Eman chuckled softly, his voice steeped in wistful reminiscence, “Do forgive me, Mr Zein,” he murmured, gently closing the wooden box with deliberate care. “A memento from a time I could never hope to forget.”
Turning with quiet authority, he called out, “Dadan…”
“Yes, sensei!” came the brisk reply, as Dadan straightened instinctively, his posture imbued with deference.
“See to it that the finest fare is prepared for our esteemed guest,” Eman instructed, his tone brooking no dissent.
“At once, sensei!” Dadan responded. Without hesitation, he pivoted neatly, slid open the wooden panel door with practised ease, and exited the chamber, leaving Doctor Zein and Zara alone with the venerable master.
Zara shook her head with a soft, almost indulgent smile, her gaze resting fondly upon Eman.
“Sensei, you needn’t go to such lengths…” she said gently, releasing a sigh borne of affection.
But Eman only offered a low, warm laugh, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine delight.
“Zara… how many seasons have passed since we last shared a table?” he asked, his voice tinged with sentiment. “This moment is different. Today, you have brought someone with you. Someone who once delivered me from death itself.”
Doctor Zein drew a long breath, his chest rising with the weight of thoughts long held in silence.
His gaze, once calm, now darkened with intent serious, searching, “Master Eman,” he began, voice scarcely above a whisper, “there is something I must ask of you.”
Eman’s brow lifted slightly, a glimmer of curiosity behind his seasoned eyes.
A faint smile touched his lips, wary, yet welcoming, “Then by all means… be seated, Mr Zein,” he said, gesturing with quiet authority.
With a nod of assent, Doctor Zein sank slowly onto the tatami, his movements composed, imbued with quiet dignity.
Zara followed in silence, settling beside him with the poise of one accustomed to the weight of unspoken matters.
Eman remained where he was, cross-legged and composed, observing them both as a master might regard his pupils.
His expression unreadable, yet not without warmth.
In silence, he reached for the lacquered teapot and, with a grace born of habit, poured steaming tea into three earthen cups.
Each motion was unhurried, reverent. It was as though the act itself were ceremonial, a gesture not of hospitality alone, but of remembrance.
The rich aroma of herbs soon drifted through the air, enveloping the room in a veil of warmth and calm, a scent reminiscent of mountain soil and quiet dawns.
It was the kind of fragrance that gently folded time back upon itself, erasing years, binding those present to something older than memory.
“Please, Mr Zein,” Eman said, offering the cup with both hands, his voice low, courteous, and solemn.
“Zara, do have some,” he added, turning to her with the hint of a smile brief, fleeting, but sincere.
“Thank you,” came the twin murmurs of gratitude, almost overlapping. Zein’s deep and pensive, Zara’s soft and steady.
Together, they raised their cups and drank. The warmth of the tea spread through their bodies, not merely soothing but awakening as if it stirred something dormant within.
Eman drank as well. He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment as the taste bloomed on his tongue, bittersweet, layered with echoes.
In that single sip, the years seemed to return to him, and the silence that followed felt not empty, but sacred.
After several contemplative sips of tea, Doctor Zein at last found his voice, quiet and deliberate, as though summoning it from the depths of long-held restraint.
“Master Eman…”
Eman regarded him with a composed stillness, his expression unreadable yet kind. He inclined his head gently.
“There is no need for hesitation, Mr Zein. Speak freely,” he said, his tone smooth like water gliding over ancient stone.
Doctor Zein inhaled slowly, the breath deep and deliberate, his gaze fixed upon the cooling porcelain cup cradled between his fingers.
It trembled, ever so slightly, as though it bore the weight of what remained unspoken.
“I wish for you to tell me all that you know about…”
He faltered, the words refusing to emerge fully, lodged between caution and necessity, like a key hesitant to turn in a rusted lock.
Eman leaned forward just a fraction, his presence grounding, his voice the low murmur of wisdom passed through generations.
“Do not fear the question, Mr Zein. Speak it. It has already chosen you.”
The doctor released a breath, not of relief, but of surrender. His eyes, shadowed by memory and motive, lifted at last to meet Eman’s.
And then, with the gravity of one invoking a name long buried beneath silence, he said, “Tell me everything you know about... King Aramia.”
The room fell into a silence so complete, it seemed to hold its breath.
Eman, poised to take a sip of his tea, froze mid-motion.
His eyes widened sharp and startled as if struck by a vision dredged from the depths of a half-forgotten nightmare.
His left hand, still clutching the wooden teacup, began to tremble, the tremor creeping from his fingers up to his shoulder like an unseen current.
A shudder coursed through him, violent, involuntary as though some ancient tempest had awakened within the marrow of his bones.
His complexion drained of colour, paling to the hue of ash, as if a spectral hand had reached across time and touched him with a chill only he could feel.
And then...
CRACK!!!
The teacup slipped from his grasp and struck the table with a jarring thud, splintering the spell of stillness.
Herbal tea spilled across the surface, a dark rivulet meandering over the lacquered wood before trickling in slow, deliberate drops to the floor.
Each droplet a toll of time, echoing with ghosts of a truth long buried.
Zara flinched instinctively, her breath caught in her throat.
Doctor Zein's gaze snapped to Eman. Sharp, unwavering, but tempered with a quiet, professional calm.
Eman remained utterly still. His chest rose and fell in ragged cadence, as though he were wrestling with something monstrous, buried deep and newly unearthed.
His eyes, once keen with wisdom, now stared blankly ahead.
Hollow, distant, yet behind that vacant stare simmered a darkness.
A memory. A name. A wound that had never truly closed.
Eman turned towards Zara, his gaze alight with a fire too long suppressed eyes glinting like lightning cleaving the heart of a storm.
“Zara!” he barked, his voice cutting through the air. “Why did you speak that name to another?!”
Each word thundered with a fury scarcely contained, the kind that simmers beneath years of silence.
His features darkened, colour drained from his knuckles as his fists clenched.
His jaw tightened, as though every sinew fought to keep his composure from shattering completely.
He was no longer the sage-like figure of moments ago, but a tempest in human form rage incarnate.
Beneath the tempest, however, flickered something quieter.
Regret. A sorrow as ancient as the name he had tried to forget.
He had once trusted her. That trust now lay fractured, like porcelain shattered underfoot.
“Sensei…” Zara’s voice came in a hushed tremor, her eyes wide with disbelief. “I would never have spoken it, not unless...”
“Enough, Zara!” he thundered, the room echoing with the sharp crack of his words, as though the very walls recoiled.
Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he fixed Doctor Zein in his gaze, a stare cold and cutting, devoid of its former warmth.
“Mr Zein. You once saved my life, and for that, I owe you a debt, but not my soul, nor my silence.”
His voice lowered, yet lost none of its steel, “Your welcome ends here. I must ask you to leave immediately.”
Zara opened her mouth to speak, her tone now gentle, almost pleading, “Sensei… please. Listen, just for a moment...”
“NO!” he roared, the word striking like a whip.
His shoulders heaved. His hands, now trembling, clenched harder.
“You’ve both trespassed into a place you were never meant to tread. Leave! Now!”
Silence fell heavy and suffocating. The air no longer carried the comfort of brewed herbs, but something bitter.
Like smoke. Like ash. Like the long-cooled remnants of a fire once meant to stay buried.