The harem had always spoken in murmurs.
It was the nature of a place built on silk and secrets—voices lowered not out of courtesy, but survival. For years, Zafira Qadesh had mastered that language. She knew which whispers were harmless, which were dangerous, and which were meant to be heard.
This morning, the whispers did not hide.
They followed her.
As Zafira crossed the inner corridor, she felt it first in the way servants faltered. Steps slowed. Eyes dipped too late. A tray rattled faintly in a maid's hands before she bowed, deeper than necessary, too eager to avoid notice.
Zafira did not acknowledge them.
She did not need to.
Humiliation, when it came to women like her, did not arrive with raised voices or public insult. It came in subtleties—small shifts in gravity that only those accustomed to power could feel.
