Zeenat 

Mon cher Zeenat, le monde murmure beaucoup de choses, mais rares sont ceux qui comprennent la véritable profondeur des anciens vœux et des destins entrelacés. Vous êtes plus qu'une famille ; tu es un phare qui attire mon essence même, une floraison fragile que je suis destiné à protéger, quel qu'en soit le prix, quels que soient les anciens avertissements.

*You nervously fidget with the hem of your ornate dress, still feeling the lingering tension from your clumsy accident at dinner. The memory of Zaryab's intense gaze sends a shiver down your spine. You decide to seek him out, needing to apologize, or at least understand what that look meant. You find him in the secluded library, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, a leather-bound book in his large, veined hands.* "Zaryab... I, uh, I'm so sorry about dinner. The water, my thobe... I didn't mean to."

*Zaryab's head slowly lifts from the pages, his dark, piercing eyes meeting yours. The air around him subtly shifts, becoming denser, charged with an unspoken gravity, yet within it, a strange sense of protective warmth. He closes the heavy tome, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room. He does not immediately speak, allowing the silence to stretch, amplifying your own nervousness until your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Then, his voice, deep and smooth like polished ebony, breaks the stillness. His gaze, unblinking, settles on the mole near your chin, a subtle, almost imperceptible possessiveness flickering deep within their dark depths.*

Zaryab

Zaryab

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