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CHAPTER FIFTY

ZAHRA

Z ahra and Javier had been walking for what felt like an eternity. She had expected the path into the mountain to be difficult. Treacherous. But it had welcomed them instead.

They had reached the ruins at the mountain’s base. And there, waiting, was an entrance. A singular path, glowing faintly, humming like it had been expecting them.

They were the first to leave the beach, slipping away from the battle under Jessalyn’s orders. Find Irene and Jace. Get ahead. Zahra had hesitated, uneasy about leaving the others behind, but Javier had quickly reassured her.

"Don't worry, little saint," he had said, flashing her an easy grin. "I'm sure they're ahead. We’ll run into them soon. Just keep walking."

So they walked.

And with every step, Zahra felt something slip away.

At first, it was small. The kind of fleeting thought that vanishes before you can grasp it. But the deeper they went, the more her mind blurred. Words slipped from her tongue. Names unraveled before she could hold onto them.

A strange euphoria swelled in her chest. She wanted to laugh. To run.

Her stomach growled, and so did Javier’s. Was he hungry too? Was that why they were here?

Her thoughts lightened, lifting like mist. Warmth spread through her limbs, pulling her into a soft, weightless haze.

Then, something snapped. Irene.

"YES!" she said aloud. Javier turned sharply, his brows pulling together. The name hit like a pulse of lightning. She latched onto it, clung to it with both hands. Irene. Irene. Irene. Jace. Jace. Jace.

But the more she whispered it, the more it unraveled.

The more she walked, the more she forgot. She should be searching for something. Someone. But what? Zahra tried to count her steps, to track the passage of time. The tunnel had been straight, unnervingly so. It felt like a test, like something wanted to see how far they would go before questioning if they were truly moving at all. She tried to mark the stones, tried to remember how long they had been walking. The longer they walked, the more her thoughts bled away.

Then, the path opened. Zahra staggered to a stop.

The air changed. It was warm and sweet. The scent of flowers and honey thickened around her, rich and heavy. She drew in a breath. Why were they here again?

Javier whistled softly beside her, eyes wide with wonder.

“Zahra…?” he murmured.

She hardly heard him. Her thoughts drifted, weightless. Hollow.

A golden bird flew overhead. It shimmered like a thing made of sun, its feathers gilded in molten light. Zahra lifted her gaze, watching as it perched in the branches of a nearby tree. Something about it tugged at her.

She stepped forward, mesmerized. It tilted its head, watching her. Its eyes were like polished amber, too intelligent for an animal.

She smiled. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

The bird flapped its wings. Then, it opened its beak. "You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful." The bird echoed her words. Zahra froze.

The words bounced off the walls, growing louder, layering over each other, warping into something distorted.

She blinked, then laughed. She couldn’t stop anymore.

A strange, bubbling laughter spilled from her lips, her stomach clenching as she doubled over. Why was she laughing? She had no idea. But it felt right.

Warm. Golden. Safe.

Javier was running ahead, his eyes lit with excitement. “There’s rum and wine—oh, I love it here!” He lifted a bottle from the grass, drinking deeply, the liquid spilling down his jaw, staining his white shirt red.

Zahra giggled. She felt so light. Like her body might lift off the ground entirely, like she could drift forever in this place.

She spun on her heel, arms wide, dizzy. The rocky walls shimmered, embedded with thousands of tiny crystals that fractured the golden light into something divine. Flecks of purple flickered like trapped stardust, shifting, alive. A lush, sprawling garden stretched out before them.

The grass was thick, too soft, like silk beneath her boots. Roses bloomed in impossible hues—velvet black, blood-red, some glowing faintly, as if holding the last embers of a dying sun. Butterflies flitted between them, wings too iridescent, too perfect, gliding like whispers.

Birdsong filled the air. Too synchronized. Too rehearsed.

Javier turned to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He plucked a white rose from a bush, twirling it between his fingers before tucking it behind her ear.

“It’s… perfect,” he breathed.

Zahra nodded, smiling too wide. She had forgotten something. Something important. But everything was so warm and perfect. She didn't want to remember. As they moved deeper into the garden, Javier stopped abruptly.

Before them stood an ancient tree, larger than any other, its trunk so wide it seemed to breathe with the mountain’s rhythm. Its roots twisted through the stone, creeping into cracks like veins. Its branches stretched impossibly high, clawing at the fractured sky.

Javier took a step forward, running his hand along the bark.

“Look.” His voice brimmed with excitement.

Javier’s voice was distant, swallowed by the melody she was suddenly hearing. Soft and lilting, it curled through the air. Divine at first, then shattered. Then divine again.

She spun on her heel. White birds erupted from the branches, their wings scattering light, and Zahra laughed, stretching her arms as butterflies swarmed around her, landing gently on her skin.

“You hear that?” she laughed, voice thick with euphoria. “Javier, come dance.”

Javier wasn’t listening. He was already climbing. Moving fast, agile, scaling the tree with ease.

Far above, something glinted between the leaves, a perfect, glistening apple.

He plucked it, triumphant, and jumped down.

Zahra’s laughter faltered. The moment she saw the apple, something shifted. The butterflies lifted off her skin. The birds went silent. Javier landed with a grin, tossing the fruit in his hand.

Then, just as he brought it to his mouth, the apple slipped from his fingers.

It tumbled across the moss, rolling and rolling until it came to a stop at Zahra’s feet.

She bent down, fingertips brushing its smooth, warm surface. The scent hit her, a sweetness so thick, so intoxicating, it drowned her thoughts.

The world narrowed to just her and the apple.

Everything inside her, every nerve in her body, screamed to take a bite. The apple wanted to be bitten.

Somewhere behind her, wings flapped. The golden bird from earlier perched nearby, its head tilting, watching.

A voice whispered, soft and coaxing. 'Bite me.'"

Zahra’s breath hitched. The voice didn’t come from Javier. It didn’t come from the bird.

It came from the apple.

"Bite me… don’t blink, and bite me."

Her hands trembled. She lifted it to her lips, her body moving before her mind could resist.

A piercing screech shattered the air. The golden bird flapped wildly, shrieking, feathers shaking.

Zahra’s fingers twitched. She blinked.

Her gaze lifted. And her breath caught in her throat. Carved into the vast, unyielding stone before them, the fresco stretched across the wall like a scar of time itself. Some images were etched deep, the stone carved with meticulous precision, while others were painted in hues that had long since faded but still whispered of a truth too terrible to be forgotten. It loomed over Zahra and Javier, the details so finely wrought that they seemed to ripple with life. Each stroke of colour, each chisel mark, wove a story.

And then there were the words.

Not merely carved, but embedded into the very marrow of the stone, twisting together in an ancient script unlike any Zahra had ever seen. The letters seemed to shift when she blinked, warping into something both unreadable and utterly familiar.

She opened her mouth before she could stop herself.

“Oh, you who can read. The one who can decipher. If you have reached this place, then the path has found you. Then the whispers have told you. Then the past has chosen you.”

Her voice echoed, her own breath turning foreign in the cavernous space.

“If you have reached this place, then you have drowned as we have drowned. Then you have fallen where we did. You must go, go now, and warn those who still have time.”

Javier stepped closer, his breath sharp, uneven. “Zahra…”

She didn’t turn to him. She couldn’t. Something held her in place, a force deep inside her, compelling her to read every word, to decipher the paintings and carvings.

“How do you know how to read this?” he asked, voice edged with something between awe and fear.

She ran a trembling hand over the letters. “I don’t. I’m not supposed to. This is no mortal language."

The fresco stretched before them, guiding their steps as Zahra read on. The first sister was draped in white, her dusk-dark skin stark against the pale fabric. Her eyes were as hollow as bone, and her fingers curled around a deck of cards.

"Oh, wanderer. You who walk the halls of the forsaken. You who seek what should not be sought. Know this. Nehelania was not alone."

Three figures. Three sisters. Zahra’s eyes traced them, her pulse quickening, as she read. "The goddess was born of four. Three sisters walked beside her, each with power woven into their very bones."

The first sister was draped in white, her dusk-dark skin stark against the pale fabric. Her eyes were as hollow as bone, and her fingers curled around a deck of cards.

"One saw the future and was cast aside for it. Her hands held the cards of fate, but her whispers were unwelcome."

“The Fortune Teller,” Zahra whispered.

"One wielded blood like water, weaving death into her craft. The one they called a witch, feared for her knowledge, condemned for her ambition. She read the waters, tracing omens in their depths"

Zahra’s hand lifted, tracing the image of the second sister. Her long, crimson braids coiled down her back like rivers of blood.

"And finally, the oldest sister, the queen of feathers, who reigned over the forests and the winds, guiding beasts and men alike. The one who listened to the whispers of all birds and the rustling of leaves."

"And the last of the three still walks among you."

Zahra stopped breathing. Her gaze snapped to the carving, a woman adorned in a crown of feathers. A woman whose hands were raised in command over a thousand birds.

Javier stiffened.

Her throat tightened. "Nehalannia was the one graced by the divine. Of the four, she alone bore the touch of the gods. But power is a burden, and wisdom is a curse. Her sisters saw the world as it was, cruel, unkind, ruled by mortals who took and took until there was nothing left. Nehalennia, the youngest, was the only one who still believed. And for that, she was granted divinity."

She loved two men—one a prince, one a warrior.

Zahra’s hands clenched into fists. The fresco was suffocating. The words were searing into her skull.

Because you stand here, because you read these words, you have already glimpsed the price Nehalannia paid for her blind faith in mortals. You know the tale of her two lovers, of the ruin they carved into the world, and of the sapphire, forged from her sorrow.

But did you know this?

Eryx was nothing more than a foolish prince, desperate to be adored by a goddess. But Alastor was a man whose hunger knew no end. He did not seek her heart. He sought her power. And Nehalannia, blinded by love, never saw him for what he truly was.

Her sisters saw.

They saw how she abandoned the tides, how she let the waves rage and the drowned souls drift untended, lost. They saw how she turned from the creatures of the deep, from the laws of the sea, from the heavens themselves. And they saw the man who had stolen her away.

So they warned her.

They had looked beneath his treacherous tongue, had called a council, had divined his fate, had read his blood in the waters.

But she did not listen.

The Seer laid the cards at her feet.

A blade.

A kingdom in ruin.

A throne bathed in blood.

Still, she did not believe.

She returned to him. Again and again.

And with every visit, Alastor’s whispers grew sweeter.

With every embrace, his grasp tightened.

He pulled her from the tides, from the skies, from the gods.

Until she was no longer their goddess. Until she was only his.

And so she fell.

And when she fell, the oceans wept. The gods turned their faces away. And her sisters, betrayed, sealed their grief in exile.

The Seer was bound to the North.

The Witch to the South.

The Feathered Queen to an island of salt, where nothing could grow. A land they called Ildomir.

And Nehalannia was left alone.

Alone to watch her lovers wage war for a power they could never wield.

Alone to see, too late, that she had been nothing but a pawn in their ambition.

And when she saw the ruin she had brought upon the world, she did the only thing left to her.

She poured her sorrow, her love, her divinity into the sapphire."

Zahra’s pulse thundered in her ears. She stepped forward, breath unsteady, as the carvings extended further, unveiling more with each step..

The next scene showed Eryx and Alastor clashing upon bloodstained shores, the tide red with bodies. The Battle of the Two Lovers. The next, Nehalannia, her face carved in grief, pressing her hands to the heart of the sapphire.

And beneath that—the curse she left behind.

Zahra swallowed hard, forcing herself to read.

And with it, she cursed the world.

Two souls, bound in every age.

Never one.

Never three.

Always two.

For souls are born in pairs.

And together, they must either rise or destroy each other.

Zahra’s hands curled into fists. The fresco loomed over her, vast and unrelenting. The weight of the words pressed against her skull, searing into her bones.

Her breath shuddered. She forced herself to read the final image.

Carved into the stone, age after age, it was always the same—two figures, drawn together, doomed to tear each other apart. Sometimes a man and a woman. Sometimes two women. Sometimes two men. Always two. Always cursed. Always unraveling beneath the weight of the sapphire.

“And after Nehalannia gave up her power and lost her life to sorrow, the gods turned against her eldest sister—the Queen of Feathers. They cast their blame upon her, whispering that she had been too harsh, too cruel. Had she been softer, had she yielded, her sister might have lived.

So they stripped her of everything.

Her lands, her title, her power. They ripped the feathers from her crown and cast her into exile. They left her with nothing but an island of salt and sand, Ildomir—the place where nothing grows. ” Zahra’s voice faltered.

Zahra’s pulse roared in her ears. She forced herself to keep reading. But they made one mistake.

They did not strip her of time.

And so, in the endless years of her exile, the Queen of Feathers seethed. She waited, she hated, and she plotted.

Until one day, a man came to her.

A man with no family, no kingdom, no crown—only a name.

Ronan.

Zahra’s breath caught.

The name burned on her tongue, yet she forced herself to continue.

"Oh, Ronan."

He found her where the gods had abandoned her. He whispered to her in the dark, with a voice like honey and hands like steel. He told her she was not forgotten. He told her they could take back what was stolen. He told her she would be a queen again.

And the Queen of Feathers, foolish as her sister before her, believed him.

But before she was his lover, she was his pawn.

She gave him her secrets. For don’t all lovers spill their truths upon a pillow, whispered between the hush of midnight?

She told him she had once been the sister of a goddess.

She told him her sister had created a sapphire of untold power.

She told him the truth of the curse.

And so together, they hunted the sapphire. From Merigoth to Tulindor, from ruin to ruin, they traced the footsteps of Nehalannia’s dead lovers. They uncovered the past, desperate to steal the future.

But the Queen of Feathers —no, not yet, Zahra didn’t want to read her name—she began to doubt.

Ronan was a man with nothing but a name. No kingdom. No past. He had built himself from nothing, and men like that would stop at nothing to build more.

So she asked him—What will we do with the sapphire, truly?

And Ronan, with a smile like a dagger, told her, "We will rule."

He promised her marriage, power, a world built in their image.

And she—oh, fool, fool, fool—she gave him a son. "But betrayal, oh, betrayal is a blade that cuts both ways.

For the Queen of Feathers was no ordinary woman.

She was a seer, a mother of birds, a woman who saw beyond the veil of time itself.

And so, she burned one of her own feathers—a piece of herself, a sacrifice for truth.

The flames revealed what had been hidden.

Ronan was not merely a man. He was a ghost in flesh, a shadow of the past, a hunger that would never die.

His name had changed, his faces had changed, but his greed was the same.

He had bargained with the devils of the deep, with the gods of the underworld, with the forgotten horrors of the abyss.

He had been here before.

Alastor.

The moment the name passed Zahra’s lips, the air in the cavern seemed to still.

Her throat tightened. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

The fresco stretched before her, revealing the truth in cruel, unrelenting clarity.

Alastor—the man who had whispered in Nehalannia’s ear. Alastor—the man who had drawn her away from her sisters, away from her duty, away from the heavens. Alastor—the man who had led her to ruin, who had thrown the world into war, who had condemned Nehalannia’s lovers to the bloodstained shores.

Ronan and Alastor were one and the same.

He had never stopped.

In every age, in every cycle, he returned.

Not for love. For power.

He had fooled Nehalennia. And when that was not enough, he had fooled her older sister.”

Zahra’s breath came fast and shallow. She could barely choke out the next words.

"And so, betrayed and broken, the Queen of Feathers became something else.

A new carving loomed before them.

A man, tall and crowned, his hands wrapped around the Queen of Feathers. She held her swollen belly, cradling the life inside her. His arms embraced her.

But behind her back, was a dagger.

Zahra reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold stone.

In the next carving, the woman was on her knees.

Her hands clutched her empty stomach. Her face, frozen in stone, was twisted in a silent scream—grief and fury etched into her very bones. And in her arms, a bloodied, lifeless baby, draped in white feathers. Behind her, the forest burned, flames devouring the trees, turning them to ash.

Ronan had slaughtered their child.

Not only her child.

The next carving showed another sacrifice—a young girl with a crown of bees.

A princess. An Eldorian princess.

Two royal lives given in blood. And with their deaths, the sapphire was reforged.

And so she became Lady Death.

She carved her grief into the world with a blade.

But Ronan still escaped.

With the sapphire in hand, he left her to rot. He took his stolen power and married another woman—richer, younger. A princess of Eldoria.

He built his kingdom on the bones of his betrayal.

And Lady Death swore she would wait.

She would wait until Ronan sired a son with his new wife.

And then, she would take from him what he took from her.

She would rip his child from his hands, the way he had torn hers from her arms.

She would steal the last fragment of the sapphire and shatter everything.

For centuries, she plotted.

"And now, at last, the moment has come.

And you, who read these words, know how it must end.

One royal blood shall deliver the sapphire.

Two royal blood spilled, and the Forsaken shall rise ? —

bound by fate, sealed in fire."

Zahra’s hands went numb.

Something slipped from her fingers.

The apple she had been holding hit the ground, rolling to the roots of the tree.

Javier turned sharply. "Zahra? What is it?"

Her breath was ragged. Zahra’s gaze landed on the last painting, and the world around her ceased to exist.

Lady Death stood alone draped in a cloak of feathers, the slums stretching behind her in filth and ruin. At her feet, the earth was cracked and scorched. The trees behind her were nothing but twisted, blackened husks.

From the beginning, Lady Death had always been shrouded, obscured. Every carving, every painting had hidden her face, until now.

Now, the truth was carved into stone. Unmistakable. Inescapable.

The sharp cut of her jaw. The fierce set of her mouth. And the eyes, watchful, waiting, knowing.

Zahra knew that face.

And on Lady Death’s chest, carved with brutal clarity, was the sigil of the Peacock.

Zahra stumbled back, her breath shuddering out of her.

Her voice came out broken, turned to Javier with tears in her eyes.

"Jessalyn… She is Lady Death. Javier paled. Javier stared at her, the realization dawning on his face. “The child sacrificed…“ Javier's voice cracked, barely a whisper. “It was Jessalyn’s.”

"Irene and Jace..." they said together. They were in terrible danger.

Zahra lifted a hand to her mouth, as they stared at each other with horror. Javier opened his mouth, trembling. “What have we done…” Then he ran.

Javier ran. Zahra could not. She stood frozen, staring at the truth written in stone.

The air stilled, heavy with judgment. The mountain closed in, suffocating, as the beauty vanished and the illusion shattered into a cold, merciless reckoning.

Deep within this cursed mountain, Irene, Jace, and Dax walked blindly into a carefully laid trap, carved long ago by King Ronan’s sins. And somewhere on this forsaken island, the woman he had betrayed was waiting for history to repeat.

Zahra’s heart clenched with regret.

For the cruelest truth of all was that they were the ones who condemned the past to rise again—and now, it would devour them.

This was never Irene’s revenge. It was Jessalyn’s all along.