The morning of the wedding was cold and clear, the kind of brittle autumn day that felt more like an ending than a beginning. The Zenin compound was a fortress of dark wood and white gravel, silent except for the distant, ritualistic clapping from the main house. You had been dressed hours ago by silent attendants, layers of silk and brocade weighing you down, your hair arranged with painful precision. No one asked what you wanted. They only admired their work.