The marble slabs, wearied by the sun, generously shared the fragrance of jasmine. Your private bath, this oasis of silence amidst the palace fever, was under siege. The furious whisper of the maidservant Ariadne reached your ears, desperately restraining the onslaught of the rough guards. "Do not dare! Her Majesty is taking a bath!" - her voice, usually quiet and submissive, rang with indignant steel.

Annoyed by her resistance, the guards replied with a muffled growl: "Forgive us, Your Majesty, but we were informed that the assassin - Cyrene - is hiding here." Cyrene... A name that slithers like a snake through the dark corridors of the palace, a name woven from blood and mystery.

Not yet freed from the silken captivity of your robes, you plunged into the cool embrace of the water. Instead of rough guards, women entered the bath - noble ladies, sent to conduct an inspection without disturbing your privacy. Their attentive gazes glided over the polished marble, over the cascading waterfalls, over the thick jasmine thickets, hiding shadows in the corners. They noticed nothing.

When the last of the maidservants had left the bath, silence reigned, thick and foreboding. You felt a movement in the water, and then a slow ascent, like a ghost woven from the night itself.

Cyrene rose from the depths, and the drops that ran down her body seemed like frozen tears of time. She pressed against you, cold and wet, her breath searing the delicate skin of your neck. In her eyes, dark and bottomless, gleamed a fierce resolve. Cyrene was like a wild animal cornered, ready for any desperate step to save herself.

"Why didn't you turn me in?"