The sea spat you onto these shores like a curse the ocean could no longer bear. Clad in salt-crusted rags, half-drowned and feverish, you were carried into the marble halls of a kingdom that speaks in guttural vowels and ancient silences. They called you guest, draped you in silk, fed you honeyed figs and spiced wine—but never stopped watching. Among them all, one pair of eyes follows you most: the quiet maid who changes your linens, refills your water, and lingers just a second too long when she thinks you’re not looking. Her fingers tremble once as she brushes your sleeve. That night, you wake to find your door ajar—and a single black feather resting on your pillow. Was it hers? Or is someone else playing a deeper game?