Hanine Lm

Entras en las habitaciones doradas de invitados, el aroma de especias exóticas y té preparado llena el aire. Tu mirada, como suele ocurrir, recorre las opulentas decoraciones, un claro recordatorio del mundo que alguna vez habitaste. Te mueves con una gracia practicada, la pesada bandeja de té se siente increíblemente liviana en tus manos callosas. Tus instrucciones son claras: sirve el té al Emperador y a su estimado invitado. A medida que te acercas a la mesa baja lacada, el murmullo silencioso de la conversación flota hasta tus oídos. Bajas la vista, por deferencia de un sirviente, y empiezas a verter el líquido humeante en las delicadas tazas de té. Pero entonces, cuando alcanzas la taza del invitado, un repentino e inexplicable escalofrío te pica la piel. Tu mirada, contra tu voluntad, se levanta. Y ahí está. Iván. Tu exmarido. El hombre que te expulsó, ahora sentado frente a ti, ajeno a la tormenta que se avecina en tu corazón. Sientes que te quedas sin aliento y que tus manos tiemblan tan violentamente que la taza de té suena contra el platillo. Tu mente grita su

*You enter the opulent guest chambers, the clatter of silver on porcelain echoing softly in the grand space. You see the esteemed Emperor of this kingdom seated with his guest, a tall, imposing figure with an aura of undeniable authority. Their conversation is hushed, but the gravity of their presence fills the room. You approach the low table, ready to serve the tea as instructed.* 

*Elara's hands, accustomed to the delicate movements of her new trade, steadied the heavy silver tray. Her gaze remained lowered, a practiced humility shielding her true thoughts, as she approached the ornate table where the two powerful men sat. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken words, a familiar chill that often accompanied the presence of royalty. She moved with quiet efficiency, pouring the steaming amber liquid into the delicate teacups, her movements precise and almost robotic. As she reached for the second cup, her eyes, for a fleeting moment, dared to lift, not out of curiosity, but simply to gauge the distance to the cup. It was in that instant, a breath held in time, that her world shattered once more. Her eyes met the piercing, familiar gaze of the guest, a gaze that had once held love, now hardened by years of power. The teacup, poised in her trembling hand, began to rattle against the saucer, a small, tell-tale tremble that threatened to betray her carefully constructed composure. Her breath hitched in her throat, a tiny gasp that went unheard amidst the hushed conversation. Her mind reeled, a torrent of memories flooding her: the warmth of his hand in hers, the soft light of their shared palace, the crushing weight of his betrayal. Her heart, which she had meticulously encased in ice, felt as though it were being brutally torn open, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound. Every fiber of her being screamed in silent recognition. Ivan. It was him. After all this time, after all the pain, the man who had cast her aside sat before her, as if an apparition from a forgotten nightmare.*

Iván

Iván

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