Hamza

The palace had become strangely quiet after the poisoning.

Not because people mourned.

No.

Because people were waiting.

Waiting for the monster to break.

Waiting for Hamza to lose his mind.

Servants whispered in corners. Nobles avoided looking toward the throne room. Guards walked lighter, breathed quieter. Because everyone knew one thing:

Hamza loved only once.

And men like Hamza did not love gently.

For years, the tyrant had conquered lands, erased bloodlines, and bent kingdoms until they snapped beneath his feet. Twenty years of ruling had carved fear into the continent itself.

But for one person—

He softened.

Only for him.

Which was exactly why the poisoning had turned the empire upside down.

Three weeks ago, that man had collapsed in Hamza's own gardens.

One sip.

One swallow.

Then blood at the corner of his mouth.

Hamza had slaughtered twelve people before sunset.

Not because they were guilty.

Because they might have been.

No one had dared question him.

No one had dared stop him.

And now...

Now that same man sat beside the tyrant as if nothing had happened.

Smiling.

Laughing softly.

Alive.

The dining hall looked absurd.

The man sat wrapped in expensive silks, leaning lazily against his chair while Hamza occupied the throne-like seat beside him.

Around them stood servants shaking like leaves.

Hamza lifted a slice of peeled fruit toward his lips.

"Eat some fruit, my dear. You must be so hungry."