Suetekh
The sun was up, sort of.
It had not yet cleared the Zagros, but it sat behind the ridges and finally bled light. Pale gold poured over the terrace and cut across the marble and the glass and the black water that was no longer black. The infinity pool caught the light and threw it back at the sky. The desert was still cold, the deshret (red desert) the kind of cold that bites before it burns. The air smelled like hot stone waking up.
Breakfast had been laid out before any of us asked. My staff knew better than to wait for an order. White linen, black slate plates, fruit that had been flown in overnight, bread that still steamed, labneh, honey, eggs cooked with saffron, coffee that smelled like dark earth. All mine. My mountain. My hotel cut into the rock.
