In the southern fortress, where footsteps rarely tread, a voice rang out with unwavering calm:
"Hello, Father."
"You've returned early, it seems."
"Yes. Things didn't go as planned."
Ugrash stared at Sin with a cold gaze, then raised his left hand—a subtle gesture, yet enough to make the handmaidens bow and silently withdraw.
"Speak." His voice was sharp as a blade, slicing through the stillness.
"The prophesied one did not appear," Sin replied steadily. "Etana is furious, and King Nabuwazur demands a convincing explanation."
The firelight flickered in Ugrash's eyes like a spark of suppressed rage and disbelief. He muttered under his breath, barely audible: "My prophecies never fail… something has changed."
Sin stood firm, like a wall of stone. "Everyone was watched closely. The goblets remained untouched… none changed color."
Suddenly, the silence was pierced by the flutter of wings. A massive brown falcon descended onto the edge of Ugrash's seat, its eyes gleaming with a mysterious light.
Ugrash's expression shifted to heavy suspicion. "Then… someone died in the palace."
This was no ordinary falcon—it was Ugrash's messenger, infallible and feared. Sin knew it well; he had seen it circling the banquet, inside and out.
Sin bowed slightly, trying to show remorse. "Yes… my fault. I collided with one of the servants by accident."
Ugrash furrowed his brows, as if the picture had finally come together. He knew well what followed Sin's touch. "Shouldn't you have been more careful?"
"I apologize… it won't happen again."
Ugrash waved his hand sharply, his voice tinged with impatience. "You may leave."
Sin bowed respectfully and exited in silence. Only the echo of his footsteps rang against the cold stone floor, as if the fortress held no soul but his.
On the second floor, where no one dares to tread, lies a vast chamber—towering, built to suffocate breath.
Its walls are made of black stone, cracked as if they breathe pain, etched with ancient symbols that cannot be read—only felt. A massive window overlooks a barren valley, lifeless but for the wind. A half-circle balcony is enclosed by a stone railing.
The air is cold—not from weather, but from presence.
The heavy wooden door creaked open slowly. Sin entered with heavy steps, his body clad in a dark armor engraved with the emblem of death. His eyes did not shine—they burned silently. The curse of death flowed through his veins, not to kill him, but to keep him alive just enough to feel every moment of decay.
The bed in the corner was not for sleep, but for brief respite between endless battles. On the table lay his massive sword—no one could lift it but him. Yet every time he touched it, whispers of death laughed in his ear.
Beside it: a cracked helmet, a shattered shield, and maps of cities that no longer exist.
The room does not sleep, nor breathe—it watches. Every stone knows a story, every shadow holds a memory of war.
Sin sat on the edge of the bed in silence, having removed his heavy armor. He wiped his face in exhaustion, ran his hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it back as he replayed the conversation before the banquet, searching for answers between the lines.
—Flashback: The Past—
On a cold November night, within the silent walls of the southern fortress, the stillness was shattered by gasps and muffled screams from the eastern chamber.
Ugrash awoke in terror, panting like a man pulled from drowning. Sweat poured from his brow, his eyes wide with shock as he clutched his throat, as if something had been strangling him.
He looked around with dazed eyes—the stone walls, the royal tapestries, the faint scent of incense—all reminded him he was in his chamber, inside his fortress.
He exhaled deeply, trembling, and whispered: "What… was that?"
He rose quickly, as if time itself chased him, and left the room with hurried steps under the pale dawn light filtering through the ancient windows.
The stone corridors were cold, as if they hid dark omens within their corners.
He stopped before a hidden stone door, opened it with a gentle push, and entered his secret chamber.
With a gesture of his hand, an old torch ignited with a brief magical spark. The orange flame danced across the walls, revealing a small room steeped in mystery. At its center stood a round table covered with thick black cloth.
He approached slowly, then lifted the cloth to reveal a red glass orb, medium-sized, glowing as if it held a dormant fire within.
He placed his hands around it gently, closed his eyes, and began chanting in a strange tongue—known only to a few sorcerers. The words flowed from his mouth as if summoned from depths beyond human reach.
Moments passed, and the orb darkened gradually, turning into a pitch-black surface. A strange scene emerged—a mysterious figure walking calmly through the Babylonian palace corridors. Gender unknown, cloaked in shadow, radiating a magical energy only eyes trained in the arts of darkness could perceive.
Ugrash opened his eyes in awe. "What is this power… I've never seen anything like it!"
His features hardened. Remembering his dream, he muttered: "I must eliminate it first…"
Days later, Ugrash met with King Nabuwazur, joined by Sin and four elite sorcerers, inside the grand throne hall where only the sound of torches and footsteps echoed.
One sorcerer stepped forward solemnly. "Your Majesty… we are here today regarding a grave matter that threatens the future of the kingdom."
Nabuwazur nodded silently, his face as still as the statues of ancient gods.
Ugrash rose with regal poise, his long red hair cascading over his shoulders, surrounded by an aura as if he had stepped out of another realm.
He spoke with deep resonance: "I saw doom crawling toward the kingdom, Your Majesty… the land soaked in blood, corpses scattered in every corner… the throne silenced by chants of catastrophe. The royal family… annihilated."
He lowered his head, hiding what he dared not say—he had seen his own corpse among the dead.
Sin stood at the back of the hall, arms crossed, silent. He knew his father never erred, and that the vision was unstoppable.
Nabuwazur's brows trembled, his silence broken by a voice laced with fury: "Who dares such a thing?"
Ugrash replied, a hint of mockery in his tone: "Someone of royal blood… possessing a power no one in this palace holds."
A glint of malice flashed in Nabuwazur's eyes. "Anyone who dares rebel… will die."
Ugrash sat back, satisfied—he had struck the right chord.
Another sorcerer added: "We must devise a flawless plan to capture and kill him before he makes a move."
Voices rose, suggestions poured in, until Ugrash spoke again after a long silence: "Your Majesty… I heard Princess Shalitu is betrothed to Prince Zakiru of the North."
Nabuwazur raised his brows with suspicion. "Yes?"
Ugrash smiled faintly. "Why not use this joyous occasion to host a grand royal banquet? Invite everyone… including that figure."
A faint smile formed on the king's lips. "A clever idea."
They agreed to set a trap during the banquet to assassinate the mysterious entity—without raising suspicion. Sin would be the hidden blade.
Later, Nabuwazur met with Etana, King of the North, and informed him of a "spy" lurking in the palace—without revealing the full truth.
Everything unfolded as planned…
And Sin, with his quiet eyes and long silence, saw it all… and said nothing.
—Present—
Sin returned to the present with a weary sigh, his head heavy with burdens, his eyes distant—seeing fragmented images of the banquet, the falcon, and Ugrash's gaze that spoke volumes.
He stared at the wall, bathed in violet shadows from the fading sunset. He raised his hands, looked at his fingers—as if they reminded him of what he had done.
He had killed innocent blood… for her.
He hadn't realized that the mysterious figure, the one with immense power… was her.
The child who once sat beside him, humming old tunes and laughing at his dull jokes. The girl who grew before his eyes, transforming from a chatterbox into a woman who matured without permission. A woman who made him see the world in a different hue.
She used to talk endlessly… The tiresome chatterbox, always philosophizing, rambling without pause. And he would smile quietly, as if trying to hide the echo of her voice in his heart.
He never told her. But he knew—she had become part of his day, his thoughts, his silence.
And today… He nearly ended her life with his own hands.
His breath grew heavier, as if the air itself refused to pass through his chest.
Urshal's words echoed in his mind like an unshakable whisper. And within him, a conviction took root—one that could not be undone:
"I will protect her… no matter what it costs."
Even if it meant standing against Ugrash.Even if it meant ending his own life.Even if it meant walking a path of no return.
What passed was a chapter. What's coming… is something entirely different.
Soft footsteps on the threshold broke his trance.
A young maid entered, her hair neatly tied, eyes gleaming with unhidden excitement. She carried a plate of ripe fruits. She smiled—a smile bolder than what a servant should dare in the presence of her master.
As she approached, she said: "You looked weary. I thought you might need something to ease your evening… or someone to share it with."
She came closer, nearly brushing his arm, and placed the plate beside him on the bed instead of the table. She leaned slightly, her gaze scanning his features without fear, as if trying to see in his eyes what others only whisper about in legends.
"They say you're dangerous… but I don't believe everything they say."
He lifted his eyes to her—a long, unreadable look. She didn't flinch. Instead, she offered a mischievous smile.
He knew she understood. That a single touch from him could end her life. Yet she approached, as if testing the myth of death with her own hands.
Slowly, he raised his hand and moved the plate aside. His voice was low, but sharp as a blade: "There are things… you shouldn't get close to."
Her smile faded for a moment, but her eyes remained locked on his. Then she stepped back, stiffly.
He stood and turned toward the window, leaving her standing behind him, as if silently telling her to leave. Moments passed before he heard the door close—her departure confirmed.
Elsewhere, in the heart of Babylon's bustling market, where the noise of vendors, craftsmen, wanderers, and passersby filled the air with life—Lamassu was busy selling medicinal herbs and remedies she had prepared with Grandmother Urshal.
A woman approached, her voice heavy with pain: "I cut myself with a knife while chopping vegetables… I waited for it to heal, but it got worse."
Lamassu looked at her with concern, gently removed the cloth from the woman's hand to examine the wound. She frowned in sympathy, then stepped back and handed her a small wooden box. "Here. Apply this ointment daily, carefully. Avoid water and heavy tasks until it heals completely."
The woman nodded gratefully, handed her the payment, and left—just as Tiyama arrived, teasing: "Wow, maybe I should start calling you Asu from now on."
Lamassu replied with indifference: "Enough, Tiyama, before someone hears you and believes it. It's just a few things I learned from Grandma—it's not a big deal."
"Her wound looked serious. What did you give her?"
"An ointment made from sesame oil, powdered sulfur, and juniper bark. It helps heal wounds and ulcers."
"Oh come on, Lam, look how skilled you are!" Tiyama winked. "Tell me you've reconsidered the title."
Lamassu laughed and began packing her herbs. "Come on, it's noon. I think I'm done for the day—I'm heading out."
"What, already?" Tiyama said, disappointed.
Lamassu picked up her cloth bag full of herbs and smiled slyly. "Seems like you don't want to go home."
Tiyama sighed, lifting her basket of vegetables. "Ella wouldn't stop crying last night. I couldn't sleep, so I left her with her father and came out pretending to shop."
"So Ella's the real trouble."
Moments later, Tiyama's eyes gleamed with mischief. She walked beside Lamassu and said, narrowing her eyes: "Lam, how about you come over for lunch?"
Lamassu tried to decline, but Tiyama's persistence won her over. They arrived at a modest clay house tucked in one of Babylon's narrow alleys, where winding paths and stacked homes echoed with the footsteps of passersby and whispers from the nearby market.
The house was small, with a low wooden door and tiny windows covered with cloth to soften the sun's heat.
The scent of burnt clay and aromatic herbs gave the home a sense of warmth despite the city's chaos. Outside, a tiny courtyard—or just a patch of ground—held water pots, chickens, pigeons, and the distant hum of vendors.
Lamassu and Tiyama entered through the outer corridor, exchanging laughter and chatter. They were greeted by Tiyama's husband, Zamo, who held the baby Ella, trying to lull her to sleep.
"Hello, Mr. Zamo."
Zamo replied kindly: "Oh, Lamassu, welcome. Please, come in."
She smiled and set down her cloth bag. Moments later, Ella's cries rang out again.
Zamo sighed patiently, whispering: "Come on, sweetheart… sleep now, Ella."
He rocked her gently, exhaustion visible on his face. Lamassu, moved by the parents' fatigue, offered to help: "Mr. Zamo, let me take her. I'll try to put her to sleep."
"Really? Can you?"
"I'll try."
He handed her the baby and sighed in relief, blood returning to his tired arms. He smiled gratefully.
Meanwhile, Tiyama grinned in triumph—her plan to have Lamassu care for the baby had worked. Lamassu rocked Ella gently, humming old folk songs in a soft voice, patting her and stroking her lightly until the baby finally calmed, her eyelids fluttering into sleep.
Lamassu smiled with quiet pride, as if she had achieved something great. Zamo stepped out to feed the chickens—or pretended to, just to escape the cries. Tiyama began setting the table.
Lamassu placed Ella in a padded reed basket, covered her with a light cloth, and whispered: "Mischievous little one."
Tiyama said gratefully: "Oh Lam, you don't know how much you saved me. I'm truly thankful."
"But I think you brought me here on purpose."
Tiyama laughed, caught red-handed. "Sorry, I had no other choice."
Lamassu chuckled softly. Tiyama added: "Come on, let's eat before it gets cold."
"I'm actually starving."
The three gathered around the lunch table, speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake the baby. After finishing their meal, Lamassu thanked them and left, heading back to her home on the eastern bank.
She mounted her horse and rode swiftly, battling the wind that whipped her face and her coal-black hair—releasing her bottled emotions into this imaginary duel.
Questions swirled in her mind, each one capable of opening a new door of truths. She didn't deny that spending time with Tiyama had distracted her briefly. But once alone, the ghosts of thought returned to devour her:
What is his connection to the royal palace? Why did he rush her out that day? And what is he planning next… that he still hides from her?
To be continued…
(Asu: In ancient Babylon—especially between the second and first millennia BCE—medicine and pharmacy were intertwined with magic and religion. The healer was often called "Asu," meaning a practical physician using herbal remedies.)