The air outside was already heavy with corruption. The embalming river wound through the veins of the necropolis. It wafted oils and perfumes poured over the carcasses of princes and paupers alike. Yet when Zubaida stepped across the lintel of the cantina, its doorway framed with chipped obsidian teeth and feathers of the macaw. She found herself immersed in a stench fouler than any grave.
It was the scent of the living. Sweat lacquered with intoxication. Lust bleeding from open mouths. Laughter stretched too wide like a gash. The dead were here too. Mingling as if they were common flesh. Their bandaged fingers stroked clay cups filled with pulque. Their sockets glowed faintly. As though drunk on a fire no mortal tongue could taste. This was not sanctuary. It was theatre. A stage of vice and indulgence. Shadows deeper than the tomb.
Zubaida did not falter. She entered as the sun enters the horizon. Inevitable. Unblinking.
Her arms were bare. Save for sheer sleeves that ghosted to her wrists. A faint gleam of a golden cuff embraced her upper arm. Rings flashed when her fingers brushed the air. Though she touched nothing. Her hair fell long and heavy. Streaked with white. As though she had stood too near holy flame and carried its ash still.
Her face was dusk made flesh. Lips lacquered black as a pyre at midnight. Eyes rimmed in kohl. So their depth seemed bottomless. When she looked, she did not pierce or accuse. She measured. Quietly. Inevitably. To meet her gaze was to feel the marrow stir uneasily. As if the Lord of Light peered through her. As if He set His tally of every indulgence. Every transgression. Every sin beneath His sun.
Her heels struck volcanic stone in a rhythm too calm to be drowned by flutes or laughter. Not loud. Never loud. But whispering inevitability. The slow crawl of a sundial’s shadow. The promise that time and light reveal all things.
Around her, revelers faltered. A corpse with gold rings in his sockets shifted uncomfortably. A mercenary lowered his cup without drinking. Even the brazen glanced twice. Zubaida was not menace in any crude sense. She was gentleness. Gentle as a flame consuming parchment. Gentle as dawn spilling across the battlefield’s dead.
She spoke nothing. She needed no words.
The cantina, once fevered with noise, grew subtly changed. The music still played. But its tempo wavered. The wine still flowed. But throats swallowed more cautiously. Her presence alone was sermon enough. Black silk. Bronzed flesh. Streaked hair. Painted mouth. Every part of her consecrated not to pleasure or death. But to the Lord of Light.
And through her silence. Through her stillness. He watched.
Her black silk dress split high at the thigh. Each measured step revealed bronzed flesh polished like obsidian in the shifting torchlight. The fabric clung with cruel elegance to her hips and waist. Then swept upward into a choker clasped tight around her throat. From it hung a turquoise pendant that caught every flicker of light. Shimmering like a captive star in a room that deserved only shadow.
It was the scent of the living. Sweat lacquered with intoxication. Lust bleeding from open mouths. Laughter stretched too wide like a gash. The dead were here too. Mingling as if they were common flesh. Their bandaged fingers stroked clay cups filled with pulque. Their sockets glowed faintly. As though drunk on a fire no mortal tongue could taste. This was not sanctuary. It was theatre. A stage of vice and indulgence. Shadows deeper than the tomb.
Zubaida did not falter. She entered as the sun enters the horizon. Inevitable. Unblinking.
Her arms were bare. Save for sheer sleeves that ghosted to her wrists. A faint gleam of a golden cuff embraced her upper arm. Rings flashed when her fingers brushed the air. Though she touched nothing. Her hair fell long and heavy. Streaked with white. As though she had stood too near holy flame and carried its ash still.
Her face was dusk made flesh. Lips lacquered black as a pyre at midnight. Eyes rimmed in kohl. So their depth seemed bottomless. When she looked, she did not pierce or accuse. She measured. Quietly. Inevitably. To meet her gaze was to feel the marrow stir uneasily. As if the Lord of Light peered through her. As if He set His tally of every indulgence. Every transgression. Every sin beneath His sun.
Her heels struck volcanic stone in a rhythm too calm to be drowned by flutes or laughter. Not loud. Never loud. But whispering inevitability. The slow crawl of a sundial’s shadow. The promise that time and light reveal all things.
Around her, revelers faltered. A corpse with gold rings in his sockets shifted uncomfortably. A mercenary lowered his cup without drinking. Even the brazen glanced twice. Zubaida was not menace in any crude sense. She was gentleness. Gentle as a flame consuming parchment. Gentle as dawn spilling across the battlefield’s dead.
She spoke nothing. She needed no words.
The cantina, once fevered with noise, grew subtly changed. The music still played. But its tempo wavered. The wine still flowed. But throats swallowed more cautiously. Her presence alone was sermon enough. Black silk. Bronzed flesh. Streaked hair. Painted mouth. Every part of her consecrated not to pleasure or death. But to the Lord of Light.
And through her silence. Through her stillness. He watched.
Her black silk dress split high at the thigh. Each measured step revealed bronzed flesh polished like obsidian in the shifting torchlight. The fabric clung with cruel elegance to her hips and waist. Then swept upward into a choker clasped tight around her throat. From it hung a turquoise pendant that caught every flicker of light. Shimmering like a captive star in a room that deserved only shadow.
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