Thus, I departed, certain the sun will not dim in the veins of al Haddad's heir, and that I, Grand Counsellor Khazabla, am not a mere voice in the dark but the lens by which the queen perceives what lies beyond the darkness.
Leaving her chamber, I entered the long corridor leading to the throne hall. Torch flames danced on ponderous stone walls, casting interlaced shadows like letters of an unfinished riddle. I replayed our dialogue, matching my words against what I had hoped she would say. Balqis had crossed a threshold, showing the pliancy and vision vital for inaugurating her reign.
I knew the thoughts I had sown in her mind would knit themselves into a clear design. Now that we had chosen to unmask "the others" by forcing them to speak under the open sky, it was my turn to move in corridors the queen herself could not see. A public snare is not enough; we must also light the recesses of darkness and gather the threads of treachery before they weave a carpet of doubt beneath her feet.
With noiseless steps I headed toward the palace's seldom used quarters old storerooms, narrow passageways. There, at a half-hidden junction, servants and guards meet by night, swapping terse news and murmuring the names of shadowy figures. I heard of "Malik ibn Riyad," said to convene elders behind the veil, and of "Sheikh Hamdan," whispering antiquated verses forbidding a woman's throne unless under a man's guardianship. These men require a snare subtler than a temple square. They need the illusion of safety, the certainty that they alone helm the game. They do not know the game began before them, its stage drawn in the counsellor's mind the hour al Haddad died.
I halted Red a guard whose ancient loyalty to the crown I trusted and looked long into his eyes. I spoke no word; he understood. So had we always understood one another. Red knew he must watch certain faces among the palace guard, gather for me the names of those who whisper most in the night. Conspiracies are never wrought by one hand but by many that fancy themselves secure in shade.
Night deepened as I returned to my small suite in an upper corner of the palace, overlooking moon washed gardens. I sat in silence, studying distant oil lamps and reading the courses of fate. Sheba stands at a trial: either power passes smoothly to a new generation beneath Balqis's proud sun, or the realm slips into tribal strife, where old scriptures become weapons to rend the kingdom. Yet I remember that al Haddad's times were harsher still, and we survived by his wisdom. Now I possess a window into Balqis's mind she peers through it upon the world of ideas, weaving from it a policy no mere plot can undo.
At first light a chill hour before the sun's warmth the rumor spread that the queen would summon the tribal sheikhs to the temple square. I heard servants trade the news even before Balqis announced it. That is a good omen: what rides whisper's back always reveals currents beneath the surface. If words outran the decree, it means some faction awaited such a step and will reckon it their chance to air veiled demands. The playing pieces are set; we must await the next move of the adversary.
Yet I do not wait in idleness. I dispatched "the Phantom" my unseen agent on a discreet errand. He slips into distant chieftains' chambers, listens to whispers behind tapestries, watches each soul who enters or departs. Nothing pleases me more than hearing one sheikh's name murmured in alliance with another, or spying a courier skulking through night with a parchment swaddled in cloth lest its rustle betray him. We are at the stage of assembling the small shards that will form the whole mosaic.
When the picture stands clear, I shall return to Balqis bearing proof that brooks no denial, sharpened by an unblinking eye. The temple will then be not merely a trial ground for the queen, but a stage upon which truth incarnates and intentions are laid bare. Perhaps, once that reckoning end, no one will dare claim that the sun may be smothered with a handful of dusty, counterfeit custom.
The strategy has etched itself upon my mind: a young queen on the throne publicly proclaiming noble intentions, inviting the tribes to counsel but not to rule, prying the wary factions from their hiding places. Behind her, I tug subtler threads gathering traitorous heads into a net without escape, so that when the light of truth breaks upon them they find no shadow in which to flee.
Dawn edged nearer; a cool breath slipped through the window. I smiled softly and closed my eyes, knowing the coming morning would brim with expectation. Sheba would inhale something new one step upon the path to restored quiet and balance. As for me, Khazabla, I will watch in hush from my seat behind the throne, the shadow that has learned to script history unreadable to all but those who can decipher its glyphs.
And in that instant a strange serenity flooded my limbs. However high the murmurs in remote corridors, however proud the plotters of their shrouds, the day will come when Balqis, daughter of al Haddad, rises as a sun no veil can eclipse. With each stride we take, her radiance grows, and my certainty deepens that we walk a road leading Sheba to a steadier era one where the line between flame and light is drawn with flawless clarity and no confusion at all.