"Obey."
The word struck Prince Mohammed like a whisper and a command at once. It wasn't shouted. It wasn't emphasized. But it clung to the air like smoke—unshakable.
He stared into those black, obsidian eyes—eyes that seemed to pull him into a void. Not empty, no. But powerful. Ancient. Unrelenting.
And just as the gravity in them nearly broke him… the weight on his shoulders vanished.
The firm grip was gone. Alexander had released him and was already turning away, walking back to his seat with the calm grace of a man who had never doubted the outcome.
The prince remained seated, shoulders stiff, chest rising and falling with quiet rage, confusion, and a sickening sense of inevitability.
His mind should have been preoccupied with the last word—the command to "obey," the implied submission, the insult to his sovereignty. But that wasn't what haunted him now.
No. It was what Alexander had said before that.
Seventy-three years.
