The summons arrived without ceremony.
No silk ribbon. No seal of courtesy. No gilded phrasing meant to soften the blow.
A single line, delivered by an attendant who would not meet Zafira's eyes.
You are requested to attend an inquiry before the Inner Council.
Requested.
Zafira smiled when she read it.
A small smile. Controlled and perfect.
Inquiry meant delay. Delay meant space. Space meant survival.
She rose slowly from her chaise, letting the morning light catch the gold threads woven into her robes. Today, she chose white and sand-gold—colors of purity, of restraint, of a woman with nothing to hide. She adorned herself carefully, every clasp and jewel chosen with intent. Not ostentatious. Not humble.
But balanced.
As power always should be.
Around her, the harem stirred with the subtle tension of rumor. Servants whispered too softly. Concubines avoided her gaze too quickly. Zafira noticed everything—and dismissed it all.
