The palace settled into silence. The grand feast had ended, and the flickering torches cast long shadows along the sandstone walls.
Zaymir remained awake.
Standing by the open balcony, he looked out into the night. The air was thick with the scent of desert flowers, the wind carrying whispers of a foreign presence. He often walked the halls at night—restlessness was an old companion. Tonight was no different.
His steps carried him through the dimly lit corridors, his mind occupied with matters of trade and war. Then, as he passed the open archways leading to the courtyard, movement caught his eye.
She was there.
She was alone in the courtyard, hesitating near a marble pillar, unsure of her surroundings. The moonlight bathed her in silver, making her appear even softer, more fragile. She looked utterly lost, a foreign wife in an unfamiliar land.
It didn't take long for Zaymir to realize that Zéphir had retired early, too arrogant to care about formalities, leaving his wife behind to find her own way to the guest chambers.
His estate was foreign to her, its halls unfamiliar, its people speaking a language that was not hers. She moved carefully, almost warily, as if afraid of doing something wrong.
Zaymir sighed.
He approached without announcing himself.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
She noticed him only when he was close enough to cast a shadow over her. She stiffened, her hands tightening around the silk of her sleeve.
Zaymir took a step forward, his boots quiet against the stone floor. "You should not wander at night."
She gasped, spinning around so fast that the silk of her dress whispered against the ground.
Zaymir stilled.
Up close, she looked even delicate. Her hands clutched the edges of her sleeves as if bracing herself. But it was her eyes that held him captive—wide, hesitant, shimmering under the lantern light.
"My brother leaves you unattended?" he asked, his voice neutral.
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No... I only wanted air."
Her voice was careful, defending her husband's misbehavior like an obedient, devoted wife.
She lowered her gaze. Zaymir had heard countless voices before—pleading, demanding, whispering his name in fear or respect. But hers felt different.
He had no business noticing that.
Zaymir studied her. "You look lost."
"I—" She lowered her gaze. "A little." Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "I—I was just looking for my room."
He had expected that answer.
"Your chamber is in the east wing." His voice was steadier than his heart. "Did Zéphir not tell you?"
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something. Then, slowly, she shook her head.
Of course, he hadn't told her.
A flare of irritation burned in Zaymir's chest. Zéphir had thrown her into his world without a second thought, without a word of guidance. As if she was nothing more than a burden to be left behind.
"Then allow me," he said smoothly, stepping beside her. "I will show you."
She hesitated again, but there was little choice.
And so, she followed as he guided her through the vast estate. He did not rush, did not speak much. But he felt her. Felt the way she tried to keep distance between them, her steps deliberately slower than his.
She feared him.
He did not mind.
They walked in silence, but as they moved through the columned walkway, she hesitated—a small misstep as the soft fabric of her dress caught against her ankle.
Instinctively, Zaymir's hand shot out, ready to catch her.
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