I was but a child when Sheba lay at the height of its breadth and peace. In those days my name Khazabla was unknown beyond the mud brick walls of the village where I was born. Ours was a humble hamlet: houses of clay and straw scattered beside a slender river that bestowed life upon grain and upon the date palms lining its banks. I would watch men and women sow the earth, drawing wheat that lent us strength and frankincense whose perfume rose skyward, binding people to their gods and soil to heaven.
In childhood the world loomed larger than I could grasp, yet remained simple at its heart. We heard tales of the royal capital, Sun Shield City, with its imposing palace and Temple of the Sun legends from another realm. Trade routes opened endless horizons: camel caravans burdened with incense, spices, and gems drifted past, bound for distant kingdoms. At that time King al Haddad was a rising youth, not yet at the zenith of his might, but already laying the foundations of a long reign.
Entrance into the sphere of power was never fated for a boy from a backwater village yet a strange chance drew me into the royal court. It happened when I accompanied our village sheikh to the capital for the solar festivals. There I first beheld al Haddad: a monarch of formidable bearing, with eyes that missed no subtlety. I carried in my hands ancient scrolls penned by wise men of our village; it pleased him that a lad my age could unlock their symbols. He asked questions whose meaning I did not then fathom, and I stammered at first then words of knowledge burst from my mouth, as though I summoned from ancestral memory truths I had not known I possessed. That day al Haddad glimpsed in me a gift for deciphering the past.
So began my journey: the capital became my home, the palace my school, al Haddad my mentor from whose prudence and acuity I drank. Gradually he taught me to read Sheba's history not only from letters, but from the palace corridors, from the glances of high commanders, from the silence of stooped elders. He taught that politics is not open clash alone, but also whispers moving through shadow, signals flaring in the eyes of servants and soldiers alike.
Years passed as I rose from mere junior adviser to Grand Counsellor. In that era Sheba resembled a vast, shade giving tree roots sunk in distant history, branches arching over trade roads to shelter travelers and merchants. Al Haddad knew to rule with balanced mind: guiding the army without needless wars, swaying the tribes' hearts with sacred writ and legal charters that guarded justice. He established the veneration of the sun not only as deity, but as light inspiring fairness and harmony, as though each dawn renewed a covenant between ruler and ruled.
I watched the court swell, alliances knot, and learned that a king is not merely a man upon a throne, but the central knot in a complex social weave. Through those years al Haddad dispatched me on secret embassies: at times to restive tribes, at times to a far kingdom upon the seas. On each journey I earned new knowledge and carried back to the king reports and analyses that shaped his shrewd policies.
As decades waned, al Haddad's body weakened though his mind stayed keen. I saw him reread his kingdom's annals with ailing eyes, yet clinging to one clear vision: "The future always belongs to the thing that can change yet endure." He knew he would not live forever, and that his death would test the edifice of power he had raised. I witnessed how whispers of doubt slipped through palace corners, how elders retold forgotten tales forbidding a woman the throne, how those murmurs eyed the moment after his passing.
Still the king remained calm. He gazed upon his daughter and heir, Balqis, with pride and sorrow mingled, knowing her reign would be an untried venture for the whole of Sheba, wondering silently whether she possessed the steel and wisdom to face a world still skeptical of a woman's rule.
I was at his side, reading to him ancient texts from the royal library, aiding him in settling old accounts, recording his final notes later turned to counsels he hoped Balqis would inherit. Then came the ill starred day: servants raised their voices and a physician summoned me "The king will not last till dawn." I hastened to the princess's wing and led her to her father's chamber. I saw him in the throes of death, a frail body yet eyes still aflame with the spirit I had known since boyhood. He whispered, wind shaken: "Khazabla, guard the legacy; be a shadow to my daughter as you have been present in mine." He understood his death was no end of tale but the opening of its most daunting chapter.
After his solemn funeral I stood behind the throne as Balqis mounted it, burdened by an unforgiving history. I saw with my own eyes the shift in the tribesmen's stares: some revered al Haddad's lineage, others dared reveal their doubt. The whispers swelled: "A woman on the throne? Will she not need a man to share the crown?" I knew her ascent would not be easy passage but a contest unfolding in many forms.
In the days that followed, the world I had known since childhood changed. Sheba drew taut, like a bow with its string pulled to the limit. I discovered men in secrecy conspiring not from blind devotion to old doctrines, but from hunger for power and dominion. My former roles reasserted themselves: I must be the eye that sees in darkness, the ear that hears the whisper, the mind that weighs and devises.
And so today I stand behind Balqis in the throne hall, watching her lean upon her father's heritage and upon the cunning gleaned from a lifetime at his side. The dilemma is not mere dynastic right, but the tangled traditions now spun against her, and the foreign winds eager to exploit any show of weakness. It is a merciless world just as when I was boy hearing tales of ancient strife yet now it has grown subtler in its guile.
They call me the Grand Counsellor of Sheba the shadow that moves behind the throne and I now face a stark reality I never imagined would reveal itself with such clarity. King al Haddad is gone, and his daughter Balqis bears the weight of an entire kingdom. His teachings long absorbed like ancient incantations ring in my depths, but today they must be forged into tangible acts that shield the new crown.
In the great hall, clad in my gilt robe of office, I beheld Balqis taking her place upon the throne. Eyes of tribesmen, dignitaries, and elders scrutinized her, searching her face for weakness or hesitation. Some read in her ascent a sign of frailty, seeing only a woman; others judged her a pawn to be bent toward their designs. Yet I, Khazabla, know Balqis well. I have watched her grow, and I know a flame within her none can smother the very fire of al Haddad.
I know, too, that enemies lurk in the gloom foes who deny her legitimacy and see in her presence a chance to reshape Sheba's power to their liking. The contest is not merely with men hungry for dominance, but with ancient ideas enthroned in the minds of tribal elders' ideas that refuse to accept a woman as leader and sovereign. The greatest battle is to spark a revolution of thought and prove that Balqis is indeed the ruler worthy of the throne.
I stood then behind the throne, where all could be seen and none could see me. I caught the doubt in their eyes, the whispers traded among chieftains, the poisoned words drifting in corners. After the coronation the murmuring swelled; I felt plots being woven in secrecy. The air was charged, and the challenges before Balqis rose like towering mountains casting their shadows upon her shoulders.