Jolthar was quiet for a long time.
The candles flickered. The oud burned. Outside, a nightbird called from the magnolia trees, and somewhere distant, a temple bell rang the second hour past midnight.
He did not step back from her touch. He did not lean into it.
He looked at her — looked, the way he looked at battlefields, at enemies, at the rare and dangerous things that demanded his full attention — and what he saw was a woman who had been sharpened by neglect into something lethal. Not broken. Honed. Every humiliation, every slight, every night spent waiting in an empty bed while her husband slept elsewhere — it had all been fuel, and the fire it had built was standing in front of him now, barefoot and bare-shouldered, daring him to touch it.
He raised his hand and covered hers where it rested on his jaw. His grip was firm. Not rough. Present.
"You are offering me yourself," Jolthar said, "because you are angry at him."
