summoned someone not of royal blood into the private wing.
Zahra sat in a formal receiving room, dressed modestly in a navy blue kaftan. Her heart thudded like ceremonial drums. She had been told to wait.
When the door finally opened, Zayyan stepped in.
Not as the stranger from the Tanzanian beach.
Not as the young man who once whispered love under moonlight.
But as a Crown Prince.
His royal robe was deep crimson with the Zahranian crest embroidered in gold across his chest. Yet his eyes when they locked onto hers still held the same storm of longing and regret.
“Zahra,” he said, his voice low, measured. “You shouldn’t have come.”
She stood up slowly. “I didn’t come for you.”
His jaw clenched. “You came for Ayaan.”
“He’s my son.”
“He’s mine, too.”
Silence crackled between them like lightning waiting to strike.
“I would have told you,” she said at last, voice trembling. “But you disappeared.”
“I was taken back to Zahrania. I was told... it was a summer affair. Nothing more.”
Zahra's voice sharpened. “Then you believed that?”
Zayyan turned, pacing. “I didn’t want to. But by the time I knew, it was too late. Now the boy is in the palace... and everything has changed.”
She stepped closer. “So what now, Prince Zayyan?”
He turned to her.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Because if the court finds out, Ayaan becomes either a threat... or a tool. And either one could destroy him.”
Tears welled in Zahra’s eyes, but she blinked them away.
“Then you protect him. Like a father should.”
Zayyan looked away.
And for the first time, he didn’t speak as a prince.
He nodded as a man.
Shadows of the Past
Later that night, after the storm of emotions had calmed, Zahra found herself wandering again this time not in fear, but in search of clarity.
She ended up in the royal archives, a labyrinth of old scrolls, oil-stained maps, and velvet-bound volumes. The keeper, a silent man with one blind eye, simply nodded and let her in.
She didn’t know what she was looking for.
Until she saw the portrait.
It was faded, half-buried behind cracked glass.
A young boy.
With Zayyan’s eyes.
With Ayaan’s smile.
The name read: Prince Raif Al-Hazari. Deceased Age 8.
A royal child... lost a generation ago. Vanished under mysterious circumstances.
Zahra leaned in closer.
But as she did, a page from an old journal slipped from behind the frame.
She picked it up carefully.
“The boy was hidden. Too much power in too small a vessel. His death was faked, for peace. The line was broken but only in the eyes of the court. The blood lives on...”
She froze.
The boy had not died.
He had been exiled.
Protected.
And now, Ayaan’s existence may have just revived a bloodline the royals buried out of fear.
Behind her, a figure stepped into the shadows.
“Now you see,” Queen Layla said softly.
Zahra turned, startled. The queen’s expression was unreadable.
“There are things even Zayyan doesn’t know,” the queen whispered. “But you must decide, Zahra... do you want your son to live freely, or reign royally?”
Zahra's hands trembled, the ancient page still clenched in her grip.
Because either choice… would cost her everything.
- Writer
