When my skin is not my own and the heart is tainted, there is still one thing that will always belong to me. My soul! No more shall it weep in the darkest of nights but it shall become a beacon of light for all those who cannot see. I am a warrior...
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The blood of The Makhulqat slid off Lalzari’s delicate hands like droplets of crimson rain on glass, tracing thin paths down her palms before clinging to her fingertips, trembling there like sickly children clinging to life. She stood over the lifeless body of the Makhulqat leader, his collar gripped tight in her blood-slicked fingers, her breath coming in ragged gasps, as though each exhale was an act of violence.
(Thud) The leader's heavy body hit the ground, a sound as final as a gravestone slamming shut. The king stood frozen, his wide eyes bulging like they might break free from their sockets, his lips parted in shock. His hand hovered near his mouth, disbelieving, as if he could taste the impossible: that his precious jewel, this delicate weapon, had wiped an entire tribe from existence.
Next to her, Talbazar stood like a shadow cast by a sun that would never shine on him. He, who had sought to shine brighter, now looked wounded—though it was not his body that had been struck, but his pride, his place. The weight of failure hung over him, a dark shroud he could not shake.
"Oh, my Lalzari! You did it!" The king's voice, thick with pride, boomed through the chamber as he knelt to inspect the lifeless face of the Makhulqat leader. "You killed the tribe we couldn’t defeat!" His eyes gleamed with a possessive joy.
“It’s... it’s not possible,” Talbazar muttered, his voice thin and broken, as if the words themselves had been shattered by the scene before him. Lalzari’s head snapped towards him, her gaze a dagger that pierced through his disbelief.
“Some of us are more capable than you think,” she hissed, the words sharp enough to cut.
"Well, Talbazar," the king's voice carried a cruel smirk, "the evidence speaks for itself. She holds the body of our enemy, while you..." He trailed off, leaving the silence to underscore Talbazar's failure.
Lalzari was more than just a weapon to Laham. She was his masterpiece, a jewel he believed he had forged with his own hands—like the last ruby on earth, polished to outshine every other stone. But the king did not understand. Lalzari wasn’t born of his craft; she was forged in fire and pressure, buried beneath suffocating soil until she emerged, harder and sharper than he could ever know. If only Lalzari herself knew what truly shaped her.
“I know where your light comes from, you treacherous snake!” Talbazar spat, lunging for her. His hand tangled in the strands of hair that had slipped free from her bun, yanking her toward him until they were face to face, his breath hot and venomous.
“Say it then! Say it!” Lalzari snarled, her voice a storm threatening to break. Her eyes, dark and fierce, bored into him, a sea of fury and contempt swirling beneath their surface. She felt the hatred rise within her, as violent and unstoppable as a tsunami ready to drown the world. But Talbazar remained silent, his defiance shrinking under the weight of her stare.
With a sharp jerk, Lalzari wrenched her hair free from his grip, shoving him hard in the chest. He stumbled backward, his feet unsure beneath him, as if the ground itself refused to support him.
