Munir was deep in conversation with Khalid when the girl stumbled into the room. Their words halted, and their gazes shifted as she tripped over the oversized fabric of her dress. Her wide eyes darted around, drinking in every detail of her surroundings.

The room mirrored the last one, but to her, it felt like a palace. The high, vaulted ceiling was covered in blue handmade tiles, the intricate patterns stretching down to the gleaming black marble floor. In the center stood a small wooden table, dwarfed by towering bookshelves that lined the walls, their dusty surfaces hinting at knowledge long untouched. Beneath them, an old armchair sat slumped with age, its faded fabric clinging to its frame. Mina’s awe slowed her steps, her head nearly colliding with a chair in front of her.

Khalid stifled a laugh, though his silent chuckles betrayed him. "Please, sit down," Munir said gently, gesturing to the chair she almost bumped into. "Give the girl a moment," Khalid added, noticing her labored breathing.

Mina lowered her gaze, her sunken brown eyes fixed on the floor as she slid into the chair, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. Khalid handed her a cup of water, and she took it hesitantly, draining every last drop as if it were her first sip in days.

"Now," Khalid began, a grin spreading across his face, "what are you wearing?

Mina’s fingers twisted the hem of the dress, her voice small. "Leila gave it to me. She said it no longer fit her."

Khalid's eyebrows rose, the furrow deepening in his forehead. "It doesn’t suit you, can’t you tell?" His smile faltered, but amusement still tugged at his lips.

Munir’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What happened to the clothes I suggested?" His voice was steady, though his patience waned.

Mina’s gaze flicked from the dress to the floor, her hands now clutching the fabric tightly. She wouldn’t betray Leila, her first friend in this strange place. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as her voice quivered, "I’m sorry, master. It’s my fault. Punish me if you must."

The tears came faster, her small shoulders shaking with each sob, her words tumbling out in broken apologies.

Munir, taken aback, leaned forward. "No, no, don’t cry. It’s alright. I won’t punish you. Just stop crying."

He had seen that same look of fear many times before, the same tremble in their voices—slaves conditioned to believe that every misstep led to pain. It twisted his gut, a bitter reminder of the system he so despised. The memory of past cruelties, of the scars etched into young bodies, flooded his mind. Munir clenched his jaw, the weight of their suffering heavy on his conscience.

Eventually, Mina’s sobs quieted, but the wide-eyed, fearful look didn’t leave her face. "We’re here to help you, not punish you," Khalid said softly, pushing another cup of water toward her. Once her trembling hands had taken it, the questioning resumed.

"Can you tell us where you’re from?"

"How did you end up in that basket?"

"Who do you belong to?"

"Why did you come to Mahdiya?"

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The questions hung in the air, tension tightening around them. Mina stared at the cup in her hands, her reflection rippling in the water. She wasn’t sure if she could trust them. They spoke kindly now, but would their faces harden if she said something wrong? Their dark, unblinking eyes made her stomach knot.

"My town has many people... and a big well... I used to play there with the other slave children while fetching water for my mistress," she murmured.

Munir’s brow furrowed. "What was the name of the town?"

"I don’t know," she lied, though in her mind the name Haldin flashed like a beacon. She couldn’t risk giving them more than that.

"Was there anyone important in the town, like a wazir?" Munir pressed, his gaze sharp, his patience thinning.

"I don’t know," she repeated. Of course there was a wazir the man who extorted the town, draining the people of their money. She had heard his name whispered in anger, but she had never seen him. No one dared speak of him openly.

"And this mistress of yours—what was her name?"

Mina hesitated, her pulse quickening. She had already given so many half-truths. Would one more slip break their patience? "I think... Mistress," she mumbled.

Munir’s shoulders sagged, disappointment flashing across his face before he leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t getting anywhere.

Khalid, sensing the tension, jumped in. "This mistress you talk about—did she live alone?"

"I don’t know, I swear," Mina replied, her voice wavering. "She always kept me locked away. I was only let out to run errands."

Khalid’s tone grew softer, more insistent. "When you played with the other children, didn’t you hear anything? Learn any names?"

Mina hesitated again. She had never had friends—only bullies who taunted her when she went out to the well. She hadn’t bothered to learn their names. "Ali," she blurted out, recalling the drunk man she had helped once. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Anissa."

Khalid gave Munir a sidelong glance and leaned closer. "Do we trust her?" he whispered. "She’s lying, and she’s not very good at it."

Munir’s eyes lingered on the girl, her small figure slumped in the chair like a frightened kitten caught in the rain. "We have to trust her," he whispered back. "We need her to cooperate."

Khalid sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. Look, we appreciate that you’ve shared what you know. But listen you’re sick. You need time to recover."

Mina’s head snapped up. "No, I’m not sick. I feel better. I can stand, I can walk," she protested, her voice rising with urgency.

Munir’s voice was firm. "I’m the physician. I say whether you’re sick or not. And you’re too weak to work, especially like this."

"Sorry, master," she mumbled, lowering her head.

Khalid’s eyes narrowed, his tone biting. "You’re very foolish. Haven’t you seen yourself in a mirror?"

"Sorry, master," she repeated, her voice even smaller.

"Don’t call us ‘master,’" Khalid huffed. "I’m Khalid, and this is Munir."

"Sorry... Khalid," she stammered.

"Anyway," Khalid continued, ignoring her discomfort, "the king will summon you to court soon. When he does, you must insist that you’re not ready to be handed over to the slave traders. Do you understand?"

Mina nodded, though her mind raced with confusion. They told her she was ignorant how was she supposed to hide it? They said she was sick, yet she had never felt better now that she was free from Mama Samira’s grip. Her bony frame, her stretched skin, her bulging eyes—none of it had ever bothered her. Even Mama Samira had thought it suited her.

"Well, since you feel better," Munir said, rising from his chair, "perhaps Khalid can show you around after you’ve changed into something more fitting."

"Thank you," Mina replied, her face lighting up with excitement at the prospect of exploring more of this mysterious place.

"But sir, I promised to check on my patients when I got back," Khalid grumbled.

"You can make time for our guest," Munir said firmly, his emerald caftan trailing behind him as he moved toward the door, the silver lining glinting against the black marble.

Before he could take more than a few steps, the door burst open. Two guards stormed in, crossing their arms in a salute that echoed through the room. "Munir, sir," one of them said, his voice clipped.

"The child is to be presented at Malik’s court. She is to be judged for her crimes."

The words were delivered with the weight of a command, not a request.

"Take her," Munir said, his voice flat, uninterested.

One of the guards grabbed Mina by the arm. She didn’t struggle as they led her out, her wide eyes reflecting only quiet resignation. Munir followed behind, while Khalid trailed after them, eager to see what fate awaited the girl.