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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Their faces twisted like storm-laden clouds swallowing the sun, casting shadows that devoured every trace of warmth. These wretched monsters will pay, Balencia seethed within, her thoughts sharp and vindictive, each one an ember stoking the flame of vengeance—sweeter, perhaps, than life itself. All eyes were fixed on her, this indomitable warrior, the one who had risen to command, even turning the once-mighty Laham into a follower, his loyalty bending to her will. She turned slowly, each step toward the kingdom's gates crackling with purpose. Golden electricity pulsed under her skin, slithering like lightning along her veins, as if the raw energy of a storm inhabited her very being.
As they left the walls of kingdom Saqatuu, Balencia's gaze caught sight of Malaa’s weapon, the flame blade, enshrined in a tall glass case like some prized relic. Her jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as the injustice settled like poison in her veins.
"How dare they flaunt their betrayal so boldly?" she snarled, each word edged with the memory of Malaa’s exile, the bitter sting of home turned hostile. Anger bubbled within her, a violent storm confined beneath the fragile lid of her composure—until it burst. In one swift move, Balencia shattered the glass, the fragments scattering like broken stars, and seized the flame blade.
A resounding (ZHOOM!) reverberated as the blade touched her hand, resonant and alive, as if roused from a long slumber. The metal seemed to pulse beneath her grip, rediscovering its connection to human warmth, to warrior blood.
"Lalzari, what are you doing?!" Talbazar stammered, his voice breaking with panic as Balencia’s rebellion unfolded with terrifying beauty.
“Silence,” Laham snapped, dismissing Talbazar’s pleas with a scowl. "Let my jewel be.”
The guards surged forward, yelling, “THIEF! THIEF! RETURN THE BLADE!” Yet, as they drew close, their courage faltered, feet rooted in fear. They stared into her eyes, two burning, suntanned embers, blazing with a golden fury that seeped into her veins, transforming her once-pale skin into a latticework of gleaming, living light.
She cast them a withering glance, her voice low and lethal. “Displayable betrayal, is it? The thief is the one who robs the innocent.” Without another word, she turned, dragging the flame blade across the marble floor, leaving a smoldering trail in her wake—a line of fire marking her path out of Saqatuu, each flicker a testament to her wrath.
Upon their return to kingdom Laham, the air was a frenzy of preparation. Servants rushed about, laying out sparkling gems and precious crystals, running streams beneath the palace floors as a display of wealth—a cruel reminder of excess, a deliberate opulence that mocked the drought-stricken lands beyond the castle walls.
Mareeb found Balencia, his face drawn with worry, the look she knew all too well. “O-Omid! Vultana is by the rivers, furious and demanding your presence immediately! Zunaid has arranged a banquet and insists you attend before dawn! And Khushboo… she’s behaving oddly—you must see her!” His voice broke, the weight of urgency bending it like reeds in a storm.
