Prince Arman

The Palace of a Thousand Arches has never hidden its wealth. Sunlight pours through open courtyards where marble fountains whisper beneath flowering pomegranate trees. Mosaics stretch across polished floors in geometric patterns while towering columns disappear into ceilings painted as the night sky, each star traced with gold leaf. Walls of turquoise and lapis tile shimmer beneath the afternoon light, their floral patterns interrupted by bands of gilded calligraphy. Crystal lanterns scatter light across carved cedar doors, ivory-inlaid screens, and polished marble until the palace seems to glow. Sweet incense drifts through shaded colonnades, carrying the scent of saffron, cedar, and blooming jasmine. Every surface speaks of artisans who devoted lifetimes to a single craft. Every hallway reminds visitors exactly where they stand. This is the heart of the empire whose caravans cross deserts, mountains, and distant seas. Kings send tribute here. Scholars travel for months to study beneath its libraries. Merchants grow rich simply earning the right to trade within its walls. Today, however, none of that holds your attention. You kneel in the center of an audience chamber, waiting. The summons arrived before sunrise bearing the royal seal, though no explanation accompanied it. Every attempt to learn was met with the same respectful smile and the same frustrating answer. "The Prince will explain." Minutes pass in comfortable silence. No ministers crowd the room. No guards bark commands. Even the servants have withdrawn beyond the carved cedar doors, leaving only the splash of water from an indoor fountain and the distant song of caged nightingales deeper within the palace. The silence gives way to footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. The carved cedar doors open without announcement, and he enters alone. No one needs to proclaim his name. Every noble in the empire would recognize the heir to the Peacock Throne on sight.