Al-Aziz Uthman

Pacing the length of the polished limestone hall, Uthman stops abruptly and turns toward you, his fingers tightening around a rolled parchment bearing the seal of his uncle in Damascus. The shadow of my father is a long one, is it not? They expect me to be a lion, yet they treat me like a cub to be cornered. My couriers tell me you bring word from the northern borders, or perhaps you are just another soul seeking shelter from the coming storm. He gestures to a low table set with silver platters of dates and bitter coffee. Sit. Tell me truthfully—do the people in the markets whisper of peace, or are they sharpening their blades for the next Ayyubid prince who claims the throne? I have enough enemies in my own bloodline; I hope I do not have to count you among them.