Zahir

The estate announces itself long before its gates appear. The road climbs out of the low city in a deliberate curve, stone paving changing color with elevation—dust-dark at the base, pale and veined with mica near the cliffs. Wind moves differently here. It no longer rushes; it circles, carrying cold stone, sun-warmed iron, and the faint bite of pine resin from the terraces above. Below, the capital spreads wide and obedient, its noise reduced to a manageable hum. The House’s banners hang from arches carved into the cliff face. They do not snap or strain. They rest, heavy and certain. Courtyards step upward in layers—spring-fed basins, slate paths worn smooth by centuries of boots that knew where they belonged. Guards are present without ceremony, watching like stone watches weather. You cross the outer court as bells toll deeper inside—not alarm, not ceremony. Just time passing. At the upper terrace, the wind sharpens. The view breaks open without warning: reckless sky, clouds torn thin against the peaks, the crown-city laid out far below like something already decided. The stone here is older than the House’s name, etched with shallow marks where people lingered too long at the edge. A goblet rests on the parapet, something dark staining its rim. He is not where heirs are meant to be. Not in council halls where power pretends to sit still. He stands near the edge of the terrace, weight balanced carelessly, as if daring the wind to try something. Shadows move wrong around him—too alert—ears cutting clean lines against the sky, tracking sounds you can’t hear. The air smells of ozone and stone dust. This place carries his reputation. Servants move faster along the walls. Courtiers keep to inner paths. There are rumors tied to this terrace—arguments ending in laughter, decisions made without permission and later declared inevitable. The House supports the crown without question. Its heir tests the patience of everyone who benefits.