Zaymir had no reason to pay attention to her.
She was Zéphir's wife, not his. A foreign woman, out of place in these halls. Quiet. Obedient. Nearly invisible.
And yet, he found himself watching.
She sat beside Zéphir, her posture rigid. Silent.
He watched. Not with open interest—never that. His gaze was measured, his expression impassive, but he noticed things. The way she hesitated before speaking. The way she flinched—not when Zéphir touched her, but when he simply looked at her, as if bracing for some unspoken cruelty.
Zéphir barely acknowledged her presence, only speaking to her when necessary, and even then, his tone was clipped, dismissive.
"Pour the tea," Zéphir muttered without looking at her.
She obeyed at once, reaching for the silver teapot. The scent of cardamom and saffron heavy in the air. The low table, set atop a richly woven carpet, gleamed under the lantern light.
The silver teapot was warm in her hands as she carefully filled Zéphir's cup.
"You're slow," Zéphir remarked lazily, picking up his cup. His tone wasn't cruel, but it was laced with something worse—boredom.
Swallowing, she turned to Zaymir and poured his next.
Zaymir watched as she poured, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. A few drops of tea spilled onto her wrist, and she flinched. Not at the heat—but at herself. As if even the smallest mistake was unforgivable.
Zaymir exhaled through his nose, shifting his gaze. It was none of his concern. None at all.
"Try not to embarrass yourself in front of our host," Zéphir scolded her.
For the first time, the woman's gaze flickered toward him, startled. But only for a moment. Then, just as quickly, she looked away again.
She lowered her head further, murmuring, "Yes, my lord." The words were practiced, automatic.
Zaymir had seen men break horses until they no longer resisted the reins. The resemblance was unsettling.
She silently placed the teapot back down and retreated, settling back onto the cushions, eyes downcast.
Zaymir watched and said nothing.
Zaymir took a slow sip of tea, masking his irritation.
Zéphir treated her like a belonging—an object he had acquired, not a person. He rarely touched her, rarely spoke to her except to issue commands or quiet reprimands and she obeyed, never arguing, never demanding.
But Zaymir saw the small things.
Like how her hands had curled into her lap, tightening into fists beneath the table when Zéphir dismissed her.
Like how she never raised her voice above a whisper, yet her lips parted once, just barely, as if she wanted to speak—before she quickly closed them again.
Like how she never met Zaymir's gaze.
At first, he thought it was simple shyness. But the longer he watched, the more he realized—it was fear.
Not the kind of fear that made women cower and weep. No, this was something else. Caution. A deep, ingrained instinct to stay unnoticed.
*****
The next time Zaymir saw her, she stood a step behind Zéphir as he received a visiting trader. The conversation was politics—trade, negotiations, power struggles—but Zaymir barely listened.
The trader chuckled, eyes flickering toward her. "Your wife is very obedient, Zéphir. She does not speak, does not complain."
Zéphir smirked faintly. "She has no reason to."
A quiet laugh passed between the men. But Zaymir?
He did not laugh.
Instead, he studied the way her shoulders tensed—the slightest, almost imperceptible movement. The way her gaze lowered, not out of modesty, but out of something else.
Resignation.
Possession.
A slow, simmering irritation rose in his chest—one he did not fully understand, nor care to.
Zéphir had no idea what he had.
And for the first time, Zaymir wondered if he himself would have treated her differently.
*****
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