The Sultanate of Mahranid stood tall , an empire not shaped by peace but carved from pain. It was not a land of calm but a land of conquest. It was not born of smiles but built upon bloodshed. The screams of war, the cries of the fallen, and the unshaken resolve of its rulers laid the foundation of its glory.
Generations ago, Sultan Rayhan al-Mahran had forged the empire from the bones of rebellion and the fire of ambition. His son, Sultan Idris, expanded it further, staining deserts red and forcing kingdoms to bend their knees. But it was Sultan Zunaid al-Mahran, the current ruler, who gave it an unshakable core—not only through his strength but through the wisdom and balance brought by his queen, Shayma al-Mahran.
At the heart of this empire lay its most prized gem Sharamrind.
Surrounded by endless emerald mountains, rivers gushing with life, and pastures stretching far beyond the eye could see, Sharamrind was a city whispered about in every corner of the empire. The air always carried a chill of mist, a scent of wet earth, and the hum of wind rustling through ancient trees. No matter the season, the skies remained heavy with clouds, as though the heavens themselves bowed to the land’s majesty.
Wherever one turned, the song of birds echoed softly, merging with the distant growl of mountain beasts. In the mornings, mist clung to rooftops. By night, torches lit the carved stone roads, reflecting the grandeur of a place where history walked alongside breath.
And at the center of Sharamrind,the palace towering above all, stood the palace a monument of breathtaking beauty and brutal memory.
And the back of the palace , a breathtaking beauty of Sharamrind
MAHIRA LAKE , which is flowing like it has no end . It runs like it doesn't care about anything which you through on it . And its teaching us a life lesson , Don't care about anything .
Its golden walls shimmered in the pale sun, rising into the sky like the dreams of rulers long gone. Every stone, every pillar, whispered stories of kings who ruled and kings who fell. Triumphs etched alongside betrayal. Loyalty cracked open by greed. The palace was not just a home it was a breathing archive of the empire’s soul.
But today, those walls were drowned in chaos.
Servants rushed from one corridor to another. Trays clattered, footsteps echoed, and anxious voices filled the halls. The scent of spices clung to the air cardamom, saffron, roasted meats, honeyed breads. Normally, such preparation would signal a royal feast. But today felt different. Bigger. The atmosphere vibrated with a pressure that no one could explain.
It wasn’t just a celebration.
It felt like the entire empire was holding its breath.
But why?
In the midst of the chaos, Nooriyah stood quietly, almost invisible.
A shadow in a storm.
Her simple dress clung to her as she stood against the marble walls, her fingers nervously brushing the old inscriptions carved into them. These words had stood for centuries, yet offered her no comfort, no answers.
She didn’t belong here. She didn’t know what was happening. And she didn’t have the voice to ask.
Just this morning, her mother had clutched her hand with a weak but unwavering grip and said,
"Nooriyah, my binti… go in my place. They need hands today, and yours are no less capable than mine."
Nooriyah couldn’t refuse. Especially not when her mother was too ill to rise.
And now, she stood here—lost and silent. Her eyes wide with curiosity, confusion, and a fear she couldn’t name.
She had never been inside the palace before. She had never stepped out of her home except for necessities. Her mother had protected her fiercely. But today, her mother had sent her. And that alone made Nooriyah uneasy.
Around her, the other servants moved with purpose and urgency. Their voices overlapped.but none noticed her lonely figure.
"Fix the drapes in the eastern corridor!"
"The gold vases—wipe them twice. I want to see my face in them!"
"Check the prince’s quarters again. If the king notices dust"
Every command was delivered with panic masked as perfection. This wasn’t a usual day. Orders had come directly from the king. That meant no room for mistakes. Every servant’s hands trembled beneath their calm.
Nooriyah watched them, trying to make sense of it all. Her eyes flicked from one anxious face to another. The air was heavy not just with spices, but with tension.
Then, from the far end of the corridor, she caught a single word carried through the whispered chaos.
“Prince.”
Her heart clenched.
She didn’t know why. She didn’t even know which prince they were speaking of. But something about that word pierced through her like a blade. If her mother had been well, she would’ve explained everything calmly, gently. But Nooriyah had no answers. Only questions that sat like stones in her chest.
She wanted to ask.
But she couldn’t.
It wasn’t that she lacked intelligence or courage. It was simply that Nooriyah was born without a voice. A gift, some had called it. A curse, others whispered. But to Nooriyah, it was a wall one that kept her isolated in a world where words were everything.
She had learned to speak through gestures, through movement, through the silence of her eyes. But not everyone understood. And today, she felt smaller than ever.
She clenched her fingers into her skirt and looked around again.
Why the chaos? Why the mention of a prince? What was she walking into?
Her chest ached with silent questions.
But the walls didn’t answer. The people didn’t see her. And her voice, like always, remained locked inside her.
Yet something within told her this day would change everything
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