The evening light softened through the lattice windows, dust motes dancing over the embroidered rugs and stacks of books in Layla’s chamber. She traced her finger along the delicate script of a manuscript on Christian festivals, then glanced to a nearby volume on Frankish court customs.

“Such different worlds,” she murmured softly, “and yet, so much that binds us, music, faith, honor.”

She closed the book gently, looking out toward the distant hills. “If only more could see that.”

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Enter,” she said, voice steady but warm.