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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“Omid! What the hell are you doing?!” Mareeb’s voice quivered, his words laced with panic. His mind raced with the horrors Khushboo was surely enduring. The thought twisted inside him, a wound deepening with every second. He had grown attached to the doll-like innocence in her hazel eyes, the scattering of brown freckles like stars across her cheeks.
Balencia turned to a wilting plant by the window, her gaze steady. “The green has withered to brown in sorrow,” she murmured, running a finger along a brittle leaf. “The tides have turned, and time has become an essence of chaos.” Her words floated, soft yet full of steel, to where Mareeb could hear them.
“Khushboo… she isn’t strong enough for this,” Mareeb choked, tears thickening his voice. “They’ll break her—she’ll die!” The boy’s tears traced down his cheeks, his anguish spilling over. Balencia saw now how deeply he cared for Khushboo, a bond she hadn’t known existed.
“I’ve no time to lose,” she said, her voice fierce, a storm barely contained. “I’ll set out tonight. We’ll go to The Sirs, but first, there’s somewhere else I must visit.” She felt the ache in Mareeb’s voice like an ocean crashing against her heart. It reminded her of Jamshar, that same helplessness. But this time, Khushboo was alive, a spark yet unextinguished.
“Jawhar… give me hope,” she whispered, her hand combing through the plant’s decaying leaves until her fingers found a single green stem, defiant in the face of decay. She closed her hand around it, feeling the pulse of resilience.
“Hope,” she whispered, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. A quiet strength rose within her. Balencia was no longer just a name; she was a force, a promise yet to be fulfilled.
“Mareeb! Prepare the horses. I’ll be there shortly!” Her voice rang with command, her spirit that of a warrior reborn.
Mareeb waited, clutching the reins as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a lilac veil over the sky, as if dusk itself mourned. When Balencia descended the stairs, Mareeb could only stare. She wore a gown of soft, pale purple, its fabric adorned with white-gold sequins that caught the fading light. An amethyst cape draped over her shoulders, pulled over her head like a regal shroud. Lavender lilies nestled in her hair, each adorned with delicate golden crystals that glimmered like morning frost on winter branches. A gold circlet wrapped around her forehead, declaring her royalty, her power, her resolve.
Balencia was no longer simply a warrior; she was a ruler rising from the ashes, a queen stepping into the destiny she had carved for herself. And as she met Mareeb’s gaze, she saw not just the awe in his eyes but the silent promise she’d made—to Khushboo, to herself, and to this land.
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