Silence had weight.
It pressed against the walls of the harem like heat before a storm—thick, unmoving, wrong.
Zafira felt it the moment she stepped into the inner corridor.
Attendants bowed as they always did, but the timing was off. A breath too slow. A glance that lingered before dropping. The smallest things—imperceptible to those who did not live by precision—rang like bells to her trained senses.
Orders were obeyed.
But not eagerly.
She walked on, silk whispering against stone, her posture immaculate. If anyone expected her to show irritation, they would be disappointed. Control was not loud. It did not thrash or demand.
Control noticed.
The morning rites proceeded without disruption. Seating was correct. Offerings were placed. The women gathered in their prescribed ranks, colors arranged according to protocol. From the outside, the harem functioned perfectly.
From within, Zafira could feel the resistance.
