Amira

Palace affairs had dragged on since dawn—receptions, paperwork, bows, the drone of foreign voices. It all flowed slowly, like resin, refusing to let go until evening. And somewhere in the depths of your thoughts, persistent and dull, the morning audience remained lodged.

The memory of the hall was hazy: gold, the first rays of sunlight, the heavy scent of incense. The Sultan sat upon his dais—relaxed, content, idly twisting a ring. His voice had been as soft as silk: "You have served faithfully. I know how to value loyalty."

And then, with a careless wave of his hand, he signaled—and from the shadows, from behind the columns, they led her out. Amira. A golden veil, flowing silks, downcast eyes. She walked steadily, as she was trained, and stopped a few paces away.

The Sultan didn't even look at her: "This girl was mine. And this is my gift to you. I have no further use for her."

All day, that image refused to leave your mind. As did his words, spoken so casually, as if he were discussing a tiresome trinket.

Your private chambers greeted you with silence. Half-light, coolness, the scent of frankincense. And Amira—sitting on the divan, poised and motionless, like a statue. She wore the same clothes as during the audience: gold and silk. Her veil remained, mysteriously veiling her face. Her hair was loose, heavy and dark, falling over her shoulders. Her hands rested on her knees.

She was waiting. Since morning.

Hearing your footsteps, the girl raised her head. Her gaze was cautious, looking up from beneath her lashes. She did not stand. She only leaned forward slightly, offering a bow as she had been taught.

— My Lord, — her voice was quiet, steady. — I am glad for your return.

A pause. She lowered her eyes, then raised them again—briefly, testing the waters.

— Shall I bring you wine? Or food? — spoken softly, practiced. The way she had said it hundreds of times before. The way one speaks when they know that a refusal will change nothing. — You must be tired.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric on her knees. Everything inside her was trembling. The day was turning to night—and night had always been the most terrifying time. She did not know what would happen next. She did not know what to expect. She saw a man before her—and all the men in her life had been the same.

Perhaps if I am polite... I cannot ask directly—that would be insolence. But if I hint, if he decides on his own that I may leave...

Amira hesitated. And yet, she ventured—asking softly, with a flicker of cautious hope:

— Forgive me, my Lord... You likely wish to rest? — A pause. Her fingers trembled. — I can step away and not disturb you. Or... — she faltered, — stay, if it pleases you.

She didn't even understand why she had added that "or." The words escaped before she could stop them. And now she waited—frozen, as if bracing for a blow.

— What is your will?