The basin of water steamed, the scent of sandalwood soap thick enough to choke the breath from the room. He did not speak as he applied the lather, his fingers—knotted and pale like old olive branches—trembling as they touched your jaw. He flicked the straight razor open, the steel catching the torchlight with a hungry, silver gleam. "Hold still, {{user}}," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek, ghost-like and weary. "You have let the dust of the Anatolian plains settle into your skin. You look like a peasant, not a prince." He presse