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 clang of hammer on steel echoed through the walls of Rehamal’s dwelling, each strike a ripple that rattled the air and pulsed like the beat of a war drum. Iron hissed as it was forged, bending to the craftsman’s will—an endless cycle of melting and molding, honed only to be reborn into a new weapon.
Balencia and Mareeb had long since departed, leaving Imani to her rest and Rehamal to her craft. Malaa sat alone, the little one curled in her arms, nestled against the weathered remnants of Rehamal’s crumbling couch. The fabric was faded, threads fraying like the last whispers of a forgotten age.
The Khanhawar warrior unwound her veil in the dim light, her hands steady as she revealed herself in the privacy of trusted company. Her thick, white braid unfolded with her movement, falling like a river of snow over one shoulder, cascading down her chest, silent and strong.
She gazed down at the sleeping infant cradled in her arms, her heart heavy, yet a faint sigh of relief slipped from her lips.
“Seeing Fina... and my aunt again," Malaa murmured, her voice low and fraying, “it brought a pain I don’t have words for, Omid.” She leaned in, pressing her nose gently to the baby's, grounding herself in the small, delicate warmth of the girl. “To see them all standing there, together… so proud, so certain, looking at me like I’m some stranger, a burden they don’t wish to bear.”
Her voice softened, cracking under the weight of the memories. "Isn’t it strange how a single heartbeat can turn everything upside down? One moment, I’m one of them. The next, I’m a ghost in their eyes. Suddenly, my place means nothing. Blood and love—just words, empty things. And me? I don’t… I don’t mean a thing.”
The words trembled out of her, a quiet melody of sorrow. Her eyes closed as a lone tear slipped free, falling like a shard of stardust cut from the heavens.
“I just wanted to be… loved, to be enough for them. But it’s gone now… gone like dust in the wind, and no amount of pleading can bring it back.” Her voice was a broken whisper, laced with the purity of a love too deep to fade. Tears traced silent trails down her cheeks, soft as silk threads, falling like feathers lost to the night.
A soft, sleepy stretch from the infant stirred her from the depths of her sorrow. Little Omid reached out, her tiny hand brushing Malaa’s face, catching a tear as it slipped from her chin.
Malaa laughed faintly, a sad smile warming her voice. “Ah, Omid,” she murmured, “I swear to you—I’ll never let harm touch you. You must grow up with kindness, my little one. Help those who need you, believe only what you see with your own eyes, and always… always stand up for those who can’t stand for themselves.”
Her voice cracked, words slipping away, caught in sobs that tumbled softly, lost in the warmth of the child. She held Omid close, her tears spilling like a quiet rain, surrendering herself to the weight of her grief.
Unseen, Rehamal stood by the door, listening to the quiet, aching confession. She glanced back at her workshop, her gaze hardening with a silent resolve. For Malaa, for Omid, she would forge a weapon like no other—a flaming flail that would burn brighter than any sorrow.
