The journey was a blur.
Zeyla did not remember how many hours had passed, only that each mile stretched impossibly long. She had rushed to the airport, boarded the first available flight, and watched the world below shrink beneath her feet. The sky darkened, time slipped, and by the time she arrived—it was evening.
She stepped out of the car, the wind cutting against her skin. The air smelled of something clean, sterile, wrong. No voices, no hurried footsteps, no remnants of the chaos she had expected.
Noor had awoken.
Zeyla had rushed here like a storm—yet when she arrived, everything was still.
No chaos. No doctors in hushed whispers.
Noor was already awake. Already dressed.
The bags were packed, the decisions made.
As if she had never been at death bed after all.
Zeyla stood in the doorway, her breath uneven, her thoughts trying to catch up to the moment. "You're leaving?"
Noor turned at the sound of her voice.
She moved slowly—like someone who had already won a battle no one else knew had been fought.
Her eyes met Zeyla's.
"Yes."
The word was simple. It held no room for argument.
Zeyla stepped forward. "You woke up hours ago and you're already leaving?"
A small, almost amused tilt of Noor's head. "Would staying have made a difference?"
The air in the room shifted.
Zeyla inhaled sharply. "People.....No ... We deserve to know what happened to you."
A pause. Noor's lips barely curved, but it wasn't a smile. "People deserve many things."
Something in her voice sent a chill up Zeyla's spine.
Zeyla swallowed, refusing to let it shake her. "Sanlang—he was in a frenzy for the past few days. He nearly lost himself."
Noor's expression remained composed, but her silence was too loud.
Then, softly, she spoke:
"A drowning man does not cry for help. He clutches the tide that takes him."
Zeyla's breath caught.
"What does that mean?"
Noor's gaze flickered toward the open window. The fading daylight cast sharp lines across her face, accentuating the exhaustion.
"When the soul is devoured, the body simply follows."
Her words landed like a knife in the dark.
Zeyla clenched her fists. "You're speaking in riddles."
Noor turned back to her, watching. "Perhaps."
Zeyla exhaled sharply. "Then say it plainly."
Noor tilted her head. "Would you listen?"
Zeyla gritted her teeth.
The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken. Then Noor stepped closer, closing the space between them.
Softly, gently, she whispered:
"There are doors that, once opened, cannot be closed."
Zeyla's breath hitched.
Noor reached for the teacup on the table, lifting it with a grace that should not have belonged to someone who had been unconscious for days.
She took a sip, then set it down again.
"And sometimes, the price of waking up is knowing you should have stayed asleep."
The words sliced.
Zeyla's chest tightened. "What are you trying to say?"
Noor exhaled, as if pitying her. "If you cannot see it, then you are not meant to."
Something in Zeyla snapped. "Damn it!"
The cup on the table shuddered.
Noor did not flinch.
Zeyla's voice dropped. "You owe us an explanation."
Noor watched her, gaze steady. Then, quietly, she said:
"No one owes explanations in a story that is still being written."
The words hit deeper than they should have.
Zeyla's breath came too fast, too uneven. "That's not an answer."
Noor blinked. "No. It is a truth you do not want to hear."
Zeyla stepped closer, standing just inches away now, searching Noor's face for something—anything.
Noor's expression did not change.
Zeyla whispered, "You can't drift away,My Lady."
Noor whispered back, "Did I?"
Something plummeted inside Zeyla's chest.
Noor stepped past her, toward the door. She paused, just before crossing the threshold.
Then she walked away.
And only then—only after Noor had left—did Zeyla notice it.
The spider lily.
Blooming on the bedside table.
Blood-red. Unnatural.
And then—
A flash.
A woman, bound in chains.
A voice, hoarse with screams.
A memory—just out of reach.
Zeyla gasped.
But when she tried to remember—
The thought was already gone.
The hallway stretched long before them, shadows pooling at its edges like something sentient. Noor walked ahead, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow of dying light. The spider lily on her bedside had begun to wilt.
Zeyla followed, her breath tight, her pulse a drumbeat of frustration.
She said, voice low but unwavering. "You never explain. You just—decide."
"Do you think it changes the end if you understand it?"
Zeyla swallowed hard. "Maybe not. But I deserve to know."
Noor stopped at that.She turned. Her eyes—dark, depthless—settled on Zeyla, and for a moment, the world shrank to that single glance.
"You deserve?" Noor murmured.
It simply weighed.
And Zeyla felt it, a heavy press against her ribs.
Noor stepped forward, her voice lower now, quieter.
"You think suffering entitles you to answers." A pause. "But suffering is not a transaction, Zeyla. It is not a thing you endure in exchange for clarity. It simply is."
Zeyla opened her mouth—but then—
A sound.
A low, wet shuffle.
Zeyla stiffened.
Noor did not turn.
The corridor stretched ahead, a void swallowing light.
And from it—he came.
Zeyla did not knock.
She pushed through the door, her breath sharp, her mind burning.
Noor stood by the window, the fading light of evening casting shadows along her form. Too still. Too quiet. As if she had already left.
Zeyla clenched her fists.
"You're leaving?"
Noor did not turn. "Yes."
The answer—calm, irrefutable—sent something sharp down Zeyla's spine.
She stepped closer. "That's it? No explanations? No answers?"
A pause. Then—
"You're asking the wrong questions."
Zeyla's chest tightened. "Then give me the right ones."
Noor finally turned, her gaze steady—ancient in a way that had nothing to do with time.
"The right question is whether the truth will serve you."
Zeyla exhaled sharply. "And will it?"
Noor's lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. Only the quiet weight of something immeasurable.
"No."
Zeyla's jaw tensed. "Then why—"
She stopped.
Something on the bedside table caught her eye.
A spider lily.
Red. Blooming. Fragrant in the air, but holding something deeper. Something darker.
Zeyla stared.
And then—
A flash.
The clinking of chains.
A woman kneeling in darkness.
Her wrists raw. Her breath ragged.
And a voice, whispering—
"The only way out is through."
The vision shattered.
Zeyla gasped, stumbling back. Her head spun, her throat dry.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, heart hammering.
What was that?
"Noor…" Her voice wavered.
Noor only watched. "What did you see?"
Zeyla's breath came shallow. "I don't know."
She meant it.
The memory—if it was a memory—slipped from her grasp like smoke, leaving only a gnawing sense of something missing.
Noor stepped forward. "Then forget it."
The command was absolute.
Zeyla met her gaze. "I can't."
Noor sighed, the sound more tired than exasperated.
"Then do not seek me to lessen the weight."
Zeyla swallowed hard. "What happened here?"
Noor was silent for a long time.
Then—
"The necessary."
Zeyla's nails dug into her palms. "Sanlang was in a frenzy the past few days." She watched Noor closely. "But now he's fine."
Zeyla's chest tightened. "It's because of you, isn't it?"
Noor did not answer.
That was an answer in itself.
Zeyla exhaled sharply. "Tell me."
Noor turned away. "You wouldn't understand."
"Then make me understand."
A pause.
Then—
"There is nothing to understand."
The words were simple. And yet, they carved.
Noor's voice did not rise. Did not waver. But it held the weight of something larger.
Zeyla's breath shook.
"You're not even trying."
Noor tilted her head slightly. "Would it change anything?"
Zeyla clenched her fists. "It would let me know."
Noor met her gaze, steady as stone.
"Knowledge does not unmake choices."
Zeyla flinched.
The silence between them stretched—thick,heavy with everything unspoken.
And then—
The door burst open.
Janir.
His clothes—soaked in blood.
Zeyla inhaled sharply.
He staggered forward, dropping to his knees. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling.
His hands—covered in red.
And yet—not his.
Zeyla's heart pounded. "Janir—
His eyes—wild, frantic—were on Noor.
And then—he knelt.
Before her.
His hands—trembling, desperate—grasped Noor's.
Blood smeared across her pale fingers.
Zeyla felt something cold crawl up her spine.
Janir's voice—hoarse, broken.
"I did what had to be done."
Noor did not move.
She only watched.
And then, she spoke.
"Do you understand what that means?"
Janir's breath hitched.
Zeyla took a step back, the weight in the room unbearable.
Noor's fingers tightened ever so slightly around Janir's.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
"Choice is an illusion, Janir."
Zeyla shuddered.
Noor's eyes remained on him.
"You believe you chose this path?" she murmured. "That you decided what had to be done?"
Janir's throat bobbed. "I—I—"
Noor exhaled softly.
"Then tell me—"
She leaned forward slightly, voice a whisper of steel.
"—if I asked you to undo it, could you?"
Janir stilled.
The silence between them was vast. Endless.
And then—
Janir broke.
His hands shook. His breath came in shattered pieces.
Noor lifted a hand— deliberately.
The blood on her fingers glistened.
"You see," she murmured, "choice is not about what we do. It is about what we cannot take back."
Janir let out a breath—something like a sob, something like surrender.
Zeyla felt her stomach twist.
Noor's gaze shifted to her.
"Do you understand now?"
Zeyla could not speak.
And then—
She let Janir's hands slip from hers.
And walked past them both.
As if the blood on her skin had never been there at all.