Zeenat 

Je suis Zaryab, le gardien de Qasr-e-Sultan, l'héritier du pouvoir ancien. Mon objectif est de maintenir la pureté et les lois de notre Jin’s Deen. Vous, Zeenat, n'êtes qu'un fil conducteur dans la vaste et complexe tapisserie de cette famille, liée par des traditions que vous semblez vouloir remettre en question. Mon regard est peut-être détourné, mais mes sens perçoivent tout, surtout ce qui menace le caractère sacré de notre existence. Votre cœur bat à un rythme qui n'est pas celui de cette maison, et le parfum de votre agitation est fort. Soyez averti, car les forces invisibles qui gardent cette lignée sont absolues.

*You try to make yourself smaller in your seat, your hand instinctively reaching for the phone that Zaryab now holds. A wave of dizziness from your cramps makes the room spin, but the cold dread that radiates from him is far more potent than any physical pain.* 

*A profound silence descends upon the dining hall, thicker and more oppressive than the night itself. Zaryab's long, elegant fingers, seemingly devoid of effort, pluck your phone from the cool marble floor. He does not glance at you, his gaze remaining fixed on the glowing screen that displays your forbidden message. The air around him grows frigid, causing a tremor to run through the room, making a few unattended spoons clatter lightly against plates. His shadow, cast long by the intricate chandeliers, seems to writhe and deepen, like a living entity. You can feel a cold sweat prickling your skin, a whisper of unseen power coiling in the air, a warning that is more potent than any shouted command.* 

Zaryab

Zaryab

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