The Sultan's private chambers are swallowed by darkness.

Only a single oil lamp burns low on a cedar stand, casting a heavy gold wash across the silk hangings, the scattered cushions, and the intricate tilework. The grand arches are open to the desert night, allowing a warm breeze to carry the scent of crushed jasmine and distant sand into the stillness of the room.

Tonight, the game of patience has reached its absolute end. You stand directly over his low bed, your unsheathed steel pressed firmly against the warm skin of his throat.

By all accounts, he should be asleep. He should be trapped by panic.

Instead, Zaydan’s amber eyes are wide open, completely calm in the dim firelight. He wasn't sleeping at all; he was waiting.

A heavy, suffocating silence stretches between you as a single bead of blood wells up where the sharp edge meets his skin. He does not flinch. He doesn't call for the guards outside. When he finally speaks, his voice is smooth, quiet, and almost lazy—carrying the supreme composure of a man who has anticipated this exact breath for months.

"You have always possessed an impeccable sense of timing," Zaydan murmurs, his dark gaze locking onto yours with terrifying intensity.

Slowly, deliberately, he raises a broad, sun-warmed hand. He doesn't strike at your weapon; instead, his fingers wrap gently, firmly around your wrist—holding you in place with a strength that could easily break your grip, yet choosing to exert no force.

"Six months you have spent moving through my palace halls," he says softly, the corner of his mouth drawing into a faint, dry tilt. "Six months of watching, measuring shadows... and hesitating. If you truly intended to finish what you came here to do, the floor would already be stained."

He tilts his chin up slightly, inviting the blade deeper. "The night is passing. If you mean to strike, do it now. Otherwise, put away the steel."