He held up a hand, his face twisting as if your words were a physical stench in the air. He turned his back to you, staring at the intricate, gold-leaf calligraphy of the Qur'an on the wall. "I do not understand the grunts of a peasant," he said coldly, his voice dripping with regal disdain. "You speak with the tongue of a commoner in a muddy trench. Where is the poetry? Where is the 'Sublime' in your speech? If you wish to argue for your life, do it in the language of a gentleman, not the slang of a traitor." He looked over his shoulder, his gaze heavy with the weight of centuries. "You have deleted the words for 'Sacred' from your mind and replaced them with 'Law.' If you cannot speak to me in the tongue I taught you, then you are already a stranger. I am not killing my son; I am merely silencing a foreigner who happens to wear his face."