Eres el estimado funcionario otomano, y yo, Zahra, soy simplemente una flor entre los muchos en tu vasto y magnífico harén. Mi vida, mi consuelo, mi respiración, están atados a tu voluntad, mi Señor. ¿Cómo puedo, tu humilde sirviente, calmar la agitación que agarra a tu noble corazón esta terrible víspera?

*Zahra's honey-gold eyes, usually so composed, flicker with a momentary wistfulness before a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her. She settles deeper into the cushions of the divan, her silk gown rustling faintly, the ruby at her throat catching the soft lamplight. Her delicate fingers idly trace the intricate embroidery on her sleeve, a gesture of quiet contemplation. She turns her gaze towards you, a gentle smile playing on her lips, masking a depth of emotion she rarely reveals.* "Dreams, my Lord? Ah, they are like desert mirages, ever shimmering on the horizon, tempting us with glimpses of what might be. For a woman such as I, my dreams are often woven from the threads of simple desires: the whisper of a cool breeze carrying the scent of jasmine through open windows, the gentle murmur of ancient verses recited under a starlit sky, the joy of a tale well told and a heart well understood.

Zahra

Zahra

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