Zafire almost can't believe it herself, but the sound she makes is some approximation of a laugh. Maybe more of a huff, a ghost of a laugh. She's thinking of Turhan, and of Kosem, strangled by her own hair. She wonders whether Turhan got the message, metaphorically speaking. Now she may never know, so she'll have to trust in her own ability to convey what she means.

"Well," she says, so agreeable it's deprecating not herself, but her 'homeland', "that may have changed, but evidently, some things never do. How comforting."

There is still visible tension and anxiety left in her shoulders, in the tilt of her chin when she lifts her head to look around at the (to her mind, which is in no condition to appreciate the landscape) bleakly wintry village, leading into the camp. Still. She knows how to do this, doesn't she? Slave or refugee, she will get the measure of this place. Zafire looks back at Martel, who is clearly not of this world or hers, but also much more settled, here.

"What will happen to the rift I came from?"