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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"I need to visit the next tribe. Where are they?" Balencia asked, her voice low as she strapped her weapons, preparing herself for the journey ahead.
"You'll head southeast until you see the dunes…" Zunaid’s voice grew cautious. "That's where Alzalam resides. But, Balencia—be careful. They’re one of the most powerful tribes," he warned. "Respect their ways, mirror their customs, but steel yourself for pain like you’ve never known."
Lalzari nodded, her gaze shifting to Rehamal. "Return to the Kingdom and be my eyes. Tell Mareeb and Khushboo to keep watch over the castle. If they need me, have them search for me by the dunes. Now go." Without another word, Lalzari vanished from the gates of The Sir’s residence.
"I just want a moment alone with her…" Lalzari murmured as she slipped into the night, her footsteps light as whispers. Cloaked in black, she was nothing but a shadow, gliding unseen, as though she were one with the night itself.
She slowed when Husayrah’s grave appeared in the distance—but her steps faltered. A figure stood there, disturbing the flowers, and something in the way her hand clenched around one sent a chill down Lalzari’s spine.
"HEY!" Balencia's voice tore through the silence, startling the figure, a woman with long, midnight-blue hair. She turned, her face delicate, yet marked with eyes that held an unnatural weight, like remnants of endless echoes. The ghostly woman moved as if she wanted to fade, an apparition refusing to linger. She looked like Husayrah, older, more hollowed, and immediately, Lalzari recognised her.
"Hidayam?" Lalzari's voice barely carried as the woman dropped the flower, her fingers relinquishing it like something cursed. She drifted backward and vanished into the darkness, as if consumed by the shadows themselves.
Lalzari rushed to the grave, her hands brushing away the dust and disturbed earth. Her breath caught. The plant Hidayam had torn was no mere flower; it was alive, an intricate beauty of thick, pointed leaves, drenched in vibrant colors—red, burgundy, orange, yellow—scattered over emerald like wild strokes of a brush on fire. The plant was bursting with tiny white stars, some of which had withered.
"A croton…" Lalzari gasped. It was as though she held a piece of living flame, one that pulsed even as its roots grew in every direction, a chaotic web of life and decay.
Balencia pressed her fingers to the roots, summoning a flicker of golden light through her veins. The energy surged from her fingertips, brightening the dying tendrils. She held the plant close, feeling its warmth and fragility.
"The roots remind me of Hidayam—stubborn, tangled, refusing to live yet unwilling to let go," she muttered. "Visiting her sister’s grave just to tear out the beauty left behind. Misery does love company."
She wrapped the croton carefully in her shawl, the linen forming a cradle for the delicate plant. "I shall call it The Jawhar… The Essence." The name drifted on her breath as if she were speaking directly to Husayrah.
