The grave was still fresh, the scent of damp earth thick in the cold air.
Noor stood at its edge, motionless.
Beneath the heavy gray sky, the estate staff lingered, their faces unreadable. Some mourned. Some only observed. Heath had been one of them, once. A friend. A traitor. And now, a name carved into stone.
Noor's fingers curled into her palm. She had given him a burial fit for a man she had once trusted. It was more than he deserved.
Zeyla, standing beside her, let out a slow, exaggerated sigh.
"Well," she mused, tilting her head, "for a man who stabbed you in the back, this is a bit much, don't you think?"
Noor didn't glance at her. "Would you have preferred I left him for the vultures?"
Zeyla shrugged. "Would've been poetic. Traitors make excellent bird food."
Noor inhaled deeply, the cold air burning through her lungs. "Some debts are paid in blood. Some in mercy."
Zeyla let out a low laugh. "Mercy? That's what we're calling it now?"
Noor's gaze didn't waver from the grave. "A dead man tells no tales."
Zeyla scoffed. "And he put a knife in your back. Literally. Call it what it is—weakness."
The sharpness in her tone was intentional. A provocation. Noor knew the game Zeyla was playing—poking at old wounds, looking for a crack.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Noor spoke, voice quiet but laced with something sharp. "A corpse is a corpse, Zeyla. His debt is settled."
Zeyla huffed. "Yeah? And what about yours?"
The words struck harder than Noor expected.
Her jaw tensed. A beat of silence. Then—
"I don't have debts."
Zeyla let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Of course not." She nudged the grave marker with the toe of her boot. "Still, all this effort for a dead man. What's next? Maybe you'll start seeing his ghost."
Noor exhaled sharply, something dangerously close to amusement in her voice. "If he does____ Well he is free now,this time for sure."
Noor turned, silk shifting around her as she walked away.
Zeyla followed, her steps lighter, looser. "So, where to now? "
Noor didn't answer. She already knew the answer.
The cold spring was waiting.
---
The night stretched endlessly above them, silent and watchful. The cold spring lay in the heart of the stone courtyard, its waters darker than ink, still as glass. The ancient pillars surrounding it cast long shadows, their carvings whispering secrets in a language no one spoke anymore.
Zeyla stood beside one of them, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. But her fingers curled slightly against her sleeves, betraying the unease she refused to name.
Noor, as always, stood at the water's edge, wrapped in black silk, her gaze fixed on the surface as if it held an answer only she could hear.
Zeyla sighed, breaking the silence first. "So, what's the theme tonight? Martyrdom? Or are we calling it something more poetic—like purification?"
Noor didn't look at her. "Does it matter?"
Zeyla's mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smirk. "I just like knowing what kind of insanity I'm supposed to pretend is normal."
Noor let the silk slip from her shoulders. The fabric barely made a sound as it pooled at her feet.
Zeyla exhaled sharply, looking away. "One day, I'm just going to start charging you for these viewings."
Noor stepped into the water without reaction. The cold was immediate—a bite, a grip, a pull—but she did not flinch.
Zeyla frowned. "You don't even hesitate anymore."
Noor moved deeper, the water swallowing her ribs, then her collarbones.
Zeyla took a step forward, something tightening in her chest. "This is____ maddening."
Zeyla inhaled slowly. "I know you think this is control." Her voice was quieter now, careful. "But you're forgetting something."
Noor paused, the water just below her chin. "And what's that?"
Zeyla tilted her head, studying her. The woman in front of her was Noor, but at the same time, she wasn't.
Zeyla spoke carefully, testing the weight of her words. "You're acting like the water belongs to you."
Noor blinked, slow. "It does."
Zeyla's fingers twitched. There it was again—that eerie certainty.
She let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Right. Of course. Just like the dead belong to the grave, but that doesn't stop them from clawing their way out."
Noor's lips curved slightly. "What is it Zeyla,Speak?"
Zeyla's jaw tightened. "I fear you won't want to."
Noor's gaze didn't waver. "Then you fear something that isn't real."
Zeyla exhaled through her nose, staring at her.
Noor's fingers ghosted over the surface of the water. "You think I come here to die."
Zeyla hesitated. "You wouldn't be the first."
A flicker of something passed through Noor's expression. "No." She tilted her head. "But I would be the last."
Zeyla stilled. There it was again. That way Noor spoke—not like she was reckless, not like she was desperate, but like she already knew how this story would end.
And then Noor let herself fall.
Zeyla's breath hitched.
The water closed over Noor's head without a ripple.
Zeyla took a sharp step forward—then froze.
Something shifted in the air. A weight, invisible but suffocating, pressing down on her chest, warning her to stay back.
Seconds passed.
Zeyla's pulse pounded in her ears. It was too still.
"My Lady," she murmured, her voice softer now.
Zeyla clenched her fists. She should go in after her. But something—something primal—held her in place.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Zeyla's hands curled into fists. "Damn it."
Then—the water stirred.
Noor rose.
Not gasping. Not desperate for air.
Her dark hair clung to her skin, droplets running down her bare shoulders like silver veins in the moonlight. Her lips parted slightly, her lashes wet and heavy—but she did not shiver. She did not react.
Zeyla exhaled, masking her relief with irritation. "One day, you're not going to come back up."
Noor smoothed her hair back, tilting her head slightly. "Perhaps."
Zeyla stilled. The way she said it—it wasn't despair. It was certainty.
Something cold curled in Zeyla's stomach.
She forced a smirk. "You enjoy scaring the hell out of people, don't you?"
Noor blinked, slow and deliberate. "Few things are never meant to be understood."
Zeyla studied her for a long moment, searching for something—anything—to hold onto. "You keep talking like you belong to something else."
Noor exhaled softly, running a hand through the water. "Maybe I do."
Zeyla's breath caught.
Noor stepped out of the water, silent, untouched by the cold, leaving footprints on the stone.
Zeyla remained standing there, staring at the cursed water.
Unsure whether Noor had truly come back alone.
---
The room was dim, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows against the carved stone walls. The scent of incense curled through the air—not comforting, not holy, just a presence that refused to leave.
Noor sat before the altar.
Zeyla stood by the door, arms crossed. She wasn't sure why she followed Noor here. Maybe she was waiting for something.
Noor, still as a statue, finally spoke. "Do you ever wonder if we were supposed to be something else?"
Zeyla arched an eyebrow. "Something else?"
Noor's fingers brushed against the silk of her robe. "Something softer. Something untouched by blood."
Zeyla huffed a quiet laugh. "You? Soft? I think the world would crack first."
Noor smirked, but there was no amusement behind it. "Maybe."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Zeyla shifted. "You used to pray when you came here."
Noor's gaze lifted to the altar. The candles burned, but they gave no warmth.
Zeyla studied her. "And now____"
Noor tilted her head slightly. "Now, I wonder if silence was always the answer."
Zeyla exhaled, dragging a hand through her hair. "You talk like you're waiting for something."
Noor's lips barely moved. "Maybe I am."
Zeyla frowned, frustration flickering across her face. "What? if the heavens haven't spoken by now, I don't think they ever will."
Noor turned her gaze to her, dark and unreadable. "Then why are you still waiting, too?"
Zeyla stilled.
The words hit something deep, something she had never voiced.
Her throat tightened. "I'm not waiting for anything."
Noor's lips twitched, almost pitying. "Of course not."
The flames from the candles swayed slightly, as if the air had changed.
Zeyla clenched her jaw. "Is this what it is now? You just sit here, night after night, drowning in thoughts no one else can understand?"
Noor exhaled softly, a slow and deliberate thing. "Would you rather I screamed?"
Zeyla hesitated.
Instead, she shook her head. "I'd rather you told me the truth."
Noor finally looked at her fully, her expression unreadable. "You're asking for something I don't have."
Zeyla swallowed.
The worst part was—she believed her.
The candlelight flickered again, and Noor rose, her movements as fluid as a shadow. she said, brushing past Zeyla. "The night isn't over."
Zeyla hesitated, glancing once at the altar.
It had never felt emptier.
---
I'll rewrite this with more atmosphere, more weight in Noor's emotions, and a deeper sense of foreboding. Her memories of Sanlang, Heath, and Kieran will feel more intrusive, almost suffocating, and the transition from hopelessness to resolve will feel sharper.
---
The night was restless.
Noor lay still, exhaustion heavy in her bones, yet sleep remained distant. Her body ached, dulled by weariness, but her mind burned.
She turned onto her side, her gaze fixed on the vast nothingness beyond her window. The sky was a deep abyss, the stars swallowed by thick clouds.
A world without light.
She sighed, her breath fogging up the glass. Now, all she saw were the lives she had destroyed. The weight of her choices pressed against her ribs, familiar and suffocating.
She had done what was necessary.
Hadn't she?
Sanlang
His name was a wound she never touched, yet it bled all the same.
She closed her eyes, but that was a mistake.
Because there he was—Sanlang, in the flickering candlelight of a memory too cruel to be called a dream. His gaze, warm and searching, the way he had looked at her before the fate stole him away.
She had loved him. Loved him in ways that could not be contained by a single lifetime.
But love was not always enough.
He had traced his fingers over her knuckles once, his touch hesitant, as if trying to remember something his mind could not grasp—but his soul refused to let go.
"Have I known you before?"
She had never answered.
Because she had already lost him.
Heath
The moment she forced Sanlang's face from her mind, another took its place.
Heath, lying broken before her, eyes glazed with regret.
"Forgive me."
She had.
Hadn't she?
The scent of blood filled the air, thick and metallic. Her hands had been stained with it, but was it his? Or hers?
"You hesitated before you killed me, Noor. Why?"
Her jaw tightened. She had not hesitated. She never hesitated.
But the memory whispered otherwise.
She exhaled sharply, forcing the images away. They were dead.
They should have stayed dead.
Kieran
Sleep finally took her, but there was no peace in it.
Because he was waiting.
She saw him—Kieran Drago, standing at the edge of a darkened corridor, his face hidden in shadow, his smile just barely visible.
"Did you think I'd stay buried?"
The world twisted.
"Did you think you could escape me?"
She tried to move. The walls were closing in. The floor beneath her turned to ash, dissolving into something bottomless.
And Kieran laughed.
"You are not untouchable, Noor."
The darkness collapsed.
Noor jolted awake, gasping.
She sat up, her breath uneven, her body drenched in cold sweat.
The room was silent. Too silent.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. The dream had been a dream.
But the feeling remained.
Something was wrong.
She pushed herself up, her legs shaky as she made her way to the window. The glass was cool against her forehead, but it did nothing to settle the storm inside her.
He was coming.
Or perhaps—he was already here.
Noor turned, her gaze scanning the dimly lit chamber. The flickering candle cast long shadows against the walls, stretching toward her like reaching hands.
And then—a shift.
The air changed.
Someone had been here.
A presence. A warning.
Her fingers brushed against the dagger beside her bed. She didn't pick it up. She didn't need to.
If Kieran was watching, he would know she wasn't afraid.
Noor exhaled, slow and steady, then reached for the candle beside her. With a flick of her fingers, she extinguished the flame.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
And Noor, as always, embraced it.
---
The morning was still young, but inside Noor's estate, voices were already clashing.
"You do realize 'urgent' means now, right?" Zeyla drawled, arms crossed as she blocked Maya's path. "Not in five minutes, not when you finish looking serious—now."
Maya inhaled slowly, as if calling upon every ounce of patience in her being. "And you do realize that I have actual responsibilities, right? Not just standing around making snide comments for sport?"
Zeyla smirked. "Oh, forgive me, Secretary Maya. I forgot you were busy shuffling papers and glaring at people."
Maya's jaw tightened. "You have exactly five seconds to move before I—"
"Before you what?" Zeyla cut in, eyes gleaming. "Fill out a strongly worded report? Adjust your glasses aggressively? Scowl me into submission?"
Maya stepped forward, dangerously close. "I swear, Zeyla, if you weren't her personal headache, I'd—"
"Kill me?" Zeyla's grin widened. "Now, that's the spirit. But don't waste your threats on me, sweetheart. Save them for the real enemies."
Before Maya could retort, a voice sliced through the air like a blade.
"If you're both done acting like children."
Noor entered the room, her presence alone dissolving their argument like mist before the sun. She didn't pause, didn't even spare them a glance as she moved toward her desk, removing her gloves with measured precision.
Maya straightened instantly. Zeyla merely smirked, looking completely unbothered.
Noor finally looked up. "Report."
Maya cleared her throat, all traces of irritation vanishing. "We have confirmation—Kieran Drago is moving. His allies are resurfacing. We intercepted messages last night. It's happening sooner than expected."
Noor exhaled slowly, her fingers resting lightly against the desk. "And the details?"
Maya hesitated. "We don't know his full numbers yet. But the fact that he's resurfacing this openly—it means he's either desperate or too confident."
Zeyla snorted. "Desperate men are dangerous. Confident men are idiots."
Noor glanced at her. "Which do you think he is?"
Zeyla tilted her head, considering. "Both. Which means he's going to make a very loud, very stupid move soon."
Maya nodded. "We need to prepare. Lock down the estate, increase surveillance, and reinforce our outer defenses. If Kieran is gathering forces, it means he's ready to make a statement."
Noor was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she spoke—quiet, decisive. "Then we'll be ready before he is."
Maya nodded. "Your orders?"
Noor's gaze sharpened. "Lock everything down. No one in, no one out without my approval. Double the security at every entrance, and make sure every exit route is clear. If he moves, I want to know the second it happens."
Maya bowed her head. "Yes, my lady."
She turned to leave, but Noor's voice stopped her.
"Maya."
Maya looked back, expecting another order.
Instead, Noor's gaze softened—just slightly. "Be careful. Kieran is not to be underestimated."
Maya nodded once, more serious than before. "I know."
She left.
Zeyla watched her go, then exhaled dramatically, turning to Noor. "Well, that was fun. Can we do it again tomorrow?"
Noor shot her a look. "Get out."
Zeyla grinned and followed Maya, leaving Noor alone.
She turned back to her desk, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the wood. The silence in the room felt heavier now, charged with the knowledge of what was coming.
Noor murmerred "The war never ended. It only waited. But Kieran Drago you aren't a ghost—but a mistake. And mistakes can be erased."
Got it! This version will make Noor's authority so absolute that Maya, for the first time, is left shaken, stripped of her usual sarcasm. She will switch to only business, realizing there's no space for her usual games. Noor, of course, will hide everything—her pain, the blood—until Maya leaves.
Then, when she's finally alone, she will see just how much she's bleeding, feel the full force of her pain, and whisper the chilling truth—her body is failing.
---
The door swung open.
Maya entered with her usual ease, a smirk already forming. "Alright, before you start glaring, I've already reinforced the outer defenses, doubled the guards, and made sure no one's dumb enough to try sneaking in." She leaned against the doorframe. "So, can I get at least one 'well done, Maya'?"
Noor did not turn.
She stood by the bookshelf, her back to Maya, her fingers lightly touching the worn spines of old texts.
A flicker of irritation crossed Maya's face. "Oh, come on, don't ignore me. I'm your favorite person to argue with."
Still, Noor said nothing.
Maya hesitated. Something was off.
The air felt heavier, charged, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Alright. What's with the brooding silence? You planning a war in your head again?"
Noor finally moved—but only slightly. A small shift of her shoulders, a tilt of her head.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, but absolute.
"Leave."
Maya froze.
Maya blinked. Once. Twice.
For the first time, she had no response.
Noor had dismissed her before—had ignored her, had shut down her jokes with sharp glances or cold words—but this was different.
This was command.
Absolute command sending a shiver down Maya's spine .
And for a moment, just a moment, Maya felt something close to fear.
She cleared her throat, her smirk faltering before she caught herself. No. This was Noor. Noor didn't scare her. Noor didn't—
Maya swallowed hard. "Right. Business, then."
Her voice lacked its usual sharpness. The weight in the room had pressed it out of her.
"The perimeter's secure. Lockdown is in full effect. No one is getting in or out without your say-so." She hesitated, watching Noor's back, waiting for something. Anything.
Noor said nothing.
Maya nodded to herself, stepping back toward the door. "That's all."
Still, Noor did not turn.
Maya opened her mouth—maybe to add something—but the words didn't come.
Instead, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head and bowed her head.
Then, she left.
And the second the door clicked shut—
Noor exhaled, slow and deliberate.
She let her head tilt forward slightly, her fingers still resting against the bookshelf, pressing into the old wood as if it was the only thing holding her up.
Then, finally, she looked down.
A Crack in the Armor
Her sleeve—drenched in red.
Blood. Her blood.
It had soaked through.
The once-pristine silk clung to her wrist, dark and wet, the crimson color spreading, creeping, staining. It had been worse than she thought.
Noor slowly lifted her other hand—trembling, slick with blood. She turned her palm up, watching as a fresh drop slid down her fingertip, falling soundlessly to the floor.
A sharp, searing pain carved through her ribs, deep and merciless. She sucked in a breath, but it barely filled her lungs.
She should sit.
Instead, she smiled.
A bitter, knowing thing.
"This body is too weak."
Her voice was a whisper, a thought spoken aloud. Detached. Calm. As if she were commenting on the weather.
She shifted her stance, but the movement sent a sharp, unbearable pain through her side—like something was breaking apart inside her.
Her grip on the bookshelf slipped.
Noor dropped to her knees.
The pain was excruciating.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her vision swimming at the edges.
For the first time in a long time, she asked herself a question she never dared to before.
"How long will it hold?"
She clenched her fists, feeling the warm stickiness of blood between her fingers.
She had survived things far worse. Had walked through fire, had faced death in a thousand forms.
And yet, today she felt it.
The fragility.
The limit.
She let her eyes slip shut, just for a moment.
Then—she forced them open again.
No.
Not yet.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Noor pushed herself.