At the table, Zaymir sat with his arms crossed, trying not to pay attention to the woman beside Zéphir. She had no presence—just another meek wife in fine silk, bound by duty, insignificant.
The goblet tipped, dark wine spilling onto embroidered silk. A red stain bloomed. She tensed, reaching instinctively—
but Zéphir's voice cut through the stillness.
"Clumsy as ever," he said, setting his wine down with deliberate slowness. "Tell me, is there anything you can do correctly?" His gaze was sharp, cold. "Must I tolerate this every day? You were born useless, and you remain so."
His tone was light, almost idle, but laced with quiet contempt.
The scent of wine and honeyed dates hung thick in the warm air, but she could taste only humiliation.
She lowered her gaze, hands folding in her lap. The flickering lanterns bathed the mosaic floor in warm light, their glow soft against the rich, woven cushions where Zaymir sat in silence.
The servants, as they went to clean the wine she had spilled, barely glanced her way—they had seen this before.
Zéphir didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The weight of his words was enough.
"I wonder," Zéphir mused, sipping his wine, "do you ever think about what you could have been? Had you not been married to me, perhaps you would have been in the kitchens, serving instead of sitting here. You were not born for this."
Zéphir's words were always cruel, dismissive, but this time, they struck harder. Even Zaymir thought she might break.
Zaymir glanced at her, expecting a reaction—an indignant retort, a trembling lip, even tears. Women always wept when humiliated. But she only lowered her gaze slightly, her expression on the verge of breaking—yet she did not break.
Perhaps she feared embarrassing herself in front of the servants, in front of them all, more than she feared his words alone
She endured.
He had seen noblewomen sob and beg at the slightest insult. Seen them scheme, snap, or crumble. But she...
She simply accepted.
It was not submission. It was survival.
Zéphir moved on, the insult forgotten, but Zaymir was still watching her.
As if something inside Zaymir shifted.
*****
The hall was grand with domed ceilings and golden lanterns casting a warm glow over the silk-draped walls. The sound of music drifted in from the far end of the room.
Laughter and the clinking of goblets echoed through the chamber. Noblemen, wealthy traders, and other men of fortune sprawled lazily on embroidered cushions, their eyes heavy with wine and indulgence, their voices thick with excess.
Zéphir sat relaxed against the plush cushions, a goblet of wine in his hand. Zaymir was beside him, his expression stoic, his gaze flickering across the gathering with mild disinterest. Around them, men laughed, their voices deep, their words heavy with power.
Courtesans sat among them, pouring drinks with graceful hands.
The men were speaking of war, of trade, of conquests. Then, as the conversation drifted, the topic turned toward wives.
One man leaned back, shaking his head. "A wife is a burden with a sharp tongue." He sighed theatrically, tipping his goblet toward Zéphir. "You know what I mean."
Zéphir smirked, swirling the dark liquid in his goblet lazily. "A wife should know when to speak and when to be silent. Fortunately, mine seems to have mastered the latter." He took a sip, his voice laced with amusement. "Though I doubt it's wisdom that keeps her quiet.
Then he added, "I sometimes forget she is even there. If not for duty at night, I doubt I would ever remember."
The men laughed, some nodding in agreement, their dark eyes glinting with amusement.
But Zaymir didn't laugh.
A man across from him chuckled. "But Zéphir, when I visited you, yours neither spoke nor disobeyed. You have no reason to complain—you have it easy."
"She is wasted on him," another man added.
Another laughed. "If she were mine, I'd—
Zéphir didn't even blink, only scoffing at the idea that his wife could be desired.
More laughter. More jesting.
But Zaymir was not amused.
His gaze snapped to the man who had spoken ill, his jaw tightening
*****
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