The cold spring was black as obsidian. Noor stepped into the water, white drapery trailing, dissolving into the current. Shadows coiled against the stone, curling like smoke, whispering without tongues.
The water broke.
Hands — cold, iron-sharp — seized her ankles, dragging her under.
Darkness swallowed her.
Chains bound her wrists, her throat, her ribs — dragging her down into a darkness. Her skin split where the links cut; blood laced the current.
And then she saw it.
A thousand mirrors bloomed.
One reflected her in bridal silk, veil trembling as a lover's kiss became teeth, tearing her throat open.
Another showed her crowned at an altar, thorns pressed into her scalp, blood streaming down her cheeks as he kissed her brow.
In one she drowned, wrists bound, hair billowing like weeds, his hand holding her head beneath the surface.
In another, she hung by her hair, flayed into ribbons, children laughing as they pelted her with flowers.
One showed her body bloated in a river, eyes gone, fish darting through her hollow sockets.
Another nailed her hands to a table, goblets overturned, courtiers laughing as her blood mixed with wine.
One flickered her in a coliseum, beasts loosed, lions tearing her open as she stroked their manes with bloodied hands.
Another showed her falling, body shattered on stone, his hand letting hers slip in false despair.
And in each, her lips curved upward, gentle, terrible — a smile.
Arms of shadow coiled around her waist, pulling her into eternity.
The mirrors convulsed — her faces burning, drowning.
The shadow pressed closer, lips against her ear.Then almost in reverent wisper The Shadow spoke,
"You were Nammu, the sea before creation, abandoned when your children learned to walk upon you.
You were Tiamat, carved open by your own son, your blood spilling monsters into the world.
You were Ereshkigal, chained in the pit, mocked by the living who stole your crown.
You were Anat, who bathed in blood and entrails, yet found no lover who did not turn away.
You were Sekhmet, drunk on slaughter until even the gods feared your thirst and tricked you with wine.
You were Izanami, rotting in the dark, betrayed by the husband who could not bear your face.
You were Atargatis, the fish who drowned herself for shame, worshipped only in whispers.
You were Nehalennia, forgotten by sailors who prayed and left you to the waves.
You were Epione, soft hand of pain, mother to no one, comfort to no one."
The mirrors flared with each name:
—Her body split,her entrails spilling flame.
—Her crown stolen as worms crawled in her sockets.
—Her mouth stained red with entrails smiling as she gorged.
—Her body swollen, fish tearing at her thighs.
—Her face half-rotted, bones crawling with maggots.
And still — she smiled.
The shadow's voice thickened, seductive, cruel:
"Every face, every name, every death… all yours, Ancient One. And every time, they betrayed you. You were worshipped only long enough to be destroyed. You loved the knife, the chain, the ruin. Because you knew—it was me. It was always me."
The mirrors screamed, each one reflecting Noor's betrayals, her deaths, her endless smiles.
And in the din, Noor smiled. Blood at her lips, chains tearing her skin, but her mouth curved in quiet defiance.
Yet in one mirror,one red-dressed figure lifted her gaze.
Her hair, white as fallen snow, spilled down her shoulders, catching the firelight. Her golden eyes burned like suns drowning in blood. She stood tall, barefoot, crimson silk clinging to her body, soaked in her own blood.
Blades pierced her from every side.
One through the shoulder. Another the chest. Another the stomach. Two through her thighs. One lodged deep in her back, its tip bursting through her ribs. Blood streamed freely, painting her bare feet with crimson rivers.
Her arms remained steady.
Her embrace unbroken.
For in them, the child clung.Black eyes wide, burying his face into her breast.
The red figure moved.
Blue flames licked her heels as she stepped into the first mirror. Noor crucified shrieked, then dissolved into cinders. She turned, swords clattering faintly in her flesh, and walked into the next. Noor drowning burst into smoke. Again she walked, slower, blood dripping, yet her arms never loosened around the child.
Everywhere she went, the fire followed.
Every mirror she touched — consumed.
Every illusion — reduced to ash.
The abyss became a storm of fire and ash. Blue flames roared, reflections cracked, glass shattered.
And through it all, she walked barefoot, pierced and bleeding, holding the child against her body with unbreakable arms.
Her golden eyes never left Noor.
The shadow shrieked with a sound like mountains splitting. Its howl was fury and hunger.
But the red figure did not waver. She came at last before Noor, blades still tearing her flesh, blood dripping, child pressed tight against her.
Ash drifted like snow. Chains rattled against Noor's body, but her eyes—black, trembling—never left the figure before her.
The red one came forward. Golden eyes unblinking. Blood still running. The child still clinging to her breast.
She stopped before Noor.
Then she lifted one hand, pierced through with iron, blood dripping. Slowly, she pressed it to Noor's cheek.
The shadow shrieked.
Shadow (scripture, breaking):
"No—no! Ancient One, do not turn from me again! I gave you ruin, I gave you eternity! You are mine—you were always mine! Do not choose the fire—choose me! Choose me! Choose me! Come to me!"
The red figure smiled. Then her body dissolved—robes, blood, fire, child—into Noor, sinking into her skin like breath into lungs.
The chains split apart.
Noor convulsed, breath torn from her. Her obsidian eyes blazed—then turned to molten gold.
The shadow shrieked once more, a howl not of fury alone but of hunger.The blue fire rose, swallowed everything, and then—silence.
The spring shuddered. The fire guttered out.
The spring fell silent. Poison and shadow stilled.
Arms lifted her from the depths, gathering her against a chest cold as marble, steady as eternity. Noor's body was weightless in his hold, her head tilting to his shoulder.
He stood at the water's edge.
A man in white — robes flowing like riverlight, hair spilling past his waist, pale and silken. In one hand, he held a red spider lily, trembling . His eyes — ruby, sharp as carved jewels — burned down at her.
He bent slightly, gaze fixed on her lips. His hand rose, brushing along her cheek, fingers trailing the curve of her jaw. He lingered there, trembling, then slid closer — until his fingertips hovered against her mouth. Noor's lips parted at the touch of air alone, a breath shivering from her.
But his hand halted. His ruby gaze darkened with restraint, aching and unbearable. And before the moment could break, he was gone.
When Noor opened her eyes, she lay upon the stone. Her skin bore no wound, no scar. Her beauty was cruel, flawless — pale as porcelain, her damp hair spilling dark as ink across her shoulders.
The spring had changed. Its surface was veiled in lilies — red spider lilies, countless.
She gazed at them, and a sorrowful smile curved her lips.
Her voice, low and grief-stricken, spilled into the silence:
"Pain makes me eternal. Healing makes me a ghost. To suffer is to be bound, to be seen. To be whole is to vanish. Tell me — which prison is freedom, the chain or the silence?"
Her hand found the flute at her side. She lifted it gently, her pale fingers closing around the bone like a vow.
"If I must be forgotten," she whispered, her lips brushing the mouthpiece like a secret, "let me be forgotten as a song — fleeting, piercing, too brief to be loved, too deep to be erased."
She raised it.
The first note cut the night, fragile as glass, cold as mourning. The lilies trembled, their red petals glowing faintly as if bowing to her sorrow.
And Noor played — a hyme beautiful enough to wound, sorrowful enough to last.
Zeyla trembled, her body still quaking from the cruelty she had witnessed. Janir's smirk, the blood, the broken voice of her scout — they clung to her like smoke.
Then the flute rose through the night.
One note shattered her trance. She froze, listening as the melody slipped through.
Her lips parted, trembling words spilling into the dark:
"My lady… your song is not mercy. It is a chain. Every note drags me deeper. If this is grief, it is yours. If this is cruelty, it is yours. And yet… I cannot turn away."
The melody lingered, unbroken.
Zeyla whispered,"Cruelty has faces. I saw one tonight. And yet… her song is not cruelty. Why does it hurt worse?"
The melody rose, fragile but sharp, and tears pricked her eyes.
She clutched her arms around her body, as if holding herself together:
".... what are you? The monster who raised one, or the sorrow that sings through this night? Every time I reach, you slip farther. Every time I think I see you, you vanish into shadow
Zeyla bowed her head, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.