[Sequel of Warm Love, hence can't be read as a standalone.]
In the first phase, Reyansh concealed a web of mysteries, but as they stand face to face once more, it's Kiraz who holds the tantalizing secrets waiting to be unveiled. These hidden truths...
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My soul is rebellious. Dark. Stubborn, tainted with all the evil deeds it has done, killing without any remorse. My soul has seen the sunlight, it admired it. If my soul has seen how brightness feels like, loved every essence of it, that it has preserved it in its cupped hand, inside my heart. It has let the cupped hand to open when the darkness falls, when it starts turning so cold, so scary, so suffocating.
Even if I despise darkness, why have I built that wall which will never let a speck of light penetrate inside. I found solace in darkness. Hold it so close that even breath will be ashamed.
Rebellious was never my soul. It became like that. All it had once walked in an unknown path thinking it will take it, to the fall of love, said the mirage which encouraged him to keep going. Amidst of journey, something happened. I still remember that incident, or that particular words that had escaped from that mystic man who had veiled an aura of enigma. His dark orbs, pools of ancient wisdom, called you or rather had lured you towards them saying how it holds a secret untold. I was fascinated, with the concept of secret.
I was eighteen, high on teenage hormones, the sick excuse I use to describe that phase of my life. But I was just another man, holding himself high, anger on the tip of my tongue, drunk on attitude, with an irrational mind. The six years of mafia training had brought discipline to my body, but it failed to reach my mind. Physically, my once untested frame had been sharpened into a vessel of strength and agility, my muscles a testament to countless hours of relentless practice.
I knew how to fire a gun. I mastered the skill of the knife, from grip to angle of attack. I knew how a small thing could do great wonders in bringing your enemy to his knees, slicing his skin until he bled to death while never losing his breath. The only fact that disappointed my grandfather was that I still had not killed anyone. I had not hurt someone to the extent that he lost his breath forever.
Everything changed in that moment, that day, that year, that minute, and at that second when I was thrown into the choice of life and death. I heard people coming before me, with their allegations, pointing fingers at me, saying, 'Do you know death? Do you know its importance, its gravity?' One of them was my lady.
I didn't until then.
The day, I meet him.
Aslan Ahmed, infamously known as the Dark King, received the name because darkness was his aura, which surrounded him all the time. His name was taken in hushed whispers among both allies and adversaries alike. It was said that his presence alone could cast a shadow over even the brightest of days, instilling fear. Rumor even said that he had made a pact with the devil himself, trading his soul for power and dominion over those who dared to oppose him.
I still vividly remember the day I sat among the ruthless leaders of the syndicates, with their authoritative tones reverberating inside the dimly lit room. The air was colder, with the only light in the room coming from the projector, which fell on the screen presenting a map of Iraq.
