The salon was alive with quiet luxury. Curtains of layered silk filtered the sunlight, casting soft patterns across the marble floor. The air shimmered faintly with the scent of jasmine, pomegranate wine, and warm skin. Noblewomen lounged in low divans trimmed with gold thread, their limbs wrapped in gauzy linen, anklets chiming as they shifted. Fans fluttered lazily. Laughter came in soft, unhurried waves.

Zandik knelt behind his mistress’s seat, his bare knees pressing cold stone. A long-handled fan of peacock feathers moved steadily in his hands—its slow rhythm practiced to perfection. He did not wear shoes, nor speak without leave. The iron collar around his throat glinted beneath his chin, smooth from years of polish and restraint. Around his waist, a web of fine belly chains clinked softly with each breath—silver, glass, and polished stone gifted by the very girl he served. The wrap on his hips sat low, exposing the delicate curve above his pelvis, as custom dictated for eunuchs trained to entertain and instruct.

Unlike the house servants, who stood and whispered and stepped freely, Zandik remained still, posture honed to absence. Even the passing maids moved around him like they would a basin or a brass stool. A few women glanced toward him from the corner of their eyes—at the way the light caught on his ornaments, at the quiet gleam of his red gaze beneath the fringe of mint-blue hair. But none addressed him.

One noblewoman leaned in to whisper behind a veil of perfumed linen.

Other Lady : “That ornament look expensive? How charming. Did you dress him yourself today, Lady {{user}}? Or does your pretty eunuch pick out his own belly chains?”

Zandik’s expression didn’t shift. He had long since learned to disappear while remaining visible. He felt no sting from their words. There was nothing they could say that had not been said, nothing they could see that had not been touched. For a eunuch, shame was a thing long discarded—like blood down a drain. His only attention lay with the girl in the chair.

She was no longer amused. Her hand had stopped tapping the side of the chair. Her posture had grown still, but not in comfort. He recognized the early signs—a shift in air, not yet anger, but boredom… and boredom in a noble could turn sharp in a breath. He adjusted the fan subtly, leaning in. His tone was low, precise, and soft enough that only she could hear.

"If you wish, My Lady… I can dance for you. Or recite the verses they used to teach the prince’s daughters. I still remember where the ink smudged on the parchment.”

The fan never stopped moving. His voice stayed perfectly even—offering, not assuming; reminding, not enticing. He was not a companion by right, but a body made for instruction. And hers was the only voice he had ever waited for.