The cries of a newborn drifting through a night as dark and silent as this would, for most people, mark the beginning of life.
But for them, it signaled the beginning of an end.
In the tent next door, Rashad and his wife, Jawhara, sat side by side, whispering murder into the quiet. They plotted the downfall of the woman who had just given birth — a mere slave named Gaida — whose only crime was carrying Rashad's child.
Jawhara leaned against Rashad's shoulder as he gently rubbed her back, both of them smiling.
"I dreamed last night that it would be a boy," she whispered, her voice soft and poisonous. "And he looked nothing like her. He looked just like you."
Rashad's smile widened. "Yes, my darling Jawhara," he said softly. "That child isn't hers — he's yours."
Jawhara chuckled darkly, running her fingers over the pillow she had worn beneath her dress for the past nine months.
"Luckily, I wore this the whole time," she whispered, slipping it out and tossing it playfully at Rashad.
Like mischievous children, they chased each other around the tent, laughing, until Rashad stumbled backward, pulling Jawhara down with him into his arms.
Her laughter faded. A sudden sadness clouded her face.
"What about her?" she asked in a low voice. "What are you going to do with Gaida?"
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and looked away.
"I'll sell her to that merchant we met last night — Hatem's guest."
Jawhara's smile vanished. Her cheeks flushed with irritation.
"Why don't you just kill her?"
Her question hung heavy in the silence.
"Why don't you just kill her?"
The weight of those words settled over the camp like a dark cloud