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Sheikh Rashad Al-Mustafa Kamaldien of Kqawarrie had only recently retired to his private quarters. The echoes of the grand celebration—the music, the laughter, and the clinking of glasses filled with fruit nectar—still resonated in the palatial hallways. Outside, the desert night had swallowed the last of the departing private jets as world leaders returned to their respective capitals.

After a long shower, Rashad stood before his mirror, the weight of leadership visible in the lines around his eyes. His kingdom had risen from the dust to world recognition, but his personal life remained a quiet void. He thought of his mother’s constant, not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren. She had even offered to arrange a marriage, as was the old custom.

“We were blessed to grow into our love,” he had told her gently, recalling her own marriage to the late Lion of the Desert. “But I seek a partnership born of choice, mother. A woman of faith, intellect, and spirit.” It was a tall order for a King, but Rashad was a man who refused to negotiate on matters of the heart.

A few days later, the festive decorations were packed away, and the business of statehood resumed. While scrolling through his digital calendar, one entry pulsed with urgency: a return to the mines. He immediately summoned his elite protection detail, led by Generals Moussa Medina and Farouk Khan.

The meeting took place in the Palace Throne Room, a fortress within a fortress.

“Ahl Al-Thiqa—People of Trust,” Rashad began, looking at the two seasoned commanders. “I require a split detail. Moussa, you will accompany me to the mining site tomorrow at dawn. Farouk, the safety of the palace and my mother rests entirely in your hands. We stay overnight; the business at hand is heavy.”

“Is there a specific threat, Your Highness?” Moussa asked, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger.

“The threat is always there, General,” Rashad replied coolly. “Smiling enemies hide in plain sight. Even Caesar was beckoned by ‘friends’ before his end. We leave at 08:00, following morning prayers.”

The journey to the mine was an inferno. Outside the bulletproof limousine, the sun set the Sahara aflame, turning the horizon into a shimmering, choking heatwave. Inside, the quiet hum of the air conditioning provided a sterile sanctuary.

Upon arrival, Ali Baba escorted the party to the boardroom. Rashad took his place at the head of the table and poured a glass of crystal-clear water from Wadi Siwa, savouring the sweet, cold minerals.

“I have reviewed the reports,” Rashad announced, his voice commanding the room. “The work here is stellar. As a token of the Crown’s gratitude, every employee—from the engineers to the guards—will receive a bonus equivalent to four months’ salary.”

A roar of applause filled the room. Moussa, standing by the door, beamed.

“However,” Rashad continued, his tone shifting to a more sombre register, “we must discuss the uranium. The United States has made a lucrative offer, conveyed through Steven Rock. But this deal is about more than money. They have offered to build a world-class hospital specializing in snakebite treatment and antivenoms.”

The room went silent. In the desert, the viper and the cobra were more than animals; they were executioners.

“I watched a five-year-old girl die in our trauma unit last month,” Rashad said, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. “An Egyptian Cobra bit her in her sleep. I stood there, helpless, as her life ebbed away. Even the Prophets struggled with the serpent. If we can save our children from such agonizing deaths, we must take this deal.”

After the general meeting, Rashad called Daniel Weiss into his private office. They sat in high-backed leather chairs, the air thick with the smell of old paper and desert dust.

“Daniel, my friend,” Rashad said, leaning forward. “I need you in the delegation to Washington. The Americans will bring the FBI, the CIA, and Homeland Security. They thrive on creating a ‘noisome pestilence’ of confusion. Steven is my friend, but his first allegiance is to his flag. I need your calculating mind to ensure we are not short-changed.”

“It would be my honour, Rashad,” Daniel replied, his loyalty evident. “I will prepare the mine for my absence immediately.”

Next was Ali Baba. When the doors closed, Rashad abandoned his royal posture and embraced his childhood friend.

“Ali, enough with the bowing. When we are alone, we are brothers.”

“Your Highness,” Ali smiled, though his eyes remained serious. “What is the mission?”

“Logistics,” Rashad said. “I need you to plan the transport of the uranium from the mine to the coast. Convoys, specialized lead-lined vehicles, and elite training for the guards. If this goes wrong, the world will burn.”

Ali’s usual ‘devil-may-care’ attitude vanished. “I will execute this with total integrity, my friend. And if I fail… You may execute me yourself.”

Rashad let out a thunderous laugh. “I’ll sharpen the sword myself, Ali, just to ensure you have a quick departure!”

The return journey the following day began in silence, but the peace was short-lived.

As the convoy crested a high dune, the air was suddenly ripped apart by the staccato rhythm of gunfire. A group of marauders in flowing white garb, their faces masked, descended from the sand hills on camels.

“Contact left!” Moussa roared over the comms.

The attackers had miscalculated. They expected a soft target; instead, they met the Palace Guard’s superior firepower. The skirmish was brutal and brief. The guards returned fire with surgical precision, and within minutes, the desert was littered with the bodies of the thieves.

Rashad sat unmoved in the back of the limousine as Moussa inspected the field.

“Nomads from across the southern border, Highness,” Moussa reported, stepping back to the car window. “They pledge no allegiance. We have three wounded guards, but all are superficial. The enemy is decimated.”

The news reached the city before the convoy did. When Rashad entered the palace, his mother was in a state of near-collapse.

“I am safe, Mother,” he promised, holding her hands. “Moussa and his men are lions. But this was the final warning.”

That evening, Rashad issued a formal decree to his neighbouring nations. The borders of Kqawarrie were no longer open lines in the sand.

“I am establishing a permanent Border Guard,” the decree read. “Any transgressor who steps across our line will be met with instant death. No questions asked. No quarters given.”

The Kingdom had found its wealth, and now, under Rashad’s firm hand, it had found its teeth. The path to the American deal was clear, but the desert had reminded them that prosperity always demands a price in blood.