The hum of the fan was the only thing scratching at the silence in the room. Neyra slept rigid, like a statue carved from obsidian, motionless and perfect. Velka, on the other hand, muttered fragmented phrases, clutching her pillow as if in another plane she were winning an endless bet. I laughed inwardly.

  I got up. My throat burning with thirst.

  Barefoot, I walked through the dark house toward the kitchen, and as I drank water, a soft glow spilled across the terrace. It wasn’t a lamp. It was… her.

  Caelia.

  Standing tall, as always, though the tension in her back betrayed her. The warm air of Al-Rahad surrounded her, but could not touch her. It was as if her body rejected calm. Her silence weighed heavily on my chest.

  I approached in silence.

  —You can’t sleep either, huh? —I murmured, leaning against the railing beside her.

  It took her a few seconds to respond.

  — I never slept well away from home —she said, without looking at me.

  —And this feels farther from home than ever?

  She nodded, just slightly. Then lifted her gaze to the golden rooftops of Sel?nrah, gleaming beneath the moon. Her fingers tensed for an instant against the railing before they relaxed.

  —This place is beautiful. Too beautiful. It makes me nervous.

  —Why? —I asked softly.

  —Because beauty is fragile… or a trap.

  I stayed quiet. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I understood her all too well.

  Caelia exhaled slowly, as if the air itself tore a weight from her chest.

  —That’s how I’ve always been, Lyss. Distrust first. Trust… never. It’s what keeps me alive. What keeps all of you alive.

  She turned slightly toward me. Her eyes, lit by the city, held an unusual gleam.

  —But today, when that flower reached my hands… I didn’t know what it was. I felt… seen. By someone who wanted nothing from me. Just… to give.

  The flower. She still held it, only faintly wilted by the passing hours. The night breeze brushed against it, and one petal trembled, on the verge of falling.

  —And that frightened you? —I asked her.

  —More than any battle.

  We stood in silence. Beside me, Caelia seemed taller, but also more… human.

  —And then there’s the other thing —she added, her voice even lower—. The magic.

  —Magic?

  —Yes… the people’s. The way they use it. Emotional. Real. We were taught it only belonged to us, the chosen. But today I saw it in the hands of someone selling fruit. In a little girl who only wanted to light a lamp.

  I didn’t know what to say. Because I had seen it too. We had all felt it.

  —Do you think they lied to us? —I asked slowly.

  Caelia didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the glow drifting above Sel?nrah.

  —I think… they didn’t tell us everything. And that, Lyss… frightens me more.

  A colder draft swept across the terrace. The flower in her hand lost a petal, falling like a pale spark into the dark. Caelia followed it with her eyes.

  —Beauty never lasts. There’s always someone who comes to break it.

  I shivered. I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a warning or as certainty.

  —And what if this city isn’t a threat? What if it’s… a truth we never expected?

  —Then we’ll have to decide if we can carry it —she murmured.

  —Together?

  Caelia looked at me.

  —Always together.

  I carefully took her hand, the one holding the flower.

  —Then it doesn’t matter what comes. We’ll face it.

  She pressed my fingers only for a moment, but enough for her back to lower just a fraction. Her breathing grew deeper.

  Caelia turned her gaze to the sky.

  —Maybe this city isn’t here to test us. Maybe… it’s here to show us something we don’t yet understand.

  I didn’t reply. Because, for the first time, Caelia didn’t need me to.

  Velka Aurel was not asleep.

  She was lying down, yes. To anyone looking, she might even have seemed deeply asleep. But her eyes, open in the dim light, burned against the ceiling while her mind spun in a storm of thoughts without shape.

  It wasn’t the heat, though she hated it. It wasn’t the strange mattress, nor the city that breathed magic through its very stones. It was something else.

  She heard soft steps on the wooden floor. She held her breath without meaning to, and barely turned her head. She saw Lyss crossing the room, a dark silhouette slipping toward the kitchen and then vanishing in the direction of the terrace. Minutes later, she heard Caelia’s voice. Low. Far too low. Caelia never spoke like that. Not with anyone.

  She didn’t want to listen. She swore she wouldn’t. But she did.

  They weren’t full sentences. Just fragments, like sharp cuts sinking into her chest.

  “…they didn’t tell us the whole truth…”

  “…how can they use magic without being…?”

  “…Lyss, you always seem to know where we’re going, but I… I’m not so sure anymore.”

  Velka shut her eyes tightly, as if she could also shut out the emotions that had begun to flare in her stomach.

  She had always been the light piece. The one who floated. The one who eased. The one who made the others breathe. But in that instant, she couldn’t breathe fully herself.

  Because Caelia —the firmest of them all— was doubting. And Lyss… Lyss was listening, with that calm no one else could ever understand.

  And then, the question appeared. Innocent, trembling.

  What am I in this team if they keep moving forward and I don’t?

  Her chest tightened. Not from jealousy, not from anger. From a fear that still had no name, a hollow space opening inside her.

  She turned toward the wall, swallowing hard. Felt the tears rise and forced them back down, clenching her teeth until it hurt. She had to sleep. She had to rest. But her mind had already lit a torch impossible to extinguish.

  What if the only thing that makes me needed… is that I know how to make them laugh?

  She stayed like that, motionless, staring into a darkness that no longer seemed peaceful, but fragile. Like glass on the verge of shattering.

  The hand of Caelia withdrew and I felt calm but then...

  I didn’t catch the creak in time. Just a faint snap behind us, like wood breaking in the dark.

  Before I could react, something slammed into my side with brutal force. The air ripped from my lungs as my body folded over the railing. A heartbeat later, the world turned upside down.

  I fell.

  The impact lashed against me with stone and sand. My sleepwear tore across the rough ground, peeling skin from my knees, elbows, and shoulders. The wounds weren’t deep, but they burned like live coals pressed into my flesh. I tried to breathe, and tasted nothing but dust and iron.

  I forced myself upright, trembling. My heart thundered against my ribs.

  And then I saw her.

  A silhouette stepped out of the shadows, her scythe gleaming under the moonlight. Her eyes blazed with hatred. The blade dragged against the ground, throwing sparks that looked like the spit of some beast.

  Klara.

  From her hand, a small cylinder rolled a few steps before releasing a muted flash. A low hum spread outward, sinking into my chest like a cold emptiness. I felt it at once: the transformation was gone, severed inside me. My belly, my chest… like a breath ripped away.

  It wasn’t a full nullification. Blood of the Crown still lingered beneath my skin, and my rifle answered my call. But it was a dangerous edge: Klara couldn’t transform either. She knew. And still she had thrown that device.

  She was here for me. Only for me.

  Her voice ripped through the night like a curse.

  —Found you, filthy bitch.

  She didn’t call me by name. Not once. Every syllable was venom. Her broken pride. Her humiliation still bleeding.

  —You thought you could hide behind those shadows, didn’t you? —she spat, her face twisted, sweat sticking her hair to her brow—. Nothing you are deserves what you stole from me!

  She slammed the scythe into the ground. The vibration shook my legs.

  —You humiliated me in front of everyone. You! A reject, a mistake, an animal that shouldn’t even be breathing.

  The blade rose again, glinting under the moon.

  —I’ll wipe you from this city, piece of trash. And when I’m done, no one will remember your name.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Her voice cracked into a scream, but it wasn’t weakness. It was blind rage, pride devoured by fury.

  I staggered back, my body raw with scrapes and burns, my muscles taut. Pain clouded my thoughts. I couldn’t transform. I was cornered.

  And yet, a pulse stirred in my belly. The dark echo of Blood of the Crown. Still there. Still waiting.

  I drew a ragged breath, raising my bloodied hand.

  —You won’t break me, Klara.

  But my voice trembled.

  And the hatred in her eyes told me that tonight, nothing mattered more than her revenge.

  The desert greeted us like an open maw. Sand clung to skin and sweat; the wind turned everything into a slow rain of grit. Klara didn’t hesitate: she lunged at me with the brutish force of someone who only knew blind strength.

  Her scythe no longer carried any ceremonial grace; she wielded it like a bludgeon with an edge, trying to crush me. I steadied myself with the sword in my hand—the blade I had summoned without thinking—its cold a real anchor against her violence. Every rush of hers shattered my guard; my ribs burned and my breath shortened. There was something in the way she fought that wasn’t tactic but spectacle of pain. She wanted me to feel what had broken her.

  —Filthy scrap! —Klara spat, pressing the scythe’s edge so close it nicked my cheek—. You thought you could humiliate me and keep walking? You thought no one would call out your sham?

  Her weapon kissed the sand with a broken, heartbeat sound. I stepped back, sweeping my sword in an arc that forced her blade aside. The vibration ran up my arm; blood thudded under my skin. I answered with a quick cut across her forearm. It was ugly and necessary. Blood welled. She swore—human for a heartbeat.

  —That scar gave you the nerve to lie! —she snarled—. You’re a fraud!

  I breathed with a dry mouth and, by instinct, called the rifle. It snapped into my hand like a hard lash, cold and concrete. I closed distance with it, firing a raw shot at the leg that bore her weight. The bullet found flesh; her leg folded and her scythe spat sand. I hadn’t knocked her down, but I had stumbled her movement. That bought me a second.

  Klara rebuilt herself with sharpened rage, as if the wound had only stoked her fire. She hurled fists of sand into my face, blinding me again; her fury tasted of spit and grit on my skin. She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked as if she wanted to tear the scalp from my skull. I screamed; the sword fell for an instant and sand cut my mouth. She reveled in the sound.

  —I ripped your honor from you and drank it—she said close, voice a knife—. Look what’s left: a parody with a blade.

  With my hair in her hand she dragged me across the earth. My sword scraped, forced to witness. In that drag, the tip of my blade feathered her side; when she coughed, I knew I had scored. She wiped the blood away with a rough hand like someone trying to erase proof.

  I couldn’t stay on my knees taking hits. When she struggled to drive the scythe home, I slammed the rifle’s butt into her elbow; the blow blurred her vision just enough. I drove the sword into her thigh. It was an ugly, necessary cut: a tendon screamed and her knee buckled. She toppled, the scythe stuck in the sand at her side.

  Klara gasped, her face a mask of fury. She did not beg. She spat sand and blood and looked at me as if I were the flaw in her world.

  —Coward! —she barked—. I’ll feed on your misery!

  So it went: insults and strikes braided together. Her attacks were bursts of violence; mine were thefts of advantage. She wanted me to suffer more than to die—her goal was humiliation. But in her rush she left seams. Where she exploded, I found openings. Where she roared, I drove in. The fight had turned into an exchange of wounds and slurs, pride against necessity.

  The sword no longer trembled in my hand. Pain had become a constant pulse, and in its rhythm I found the openings to strike. Klara lunged again, but this time I moved first: the blade swept in a sharp curve and split her shoulder. She roared, staggered just slightly, and for the first time I felt her fury weighing heavier than her strength.

  I didn’t give her room. I summoned the rifle with a snap of blood and fired point-blank. The shot tore into her side, ripping a raw scream from her throat. I shoved her back with the sword, driving her into the sand. Her breathing broke into a rasp; my throat burned with every gasp, but I was still standing.

  —That’s what you deserve, filthy bitch! —she spat at me, her mouth smeared with blood—. To be ripped apart until you’re nothing but a stain in the dirt!

  Her scythe came down like a whip. I couldn’t dodge in time. The edge scraped across my side and tore skin away in a wet, burning line. Pain exploded through me, sharp and raw. The cry broke out between my teeth, but I held on. The pain only forced me to move faster.

  I drove forward with the sword and cut deep into her thigh. She answered with a savage kick that snapped my nose with a sharp crack. Blood gushed hot and fast, spilling into my mouth and down my throat. I reeled, but I didn’t fall.

  —Look at you! —Klara bellowed, voice ragged and unhinged—. A broken doll pretending to be a warrior! I’ll leave you crawling in the sand so everyone remembers you were never anything!

  Rage kept me upright more than my legs. I raised the rifle again and fired into the arm that held her scythe. The impact jolted her grip loose, just for a moment—enough for me to twist with the sword and slash across her face. The blade carved her cheek, blood dripping down her chin. Her eyes flared hotter, each wound stoking her like fire instead of slowing her down.

  But I was burning too. Every strike she landed left me brutalized; every cut I gave her was proof her fury wasn’t untouchable. The sand between us had gone red, and every insult she spat was answered with steel.

  The desert heat scraped at my lungs, but it was her words that burned the deepest. Klara no longer fought like a soldier—she fought like a rabid beast, her tongue sharper than her scythe.

  —Filthy whore! —she screamed, her mouth wet with spit and blood—. Pack dog, rotten doll, worthless trash that never should have existed! You stole everything from me, exposed me as nothing in front of them all!

  She lunged again, her scythe colliding with my sword. The impact rattled through my arms, nearly tearing the blade from my grip—but I found the opening. I turned, pulled her close, and slashed across her side. The strike severed her arm in a brutal cut, blood spraying dark and heavy. The limb hung useless.

  Her scream was raw, tearing through the night, but it wasn’t surrender. She didn’t beg. She didn’t turn away. She spat blood in my face.

  —Kill me, bitch! Do it! Prove you’re as much a coward as you’ve always been! You’re not even fit to execute me!

  I saw her on her knees, bleeding, her face twisted into a mask of hate and humiliation. And something cold and bitter ran through me: cruelty. The same cruelty she had tried to drown me in.

  I leaned in, sword still steady, and delivered the words like a sentence:

  —Defeat suits you better than death. Watching you drown in your own misery… that’s enough.

  Her face contorted further, as if I’d whipped her with fire. The broken pride hurt her more than the wound. And in that second—in that single instant when I lowered my guard—Klara did what she always had: strike from hatred.

  She grabbed the scythe with her other hand. With a ragged roar, she swung and drove it into my stomach.

  The blade tore through my abdomen with brutal force. Air fled me in a strangled cry. Flesh ripped wide, the wound raw and deep, a firestorm igniting inside me. Blood spilled hot across my hands as I clutched at the gash, desperate to hold myself together.

  I bent double, the sword nearly slipping from my grasp. My knees buckled, and instinct alone made me press my hands against the wound to keep it from splitting further.

  Klara smiled. A twisted, broken smile drenched in hate.

  —That’s what I wanted —she rasped—. For you to suffer the way I suffered.

  The desert wrapped us in silence, broken only by our breathing—hers ragged with rage, mine shattered and shallow.

  The blade in my gut burned like a fire I couldn’t put out. I felt my insides straining against my bloodied hands, threatening to spill free, but the rage that kept me standing was stronger than the pain.

  Klara was still smiling, broken, savoring my wound. That was enough. With a guttural snarl, I dragged myself up just enough and, with furious disdain, swung the sword in a savage arc. The strike ripped her other arm clean off. Blood poured in a dark cascade. The scream that followed was inhuman, a howl that split the desert open.

  I didn’t give her time. I lunged with what little strength I had left and drove the tip of my sword straight into her left eye—just enough, not to kill, but to shatter her. Her body convulsed in a violent spasm; the scythe vanished from her grasp and her voice broke into a guttural whimper. She collapsed, unconscious, swallowed by the sand and her own blood.

  I screamed. Not from fury—victory. A victory ripped from the jaws of death, drenched in agony.

  And then the claw of pain struck. The unbearable burn in my torn abdomen, the absence of skin, the guts pressing against my hands like a trapped beast. Every scratch flared like fire, every battered bone screamed; my broken nose drowned me in blood with every breath. My body betrayed me.

  I fell to my knees, clutching the wound with both hands, breathing like a wounded animal. The sword dropped beside me, slick to the hilt with blood.

  Through the blur of sweat and crimson, I saw a figure rushing toward me. A guardian. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t recognize her. Only the flash of a flowing robe and the glow of magic in her hands, before my eyelids grew heavier than the world itself.

  The desert spun around me. And the last thing I felt was the heat of blood beneath my fingers, and the hollow echo of my own voice still screaming into nothing.

  The voice came first, faint, like a murmur drifting through the sand.

  —I found you.

  I forced my eyes open. A figure leaned over me. A pale robe, a strange glow in her hands. I didn’t know who she was, but her gaze burned like fire in the dark.

  I couldn’t speak. Only a thread of air mixed with blood slipped from my throat.

  Her fingers pressed against my broken nose. The touch was cold—but what followed was anything but relief. A sharp crack split across my face as the bone snapped back into place. The pain ripped a raw groan from me. The bleeding stopped, but it felt as though I had been broken all over again.

  —Bite this —she ordered. She shoved a piece of wood between my teeth. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes shone with an unsettling intensity.

  I obeyed. Barely able to breathe.

  Then she placed both hands over my torn abdomen.

  And hell began.

  The pain tore through me worse than Klara’s blade. It was as if a swarm of knives were crawling through my insides, forcing them back together. I felt every tissue stitching, every organ being dragged into place, every fiber burning as it fused. My body arched against the ground. I bit down on the wood so hard it cracked between my teeth. Tears stung my eyes, and I couldn’t even scream—only choke on ragged gasps as fire devoured me from within.

  When it was finally over, I spat the wood to the side. My throat ached, my whole body shook. Then the scream came—fierce, guttural, carrying all the pain I had swallowed.

  —Fuck! —I roared, my voice raw—. Fucking hell!

  The echo rolled across the sand. I was breathing like I’d just crawled out of the pit. My guts were back in place, the wound sealed, but the pain still lived in every nerve.

  The woman stared at me, too close, her presence heavy as stone. And I, drained and broken, could barely hold her gaze. I didn’t know who she was. Only that she weighed as much as the battle itself.

  I stayed there for a few seconds, breathing hard, still trembling from the pain that had left me more shattered than the wound itself. I forced my eyes to focus, just enough to whisper:

  —Who… are you?

  The woman lowered her face toward me. I saw her clearly for the first time. She had an ethereal appearance, as if she didn’t quite belong to this world. Her skin was almost translucent, streaked with faint blue glimmers under the moonlight. Her eyes caught the light like water, reflecting it back in ripples, a lake hiding secrets in its depths. She spoke slowly, as if every word weighed more than she could carry.

  —I am Ahlia.

  The name lingered in the air.

  And then I felt it. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t calm. It was a strange heat coursing through me, as if her healing had left fingerprints inside my body. For a moment it was sweet, almost addictive… but it curdled into something acidic, a cloying poison that suffocated me.

  My stomach lurched. I doubled over and vomited to the side, the bitter taste burning my throat.

  —It will pass —Ahlia murmured, her watery eyes never leaving mine.

  She slid an arm beneath me and pulled me up slowly. Her grip was too firm, her fingers clinging to me as though she’d never let go.

  The wound in my abdomen was gone, but every step reminded me of it—its ghost tearing through me, sharp and invisible, as if it were still open.

  I could barely stay upright, every muscle burning, bones protesting with each movement. I let her drag me forward. The city glimmered in the distance, Sel?nrah shining with soft lights, indifferent to the blood we left behind in the sand.

  We stumbled step by step. My breathing came in ragged gasps; she moved with calm steadiness, as though every step had been prepared long before I ever fell into her hands.

  The lights of Sel?nrah finally greeted us, blurred through the haze and the burning ache that still tore through me. Ahlia held me steady until I felt other hands catch me. Velka, Neyra, and Caelia were there—running toward me, their eyes wide with anguish.

  —Lyss! —Velka’s voice cracked. One of her eyes was swollen and purple, and her breathing was ragged. She couldn’t hide the fact that she had fought too.

  They gathered around me as best they could. Neyra slipped under my arm and pulled it over her shoulder; the pressure against my ribs made me gasp, but it kept me standing.

  —What happened? —I asked, my voice dry, barely more than a whisper.

  Velka lowered her gaze before answering.

  —Mareike and Ilse… ambushed us. We barely held them off. But we forced them to run. —She looked back up, rage tightening her features—. Lyss, what did they do to you?

  I swallowed hard, feeling every scrape and cut, the torn fabric clinging to my skin. My abdomen was the worst: the flesh still tender, my clothes ripped wide at the stomach, a cruel reminder of what had been done to me.

  —You don’t want to know —I said, my voice harsher than I intended. And I left it at that.

  Velka bit her lip but nodded silently. Neyra tightened her hold, bracing me when my legs faltered. I could barely stand.

  Caelia, a few steps away, was already speaking with Mahtani. Their voices were low but firm; the guardian nodded as she listened, as if the battle had already been turned into a report.

  I let myself be led. Step by step, between the hands of my sisters, until the warmth of Sel?nrah became a promise of rest.