The fever had stolen her name.
Now, the forest tried to take her body.
Branches bowed, not in welcome—but mourning.
Noor walked anyway.
Each step bled.
She did not remember where she was going. Only that she must.
The forest pulsed like a dream trying to wake itself.
Then—
The shadow returned.
Not a man. Not a beast.
"Again," it breathed. "Always, it's you. And always like this."
She stopped. Shoulders trembling. Eyes fevered.
"Go away ," she whispered.
It did not.
"Even your sickness is loyal," it said, circling. "Tell me… does pain always guide you home?"
She swayed. "Why do you follow me?"
The shadow came closer. Voice like torn silk:
"Because I remember what you forgot."
She blinked. Eyes glassy. "I forgot nothing."
"No," it hissed, "you buried it. There's a difference."
A pause. Then softer:
"You only walk when you're breaking."
She staggered. Her knees buckled.
"I forgot nothing, not even a breath stolen from those" she breathed.
"I know," it said. "Even your hate is holy."
Then—
It whispered a name.
A name that cracked across her like thunder inside her bones.
She screamed.
"No—no—stop—it hurts—IT HURTS—AHHH—AAAAHHH—!!"
She clawed at her throat, chest heaving as if her ribs were trying to break free.
"I don't want to remember—I can't—Aahhhhh—please—it hurts—"
The forest held its breath.
And then he arrived.
The pale man in white robes, barefoot, unburned. Eyes like rubies that had wept for centuries.
He stepped out of silence like it obeyed him.
She did not see him.
But when he knelt and touched her shoulder—
She collapsed into his arms.
Still trembling.
Still whispering—
"Don't make me go back there… not there… not..not.no.noo…"
The ruby-eyed man touched her brow.
"Then don't," he said. "Let it be me who remembers."
His lips brushed her fevered forehead.
And Noor fell silent.
Asleep. Or something deeper.
The shadow stepped forward. Furious. Hungry. Laughing.
"You never learn," it snarled. "You still think you can save her."
The ruby-eyed man lifted his eyes.
He did not raise his voice.
And blue fire bled from him—silent, sorrowful, final.
The forest screamed as it was unmade. Time fractured.
But through it all, one thing remained:
Her footsteps.
Bloodied. Tender. Perfect.
The fire turned the world to sand—
But left her trail untouched.
The shadow, burning, shrieked in agony—
And in amusement.
"She is the echo of a name even Heaven whisper with regret."
"And you…" it hissed, disintegrating, "you were never chosen."
Then—only ash.
The pale man stood amid ruin, holding her as if she were myth.
He looked at the trail of her blood.
He did not follow it.
Instead, he whispered to her still form:
"Even like this, you are stronger than me."
"Even now… I lose."
And the wind did not answer.
Only the trees, now ash, wept without leaves.
______________
The door groaned open.
And just like that, the sanctity shattered.
Sanlang stepped in — a silhouette against the pallid dusk.
Inside the grand main hall, voices clashed like thunder.
"You don't get it, Maya," Zeyla snapped, pacing like a blade unsheathed. "You can't just act on impulse. That's not what she—"
"You don't get it either!" Maya's voice tore through the air, raw with grief. "You didn't watch her fade. "
Their argument strangled into silence the moment the door shut behind him.
Zeyla turned.
Maya froze.
And then Maya moved.
In a blink, she was across the hall, knife drawn from the folds of her coat like it had always lived there — a phantom of vengeance. She lunged.
Steel glinted.
Sanlang didn't flinch.
But Zeyla did.
Her hand whipped out — faster than instinct, faster than hate — and caught Maya's wrist mid-swing. The blade stopped just at the curve of Sanlang's throat, kissing skin but not drawing blood.
"Move that blade another inch," Zeyla whispered, her grip ironclad, "and I swear, you'll know what real wrath looks like."
Maya trembled.
"He's the reason she's gone," Maya hissed. "He did this. Look at him — he still reeks of her name."
Sanlang stood utterly still, green eyes locked onto nothing, everything — toward the stairs.
"I want to see her," he said.
Maya snarled, "You think she'll see you? After what you've done?"
But he did not answer. Did not defend. Did not even blink.
"I want to see her," he repeated, quieter this time — like a prayer cursed to echo in the halls of the damned.
Zeyla let go of Maya, who staggered back like her bones no longer obeyed her.
"You come in here like a ghost begging for a second death," Zeyla said, stepping toward him. Her voice held the solemnity of thunderclouds, grief braided with contempt. "You don't get to ask for her."
Sanlang's jaw clenched.
"I didn't ask."
"No, of course not." She was close now, toe to toe, chin high like a blade to his throat. "You just expected. Because something in you still believes she owes you something."
He was silent.
She smiled coldly. "Do you think she's waiting in her chambers with open arms? "
He didn't look at her. He looked beyond — the stairs , where moonlight filtered down like memory.
Maya, from behind, spat: "You left her to die, and now you want absolution?"
"I want to see her," he said again, and this time there was something raw beneath the surface. Just need.
Zeyla's smile disappeared. Her next words were a scalpel.
"She's not some ghost to summon, not some whore you can beg forgiveness from between sobs and blood."
Then, slowly, ceremoniously, she slipped off one of her gloves — the right one, where an old scar traced her palm.
She dropped it at his feet.
A gesture older than violence. A duel without swords.
"Pick that up," she said softly, "and I'll carve your name into this floor so she knows who to curse when she returns."
He looked at the glove. Bent, as if to reach for it.
But she stepped on it — and on his hand — pressing his knuckles into the marble with her boot.
"Don't touch anything that bears her mark," she said, gaze ice-cold. "You've touched enough."
He did not flinch.
"I will not leave."
Zeyla tilted her head. "Then rot. Maybe when the walls crumble, she'll return to bury you with them."
Still, he stared at the stairs.
"I will wait," he said.
Even Maya stopped breathing.
"I will wait," Sanlang said again, eyes flickering with something neither of them could name — something not mortal.
"If it takes years. If it kills me."
Zeyla stepped back.
And in the silence, a whisper of wind stirred the chandelier — as if the house itself had heard him.