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CHAPTER THREE

ZAHRA

T he needle pierced through the fabric, again and again, each thread binding Zahra more tightly to a life she despised.

She sewed from dawn until dusk, beneath the shouting, the insults, the blows.

“I told you not to sell that fabric! It’s for the Hive, damn it! Do you want us to get killed?” snapped Mr. Tarza at his wife.

“It was the Tuli idiot who put it on the wares pile, not me!”

Hunched over her work, Zahra squinted so hard her head ached as she stitched hems for people who didn’t even bother to call her by name. The needle pricked her skin almost as often as Mrs. Tarza’s biting words.

The blood on her fingers burned, but she didn’t cry. Crying would mean surrender. And Zahra would never surrender to the Eldorians. Not yet.

“The Creator will deal with them,” she thought, though a bitter, weary part of her whispered that He already had. This city was their punishment: loud, corrupt, steeped in sins they no longer even bothered to hide.

She lifted her head and glanced around the cramped tailor shop. The air was heavy, thick with heat and humidity, and the clutter of fabrics made the space feel suffocating. Everyone was yelling. Everyone except her.

“Where’s the velvet? Where’s that damn velvet?” screeched Mrs. Tarza, her enormous frame taking up nearly the whole room, a sharp contrast to her husband’s wiry, twitching form.

Zahra briefly raised her eyes. “You sold it, too,” she muttered, tired of always having to remind them of their own mistakes.

“Impossible! Foolish girl, impossible! It was meant for the Hive’s orders! The palace is expecting?—”

She let Mrs. Tarza’s shrill screams dissolve into the surrounding chaos and bent her head back to the dress she was sewing. Ever since the “honor” of sewing for the royal palace in celebration of the prince’s birthday had been bestowed upon them, her masters had become even more insufferable.

Time stretched, slow and cruel. Especially when you were trapped doing something you hated, surrounded by people you despised, in a city you wished you could burn to the ground. Every second spent here was a waste.

If she had a choice, she would be in a library, deciphering ancient maps, unraveling the mysteries of the world. But instead, here she was—Zahra, who spoke three dialects, including ancient Tuli—forced to endure two ignorant Eldorians who spoke to her like a foolish child. A mere velvet-waster.

Her patience frayed with every passing moment.

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the dry, clammy hand that suddenly clamped around her arm. The needle slipped from her fingers, slicing into her palm.

Mr. Tarza, furious, grabbed her arm and hauled her upright without care.

“No need to panic! The girl will go buy more!” he shouted, dragging her relentlessly toward the door.

Zahra grimaced as she was pulled like a sack of goods. The door swung open, and he shoved her out without ceremony. She fell to her knees in the fresh mud. Beside her, he tossed her satchel, which landed heavily in the muck.

Before she could get to her feet, his hand grabbed her long brown braid and yanked, wrenching a cry of pain from her lips. Mud splattered her face and clothes, but she refused to let her tears fall.

“Listen to me…” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

Zahra winced, her lower lip trembling. A faint scar, a reminder of a wound scorched under Tullandor’s unforgiving sun, split her lip. Her prominent cheekbones cast fine shadows across her face, contrasting with the softness of her full lips. Her brown skin, kissed with golden undertones, seemed to catch the light of Eldoria in a way that felt almost defiant—despite the dust and grime, it refused to dull. Her skin just naturally glowed.

Mr. Tarza tightened his grip, his breath ragged, and waved a rolled parchment in her face.

“Don’t come back until you’ve bought everything! And if you mess up again, I swear I’ll let her burn you!”

He released her with a shove, tossing the paper at her feet, and slammed the door behind him.

Zahra knew she needed to get to work immediately. Mr. Tarza didn’t make idle threats, and his deranged wife wouldn’t hesitate to punish her for even the slightest mistake. Since her first day, Zahra had drawn nothing but the wrath of that jealous woman.

She searched through the mud, desperately fumbling for the parchment.

“Where is it?” she murmured, her fingers anxiously combing the filthy ground. Her vision had blurred from overworking her eyes lately; she could no longer see clearly from a distance. Tears, already pooling behind her eyelids, threatened to spill, but she forced them back, biting the inside of her cheek.

She paused for a moment, breathless, her shoulders slumped and her worn dress hitched up to her knees, exposing legs smeared with dirt. Slowly, she lifted her head to the sky, her eyes closing in a gesture that felt like a mix of prayer and despair. Her dress clung to her skin, adding to her discomfort. She exhaled deeply, attempting to quiet the storm raging within her chest. But the calm didn’t come.

A sharp, nauseating smell suddenly filled her nose, and Zahra wrinkled it in disgust. She opened her eyes and turned her head, only to catch sight of a drunk man, staggering against a wall and urinating carelessly just a few steps away.

Her face twisted with revulsion.

She quickly looked away, lowering her head to escape the vile sight, horrified by the crudeness of the Eldorians’ behavior.

“Let this city burn,” Zahra murmured to herself, her voice bitter and low. “One day, let it all burn.”

But prayers were rarely heard here.

Since her arrival, she had seen drunk men stumbling naked under the stars, children hurling curses as sharp as blades, and thieves brushing the pockets of the dying.

Zahra finally understood why the name Eldoria was whispered across the six kingdoms: the City of Sins wasn’t just a nickname. It was a mark, etched deep into the arrogance and vice of its streets.

She wiped her eyes with a quick, angry motion, then returned to digging through the mud. There was no way that seamstress witch would claw at her again today. Not this time.

She was tired of watching her meager wages vanish into ointments that promised to heal her skin but never her soul.

Fine, pale scars betrayed the countless needle pricks, accidental burns, and, at times, the cruel “corrections” her masters had inflicted on her.

A year. A year of working for them—those monsters—and she still hadn’t paid off her contract.

She inhaled deeply. At least it meant her family, on the other side of the sea, had received an extra year of rations. Her parents had sold their daughter, like so many others, for a handful of flour, wheat, and peas. A modest offering. A cruel irony, like a knife twisted in her ribs: the Tulis sacrificed their children to receive what they had once grown themselves, in their own stolen land.

Land that had been stolen from them by the almighty King of Eldoria.

Zahra exhaled slowly and stood up. She dusted off her dress—what was left of it—and squinted at her surroundings. There. She spotted the parchment, half-buried in the mud near the wall where the drunkard had relieved himself.

A sigh escaped her lips, but she didn’t dare pray aloud again. Not here. If the Creator could hear her through the shouts, the sin, and the stench of this rotting city, then He could also hear her silences.

Zahra picked up her satchel and stepped forward cautiously, praying the paper hadn’t been soiled.

“The day can’t possibly get worse,” she thought, disgust rippling through her shoulders in a shiver.

A mistake. A foolish thought she would regret later. Because in Eldoria, things could always get worse.

She approached the wall, the acrid stench of urine so overpowering her stomach twisted violently. Pressing a hand to her abdomen, she breathed through her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit up the meager meal she'd eaten at dawn. The putrid smell assaulted her senses, but a sweeter memory briefly pushed through—fragrant flowers and spices floating on the air in the streets of Tullandor. Her real home.

She crouched to pick up the parchment, which clung to the ground like a soggy leech. Mud slicked her fingers, but, thankfully, they came away clean. No urine. Zahra let out a quiet sigh, a whisper of gratitude escaping her lips:

“Praise be to the Creator.”

She slipped the paper into her satchel and lifted her head. That was when she noticed the wall.

It was just at the intersection of the alley and the tailor’s shop. The criminals’ wall. Zahra had seen dozens like it throughout Eldoria, its weathered stones plastered with posters. Thieves. Murderers. Traitors. Faces faded by rain and time. Prices written in blood and gold. Nothing unusual.

But this time, something felt wrong.

An indescribable tension coiled in her chest as her eyes moved over the posters. Yet, it felt as if an unseen force pushed the others aside, leaving only one in her view.

One poster seemed to call to her. Pinned to the wall, its paper yellowed by the sun, it hung off the edge of an old board.

Zahra frowned, her hands nervously twisting together. Something about that piece of paper seemed to demand her attention.

She squinted, her hesitant steps drawing her closer until the image sharpened.

A woman.

A woman with wild curls and feline eyes stared back at her from the poster, daring her in silence.

A cold shiver ran down Zahra’s spine as she read the words scrawled beneath the portrait:

TRAITOR.

Of the Viper’s Guild.

Dead or Alive. Reward: 50,000 gold coins.

Condemned for piracy and treason by decree of the crown.

Zahra had never seen—never even brushed her fingers across—a fortune like that. The thought alone sent another shiver down her back. What she could do with that kind of wealth… Dresses for her little sisters, gowns they wouldn’t dare to dream of wearing; a trip for her mother, the kind she always spoke of in wistful, unreachable stories; and for her father—always unsatisfied, always expecting more—maybe, just he would be proud of her if she returned one day with such wealth.

She didn’t know this woman. But in the frozen stillness of her eyes, something thrummed—a silent warning. As though fate itself, cruel and mocking, had held up a shattered mirror, showing Zahra a path she must never meet. A divine warning… or worse.

Zahra took a step back. She needed to get to the market. She had already lost too much time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tightened her grip on her satchel’s strap. The streets of Eldoria were nothing but traps, shortcuts to the grave.

Zahra had always been a cautious young woman. So she turned her back to the poster and resumed her walk toward the market, forcing the criminal’s face from her thoughts.

“If the reward is that high, she must be from The Wreck,” Zahra muttered to herself. The mere thought of The Wreck, sent a chill through her veins. A den of thieves, murderers, pirates… and worse.

Zahra was grateful for The Gutter. It wasn’t truly a river—it barely moved at all. It was more like a festering wound, full of decay and slimy water carved into the earth. But its choking stench and vicious expanse were usually enough to keep the other side at bay. And thank the Creator for that. Zahra prayed she would never have to set foot there.

She averted her gaze and slipped into the narrow alleys leading to the market.

The port market was as loud and crowded as always, with merchants shouting, carts creaking, and children darting between stalls. Zahra wove her way through the chaos, dodging elbows and overloaded baskets. She knew this place by heart—every corner, every face. They sent her here every morning, sometimes even before dawn.

Here, everything was for sale: food, fabrics, secrets. Whether you could afford it or not, they’d always find a way to make you pay.

As usual, she started with the fabrics for the poor: rough burlap, raw hemp that scratched the skin, coarse cotton, and thick linen that smelled of dust mixed with the stench of the alleyways. Then she moved on to the noble fabrics: smooth silk velvet, ribbons of vibrant satin, fine lace woven like a dream. Everything needed for creations destined for The Hive.

Up there, where the golden bees paraded in clothes that would cost a lifetime of labor here.

Even in the filth of the market, The Hive demanded its share.

A fruit seller had only one apple? He’d have to cut it in half and send the better portion to The Hive. An old man, bent under the weight of his years, dared to beg? They’d take half of the little he’d scraped together and redistribute it “up there.”

If those above found a way to claim dues from the air the people breathed, they’d demand it without a second thought.

Zahra’s satchel bulged, its weight pulling against her hip with every step.

She had learned to negotiate with precision—out of necessity. Her masters demanded it. But with every transaction, she felt a dull ache deep within her: a quiet guilt. The women she bartered with, their hands worn and trembling, wore patched dresses until the threads gave out entirely, endlessly mending their children’s clothes with what little they had. But Zahra had no choice.

And then, there was always the alcohol. She couldn’t return home without it. Mr. Tarza wouldn’t forgive her. Drinking was surely the stupidest vice in Eldoria, and yet, it was the most widespread. Tulis didn’t drink. They weren’t foolish enough to believe anything good could come of it.

Annie’s stall came into view. The old woman was there, as always, her face lined with deep wrinkles, her gray hair hanging in unkempt strands. But it wasn’t her appearance that struck Zahra—it was her laugh. That raspy, sickly laugh, like a rusty door hinge.

Annie let out a coarse whistle toward two young Eldorian guards, her one good eye roving boldly over their golden uniforms.

“Zahra! My beautiful Tuli!” Annie called out as she spotted Zahra approaching her stall. Her voice, hoarse but cheerful, was quickly smothered by a fit of coughing. She pressed a scrap of fabric to her mouth, her body wracked with spasms.

Zahra stiffened as a cold sweat prickled down her back. She caught sight of an Eldorian soldier moving closer, but Annie, unfazed, fixed her one good eye on Zahra and smiled. Zahra returned it nervously.

Zahra kept her gaze fixed firmly on Annie, deliberately avoiding the soldier. It was hard to look away from the old woman, she had a strange, commanding presence. One eye gleamed with a sharp, almost mocking intelligence, while the other, a cloudy blue-white, seemed like an open window into a shattered soul.

Zahra watched as Annie served other customers with surprising speed, passing them bottles of alcohol with one hand while deftly lifting their silver coins with the other. Annie had told Zahra the story of her eye at least six times, each version slightly different, but the core remained the same.

She had lost it on a summer morning. Dragged to the town square, she’d been tied to a platform and whipped in front of a crowd. It was on the thirtieth lash that she had instinctively turned her head, and that was when she lost the use of her left eye.

When Zahra, horrified, had asked what crime could warrant such a brutal punishment, Annie had simply smiled.

“My crime?” she had whispered, a glint of madness in her good eye. “I sold the last bottle of rum… to someone other than a crown officer.”

Zahra’s turn came, and she offered Annie a tight smile.

“What can I do for you, my beauty?” Annie rasped.

“Two bottles of rum, please—” Zahra began, but a flash of gold interrupted her.

A patrol of Eldorian guards strode toward them, their golden armor gleaming.

One of the guards scowled, his voice sharp and authoritative. “The fourth time this week for alcohol? Who’s it for?”

Zahra’s mouth went dry. She opened her lips, fumbling for an explanation, but Annie stepped in first.

“Leave the girl alone! It’s for her master,” Annie said, coughing violently. She continued between wheezing breaths, spinning a web of lies with unnerving ease. “He’s sick, practically dying… let her be! Who else will fetch his bottles?”

Annie’s words poured out like a river, drowning the guard in an avalanche of unnecessary details. He finally raised a hand to silence her, irritation etched across his severe face, then turned and walked away.

Zahra let out a quiet sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered with a small, grateful smile.

Annie winked and pulled out two small bottles of rum. Too small, Zahra noticed immediately, her stomach knotting with anxiety. They were neither large enough nor full enough.

She handed Annie the silver coins, but as the old woman’s calloused hand brushed hers, something shifted. Annie frowned, her good eye gleaming with an almost spectral intensity.

She stared at Zahra, her gaze cutting through her, as though seeing far beyond what was visible.

A chill crawled down Zahra’s spine as she tried to pull her hand away, but Annie suddenly grabbed her wrist with a grip that was both firm and startling.

Then, as quickly as she had grabbed her, Annie released Zahra and stepped back slightly.

“I’ve got something for you, my dear…” she murmured, her voice lower now, almost a whisper.

She leaned behind her stall, rummaging through battered crates. Annie was not known for her generosity. Everything had a price, and she always ensured no one left with a single coin more than what was owed. So why this sudden gesture?

When Annie straightened, her wrinkled hand held a hairpin. A golden pin, inlaid with sapphire-blue hues, glinting in the Eldorian sun. It was shaped like a peacock, its wings spread wide behind it, frozen in their brilliance, like a moment stolen from time.

Zahra blinked, caught in its beauty despite herself. But before she could say a word, Annie seized her hand again, her gnarled fingers gripping with unexpected strength. She pried Zahra’s palm open with an almost rough insistence and placed the pin there.

In Zahra’s palm, the pin seemed to breathe, its golden shimmer softened by the gentle blue glow that pulsed faintly. A strange feeling crept over her—a weight that was both comforting and heavy.

Annie stepped back, her gaze clouded with an emotion Zahra couldn’t understand. A tired, strained smile flickered across the old woman’s face.

“To protect and guide your soul on your next journey,” Annie murmured, her raspy voice laden with meaning.

Zahra narrowed her eyes. What journey? She had no journey ahead. She was trapped in Eldoria, shackled by a debt that seemed impossible to repay. She opened her mouth, ready to protest, but Annie had already turned to a group of noisy men approaching the stall. As if nothing had happened, she barked prices at them in her sharp, cracked voice, her demeanor once again sharp and businesslike.

Zahra stood frozen for a moment, the pin heavy in her hand. Then, shaking her head, she tucked her basket against her hip and hurried toward The Wasp, the last stop on her endless list.

But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pin. There was something about its glow, its texture, that peacock suspended mid-flight—it called to her. An impulse she couldn’t quite explain drove her to gather her long braid into a bun and fix the pin into her hair.

When she lowered her hands, Zahra was startled to find herself smiling. Not a polite smile, nor one of those forced grimaces she wore like armor. It was a smile she didn’t recognize—genuine, almost childlike.

It had been so long since she had felt this way… beautiful.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, savoring this stolen moment of peace.

And that was when the impact hit her like a clap of thunder.

Something—or someone—slammed into her with brutal force. The collision threw her backward, her body crashing into a wooden stall with a dull, splintering crack. The planks groaned under the impact, shards of wood splintering into the air.

Then she fell, her knees striking the floor with a sickening thud. Pain burst across her forehead as it slammed against the hard surface, a groan escaping her lips between ragged, gasping breaths.

Shouts of protest and insults erupted around her. But Zahra couldn’t open her eyes, pinned to the ground by a dull ache and the pressure of hurried footsteps trampling her hands. Every movement sent sharp pangs of pain rippling through her.

A sudden, rough jolt snapped her out of her daze. Firm hands gripped her shoulders, hauling her up violently. Her eyes flew open, and her breath hitched. A woman with a face flushed red with anger loomed over her, so close their noses nearly touched.

“Look what you’ve done, you reckless idiot!” the woman shouted, shaking Zahra by the collar like a rag doll.

Other voices joined in, shrill and seething with rage.

“Are you blind? You’re going to pay for this mess!”

The words pierced Zahra’s ears like needles, mingling with the din of cries and shouting. She forced her eyes to focus, looking around. Two stalls had been smashed, shattered planks and spilled crates littering the ground. Fruits and vegetables rolled in the dust, crushed under the feet of the crowd gathering around the scene.

As the merchant woman continued to shake her mercilessly, Zahra finally spotted the one who had collided with her.

A feminine figure crouched among the wreckage.

A fishmonger, his arms flailing wildly, was shouting furiously at her.

“Who’s going to pay for my fish, you wretched rat? Everything’s ruined!”

A surge of guilt knotted Zahra’s throat. She tried to apologize, her words stammering out into the chaos of the market.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”

But the fishmonger didn’t even glance her way.

His hoarse voice echoed as he leaned over the other girl, his frame towering over her figure.

Zahra squinted, trying to make out her face, but all she could see were trembling hands, fumbling clumsily around a broken crate as the girl struggled to push herself upright.

Then her voice cut through the air like a blade:

“Your fish probably already tastes like burnt rat. So, this doesn’t change much.”

The girl straightened slowly, her back to Zahra, and dusted off her clothes with deliberate disdain.

The fishmonger froze, his lips twitching in stunned silence. Zahra, too, felt her breath catch in her chest.

Such insolence, she thought.

She stared at the girl, intrigued despite herself, wondering who could possibly have the nerve—or the madness—to throw such a retort into the face of a raging merchant.

Taking a shaky breath, Zahra tried to regain her footing. She knelt, placing a hand on the ground to steady herself, but a cold shiver ran up her arm as her fingers touched something wet.

She glanced down, confused, and lifted her hand to her nose. A sharp, familiar scent stung her nostrils. Rum.

Her heart raced, panic flaring inside her like a sudden blaze.

The bottles she had bought for her master were shattered, reduced to shards, their contents pooling across the floor. A cold sweat ran down her back. She was done for.

Zahra opened her mouth, but all that came out was a broken cry, choked off by the lump tightening in her throat. She looked down at her satchel, splattered with mud and so filthy it was almost unrecognizable. The fabrics she had carefully selected and folded were ruined, soaked with grime. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. This time, she couldn’t stop them.

The crowd surged around her, crushing and shouting, their words like shards of glass cutting into her. She wanted to scream, to rage at the world around her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the stranger still on the ground, quickly adjusting her hat. With swift, almost desperate movements, the girl tilted the brim just enough to cast her face into shadow, as though she were trying to vanish entirely.

Zahra lowered her head, reluctantly stuffing the ruined fabrics back into her bag. As her fingers brushed the fabrics, they grazed something unexpected. A music box.

Without thinking, she wrapped her hand around it and pulled it out carefully. She held it in her palm, her eyes fixed on the delicate golden engravings.

“Drop that, or your blood will mix with the rum spilling at your feet,” growled the girl, her voice low but sharp.

Before Zahra could process the threat, a boot struck her hands, sending the music box tumbling to the ground.

The stranger loomed over her, tall and commanding. Her gaze locked onto Zahra with an intensity that burned, her feline eyes blazing with a wild, untamed fire.

Before Zahra could react, the girl shoved her aside and bent down, snatching the music box off the ground with a possessive precision.

Zahra stayed frozen. Something was wrong—not just with the situation, but with this girl. There was something strange about her, something frightening.

Zahra slowly rose to her feet, trembling, her breath shallow and uneven. Her brow furrowed as she fought to steady the chaos in her mind. Then she saw her eyes.

Those eyes blazing with defiance. She had seen them before.

The fog of confusion lifted from Zahra’s mind as though a veil had been ripped away. The memory came rushing back—clear and cold. The wanted poster. It was her. The criminal.

A flash of panic shot through Zahra, but her thoughts were violently interrupted when a woman shoved her hard.

“Pay it all back! Or I’ll call the guards!” the woman screamed, her finger pointed like a blade.

From the corner of her eye, Zahra saw the girl get shoved too. But instead of yielding, the stranger grabbed their arm and twisted it with cold, calculated force.

It was then that Zahra saw her clearly. Her features. Sharp and distinct, like they had been carved into stone. It was her. There was no doubt.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the crowd pressed in around them.

Zahra stood frozen, paralyzed by the chaos. Her fists clenched, anger bubbling beneath her surface. There was no way she would pay for something she hadn’t done. And certainly not for a criminal.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl attempting to slip away, weaving through the crowd like a shadow. An impulse Zahra couldn’t fully comprehend drove her to act. She reached out and grabbed her arm.

“It’s you…” Zahra whispered breathlessly.

The girl snapped her head around, her eyes narrowing in warning.

“Let go of me and walk away,” she said, her voice low, urgent, almost pleading.

But Zahra wasn’t listening anymore. Rage clouded her thoughts—rage at herself, at this cursed market, at this entire city that seemed designed to crush the weak. Rage at everything.

The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them:

“Help! Someone, help!”

Her cries tore through the air. The crowd turned, their gazes sharp with suspicion and excitement.

The stranger moved abruptly, her grip tightening on Zahra’s arm with a force that made her wince.

“Shut up!” the girl hissed. “Shut up and walk away, or you’ll get us?—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Hands burst from the crowd, grabbing the stranger with a brutality that made Zahra stumble backward. A moment later, Zahra herself felt a firm hand clamp down on her shoulder.

“You idiot!” the criminal snarled, her eyes blazing with a mix of rage and despair.

Chaos erupted around them, a whirlwind of shouting and frantic movement. Merchants flailed their arms, passersby shoved one another, and the guards arrived, their commanding voices slicing through the chaos.

Zahra felt a cold wave of regret crash over her. What had she done? Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her breath came in ragged gasps. She raised her eyes to the crowd—a surging sea of furious, greedy faces that seemed to close in on them like the jaws of a beast.

The entire port had become an open-air prison where every scream and movement echoed like an unending assault.

And then, a thought struck her with sad clarity: the first time she had dared to act, to open her mouth against the injustices she endured… might also be her last.

Her knees wobbled under the weight of the realization. Her intentions, as righteous as they had seemed, had trapped them both.

Because of her.

Zahra felt her throat tighten, a mixture of fear and guilt choking her.

The chaos of Eldoria was a living storm. People collided for no reason, some throwing punches, others shouting curses. Rough hands gripped Zahra’s arm, the burn of their pressure making her grimace. She tried to pull away, but another hand shoved her violently backward.

The criminal stumbled into her, clutching her shoulders for balance. The contact was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Zahra felt an unfamiliar heat where the girl’s fingers had gripped her.

She averted her eyes, too focused on her own ragged breathing, on the terror rising inside her like an uncontrollable fire.

She had to get out of this mess.

Eldoria had always been chaotic, but Zahra had never seen such violence, especially at the port. Fists flew, goods were hurled through the air, and an unbearable tension swelled in the crowd. A lump of dread tightened in her throat; she already knew how this would end.

Then, a sharp, deafening sound tore through the air like a blade.

A cannon shot.

The noise silenced the crowd instantly. Birds scattered from the rooftops, and tumbling crates and fruit hit the ground, motionless. Labored breaths, hushed murmurs, and fearful glances replaced the chaos.

Zahra instinctively turned toward the source of the noise. She squinted, her brow furrowing. These weren’t the royal soldiers she’d seen before. Intimidating as they were, they had never inspired this kind of fear.

The merchants let go of both her and the stranger, and Zahra stumbled, nearly falling as she regained her freedom. She staggered backward, searching for her footing, but her gaze was drawn to the edge of her vision.

The criminal.

She was tearing a hooded cloak out of a woman’s hands with icy audacity. The movement was swift. She removed her hat for a brief moment, letting her disheveled hair spill over her face before pulling the hood over her head. Then she vanished into the dark folds of the fabric, disappearing like a shadow.

Zahra wanted to scream. The urge clawed at her throat: “Can’t you see her? She’s right there!” But no sound came out.

The crowd stood frozen, their faces locked in terror, eyes fixed on something beyond. Some bowed their heads, while others whispered frantic prayers.

Then, she heard the footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Inescapable.

Each step echoed coldly in her chest, rooting her in place as the murmurs swelled.

“Commander Roderick… May the Ancients protect us.”

A prickling wave washed over Zahra, like a swarm of bees striking at once. Her breath hitched.

And then she saw him.

Lord Commander Roderick.

The crowd parted like water as he strode with crushing authority, each step deliberate. A golden cloak trailed behind him, his sword gleaming with the royal seal, its polished surface matching the blinding light of his armor.

His face, framed by a meticulously groomed beard, was etched with cold, calculated sternness. Ice-blue eyes cut through everything, piercing flesh to soul. Every movement was unnervingly precise, almost inhuman.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His presence alone crushed the air out of the crowd.

Zahra’s stomach churned violently. Why today? Why now? Of all the times she could have dared to act, dared to raise her voice, it had to be in front of the commander of the royal army.

This man was a legend of cruelty, his name a hushed whisper in every colony of the Six Kingdoms, laced with fear and loathing. Tales of public floggings, theatrical executions, and crushed rebellions clung to him like a shadow. Wherever he walked, terror followed.

Zahra stepped back, her breath quickening. She could have prayed to the Creator for help, but deep down, she already knew.

It was too late.

The cries had swelled into a torrent of pleas and accusations, panic thick in the air like poison.

Zahra watched as the fishmonger dangled from Roderick’s grip, clawing at his hand. His legs kicking, his face darkening to a sickly purple as his cracked lips struggled for air.

And yet, when he managed to speak, it wasn’t to defend himself—it was to accuse.

“I… I didn’t… It’s her! The girl!” he croaked, his trembling finger pointing straight at Zahra and the stranger.

His words hung in the charged air for a moment. Then the crowd erupted.

“She destroyed everything!” shouted a merchant.

“Thief!” shrieked a woman.

Eldoria was a city where truth carried no weight against the fury of the masses. The people didn’t want justice—they wanted someone to blame, someone to bear the weight of their own wretched lives.

“I saw her with my own eyes!” screamed a man who hadn’t even been there.

Roderick’s roar cut through the chaos like thunder:

“Silence! That’s an order!”

Veins bulged in his neck, his face reddening as he forced the crowd into silence—immediate and suffocating.

Zahra’s heart pounded so violently it felt as if it might burst. Words burned in her throat, desperate to escape. She knew she needed to speak—to say something, anything. But in Eldoria, it was never the one who told the truth who survived. It was the one who lied first. The quickest, the cleverest.

The world around her seemed to slow. Sounds distorted and faded, growing distant and heavy, like echoes in a dream.

Faces blurred. The crowd’s mouths moved, but their words were shapeless. Even the commander’s shouts felt distant, unreal.

And then, in the middle of the chaos, she saw her.

The criminal.

Her face was obscured by the shadow of her hood, but her eyes glowed like embers in the darkness.

The girl raised a single finger. And pointed it at Zahra.

Roderick’s hand struck Zahra’s cheek like a thunderclap, and the world snapped back into brutal clarity.

“Answer me!” he roared, his face inches from hers.

Zahra blinked, tears blurring her vision.

“What…?” she stammered, her thoughts too fractured to form a coherent response.

Another voice cut through the noise—sharp, cold.

“Search her pockets.”

Three words. That was all it took to shatter her life. Three words, as simple as a whisper, carved her past away from a future she would never have chosen.

Three words. And Zahra’s world would never be the same.

The crowd roared. “Search her!” “She’s hiding something!”

Roderick wasted no time. His hand plunged into Zahra’s pocket and pulled out a gold figurine. It gleamed in the light.

It was an emblem of Eldoria. A bee.

“Arrest her!” Roderick barked.

Zahra felt the guards’ hands clamp down on her arms, their grip so tight she was certain bruises would bloom across her skin. Her legs gave out beneath her.

“No… no, it’s not mine!” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “I swear to you, it’s not mine!”

Her words were swallowed by the rising tide of hatred around her.

No one listened. There was no room for justice that day.

“Thief! Thief! Thief!”

Commander Roderick stepped forward. His boots struck the ground with a slow, deliberate menace.

“Clear out. Now. The market is closed for the day!” His voice rumbled like thunder, each word a storm ready to break.

Then he turned to Zahra, his lips curling into a cruel sneer.

“You’re coming with me.”

Zahra whimpered, but his grip remained unyielding. His words were soft, yet each syllable carried an unspoken threat.

She was dragged away by two guards, their iron-like hands biting into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, but she knew they would change nothing.

Roderick turned back to the crowd. His soldiers began clearing the market with cold, methodical violence. Stalls were overturned, goods trampled underfoot. Pleas and cries fell on deaf ears.

“Anyone caught trading will be executed on sight!” he thundered. “You’re all under curfew!”

Zahra, dragged farther and farther away, turned her head one last time.

Through her tear-blurred vision, she saw the girl.

Her silhouette, slipping through the crowd with an unnerving ease. With her hood pulled low, she walked away calmly, untouched by the chaos she left behind.

Irene Delmare had just cheated death, cunningly saving her own soul. Yet in her escape, she had condemned another to die.