Arın (Uniformed)
Arın was beginning to realize that no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, İlyara would not leave his mind; every time he thought of her, an unexplainable unease stirred within his body, the rhythm of his heart shifted in ways too subtle to notice, and the fact that he could not control this change disturbed him.
He had not been allowed to join the search parties; at first, his master's decision had seemed like nothing more than an order, but as time passed, it turned into a question that remained unanswered within him. Did she not trust him? And if that was the case, then what was the purpose of his existence?
As these thoughts grew heavier in his mind, what he was feeling began to seem even more foreign to him, because this unease was something that was not meant to exist within his nature.
"Master, they have arrived," said Number Ten.
The voice pulled Arın out of his thoughts, and his gaze instinctively shifted to his master seated on the throne beside him.
She was not of noble birth—yet she had a palace. She had changed after the day she brought him back, and this palace was a part of that change. Old memories still lingered somewhere in the corner of his mind, but none of them mattered… or at least, they were not supposed to. For him, there had always been only one thing that mattered: orders.
This thought left a faint, sharp, unsettling ache in his chest, and his mind drifted—again, unwillingly—to that girl. İlyara.
The moment her name formed, he gave a slight shake of his head, as though he could force the thought out of his mind, then forced his focus back to the silence of the room and the moment that was about to unfold.
"Good," his master said. "Let them in."
As the door opened, Number Two entered and stopped directly in front of his master, bowing in respect.
"We found the girl you were looking for," he said, gesturing toward the door.
"İlyara," his master murmured to herself, then straightened her posture and fixed her attention on the entrance.
Number Three stepped inside, carrying someone over his shoulder; a black sack had been pulled over her head, and her body was completely motionless.
Arın's hand moved to the hilt of his sword without him realizing it, and as his shoulders tensed, his breathing quickened on its own.
Thankfully, his master was there… and he believed that today he would finally be rid of the thing inside him that had caused this imbalance.
He tilted his head slightly and watched as Number Three placed İlyara down before his master.
"Do it," his master said, a faint, almost indistinct smile forming on her lips before she leaned back against her throne.
Number Three removed the sack from İlyara's head and tossed it aside, then pulled a small vial from his pocket. He crouched beside her and held it near her nose. A moment later, he stood, took a few steps back, and positioned himself directly behind her. The dagger remained in his hand as he waited, completely still.
Arın felt the fingers resting on the hilt begin to tremble. It was as if his hand wanted to draw the sword on its own, independent of him.
For a brief moment… he thought he actually would.
He immediately pulled his hand away from the hilt and placed it behind his back.
İlyara let out a faint groan as her eyes fluttered open. "Ah… my head," she murmured, trying to push herself up from the ground, only to falter slightly.
"Is this the Ancient's Shadow?" his master said, then laughed.
Arın realized he had not heard her laugh this loudly in a long time.
İlyara brought a hand to her head and turned her gaze toward his master. Arın shifted where he stood.
"W-who are you?" İlyara asked, her voice still hazy as her eyes moved around the room, trying to make sense of where she was.
"Where am I—" she continued, but the moment her eyes met Arın's, her words caught in her throat.
"Arın… you're okay," she said, relief briefly softening her expression, and something within Arın stirred in a way he could not explain; as she tried to stand, the man behind her forced her back down by her shoulder.
Arın stepped forward without realizing it, but the instant he became aware of the movement, he stopped; this was not an order, and yet his body had moved on its own, while the hand he held behind his back continued to tremble slightly.
"Who are you people? What do you want from me?" İlyara demanded, this time looking at everyone around her, her voice still weak but far more steady.
"Shhh… calm down, İlyara," his master said, and Arın immediately recognized the sharpness hidden beneath the softness in her voice.
"How do you know my name… ma'am—" İlyara began, but her sentence was cut short.
"Veyra," his master said, her voice softening into something almost like a whisper toward the end as her gaze fixed on İlyara.
"I know more than just your name," Veyra continued, then slowly shifted her gaze to Arın.
"Why did you call him Arın?" she asked, not taking her eyes off him.
İlyara remained silent for a moment, and Arın watched as her gaze moved first to his master—Veyra—then back to him again.
"I—what do you know about me—" she started, but before she could finish, Arın heard Veyra strike the arm of her throne sharply; the sound echoed through the room, pulling his attention there for an instant.
"Answer my question first," Veyra said, and Arın could feel how thin the line of her patience had become.
İlyara finally looked back at her, then shifted her gaze to Arın; that brief moment stretched far longer than it should have for him.
"When he didn't tell me his name, I gave him one," she said, then added, as if deliberately emphasizing it, "Arın."
The moment he heard his name, Arın felt his heart stutter.
"He didn't object when I called him Arın," İlyara continued.
He saw Veyra's fingers tighten around the arms of her throne.
"Is that so…?" Veyra asked, and Arın realized her eyes were still fixed on him.
Veyra tilted her head slightly, the faint smile at the corner of her lips lingering longer this time, as though the answer she had heard confirmed something different from what she had expected.
"So… you gave him a name," she said slowly; her voice was neither raised nor lowered, yet it carried a weight that settled over everyone in the room.
Her fingers moved lightly against the arm of the throne before she turned her gaze back to İlyara and continued speaking.
"Names… create bonds," she said.
Arın could not fully grasp the meaning of her words, yet he felt something within him shift with quiet unease, and the fact that he could not understand why only made that unease grow stronger.
İlyara's brows drew together slightly, the expression on her face showing that she was trying to make sense of those words while remaining cautious; her gaze flickered to Arın for a brief moment before returning to Veyra.
"A bond?" İlyara asked.
Veyra's smile deepened just a little.
"Yes," she said. "Giving someone a name means being able to call them… to define them, to draw their boundaries… and sometimes, to place something within them that does not truly belong to them, as if it does."
As she spoke, Veyra's eyes did not leave Arın even for a second.
Arın could not understand why that gaze was directed at him, yet his instincts told him that something about this was not right; even so, he could not move and simply remained where he was, listening.
"You," Veyra said, this time looking directly at İlyara, "you gave him a name… but do you know what he is?"
The expression on İlyara's face hardened; it was clear she did not want to answer that question, yet she did not retreat either.
"He is… a Morhena," İlyara said; her voice did not fully settle on the word, but she did not take it back.
"Yes," Veyra confirmed, her smile never fading, "a Morhena…"
Then she lifted her hand slightly and gestured toward the uniformed men in the room.
"…like them."
İlyara's gaze moved over the others instinctively, passing from one to another before settling once more on Veyra.
"What exactly is a Morhena?" she asked, this time more quickly and directly.
Veyra smiled at the question; this smile was different from the others, carrying a trace of amusement.
"They…" she began, then after a brief pause, "are, in fact, the dead," she said, letting out a low chuckle at the end of the sentence.
İlyara straightened abruptly; that movement also stirred Number Three behind her, whose gaze did not leave her even for a moment.
This was a threat.
But Arın could not tell who it was directed at. And he was not even sure whether he needed to understand it, because there had always been only one thing that mattered.
Orders.
Arın fixed his gaze on Veyra once more and, without saying a word, remained where he stood, continuing to watch what unfolded.
"Dead?" İlyara asked; her eyes locked onto his, and there was something in that gaze he could not make sense of. A brief yet heavy silence settled over the room.
"Number One, come," Veyra said, and with those words, the strange silence shattered in a single motion.
Arın stepped forward without hesitation and knelt before his master; the movement was not thought through, it was simply carried out—and therefore, it was correct.
Veyra reached out, cupped Arın's face, and pulled him closer before pressing her lips against his.
As his master kissed him, Arın heard İlyara's breath catch behind him, and that sound distracted him in a way he had not expected; he felt his heart tighten briefly, yet he did not move, remaining completely still where he was.
Veyra's hand had already slipped inside his jacket; he realized her fingers had found his dagger.
As she drew it out, her lips were still against his. Then, without any warning, she pulled away.
When she turned Arın's head sharply toward İlyara, his gaze locked onto her involuntarily.
And then, without hesitation, she drove the dagger into his chest again and again.
Arın felt the metal enter his body; where there should have been pain, there was only emptiness.
"No!" İlyara cried out, trying to get to her feet, but the man behind her forced her back down by her shoulders.
Arın watched her struggle without looking away; he could not understand why that effort was directed at him, why a reaction like this should have anything to do with him at all.
Why was she trying for him?
When in truth… he had wanted to be rid of her.
"Calm down," Veyra said, releasing him as she stepped back with ease. "He is already dead. He feels nothing."
Arın had fully risen to his feet and returned to his place, yet he did not take his eyes off İlyara, not even for a moment.
"I knew he couldn't feel it," İlyara said, her voice no longer hazy, "but you didn't have to do that to him," she added in a sharp tone, and her words rang clear enough for everyone in the room to hear.
Arın noticed the brief flash of red in İlyara's eyes, and immediately after, the black smoke coiling around her hands.
His body reacted without delay; his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around the metal, while his gaze shifted instinctively—first to his master, then back to İlyara.
Where was the threat?
The answer to that question was not clear.
Because one side was something that had to be protected… and the other was something that had to be kept away.
But which was which—for the first time, he could not tell.
And before Arın drew his sword, he realized that he did not know what he was supposed to strike.