The grand door opened with a slow, resonant groan. Fiora stepped out first, her movements quiet but exact, her presence reshaping the hallway the way moonlight reshapes a battlefield.
Maya was already there.
She had positioned herself between Fiora and the path Noor had taken moments earlier. Her grip tightened around her pistol, the barrel trembling.
She had heard just enough.
Fiora speaking of "calls."
Fiora forbidding Noor to leave.
Fiora moving like someone with claim over Noor.
Maya's training screamed one thing:
Threat.
"You're not taking her," Maya said, voice low, steady.
Fiora's gaze lifted but there were no emotions in it.
"I have no intention of taking her."
But Maya had already committed.
She attacked.
Her fist cut through the air. A strike meant to break ribs. Fiora stepped aside without stepping.
Maya pivoted, kicked high, locked, drove forward three hits, four, five every one met with the same impossible stillness.
Fiora did not strike back.
She redirected.
A wrist turned.
Weight folded.
Breath shifted.
Maya hit the marble with a harsh slap, air crushed from her lungs. She rolled, rose, lunged again—her loyalty burning hotter than her pride.
The final movement was so subtle Maya didn't understand it until she found herself on the floor again, cheek pressed to cold stone, pistol skittering away.
Fiora stood over her.
"Rise, warrior."
Maya pushed herself up, jaw tight, humiliation flaring through her.
"I don't know who you are," Maya said, breath ragged, "but I'll die before I let anyone hurt Noor."
Fiora's expression did not change.
"I am not here to harm her," she said softly. "I am here because harm is already upon her."
Maya's heartbeat stuttered.
Fiora continued, "I am Fiora, a long-time servant of Lady Noor. I seek a man named Sanlang."
Maya froze.
"Sanlang?"
Her voice cracked despite her effort.
"Why?"
"Because Madam Noor's condition has crossed a threshold," Fiora said. "Only he can steady what she is becoming."
The words should have made no sense.
But somehow—
they did.
"I'll contact him," Maya whispered.
Fiora's gaze lowered, a shadow passing through it—memory, regret, something older than silence.
---
Zeyla lay pale on the bed, colorless as winter dust. Her breaths were shallow, fragile.
"This is Zeyla," Maya said, guiding Fiora in.
"Madam Noor's secretary. Fiercer than she looks."
Fiora stepped closer. The softness in her face disappeared.
She laid one hand on Zeyla's sternum, the other lightly at her temple.
To Maya, nothing happened.
But the servants behind Fiora stiffened instantly.
"stop!" one whispered, voice cracking.
"You're crossing the line—you will not withstand this!"
Maya whipped her head around.
"What line?"
But she could feel it now—
the air thickening, the temperature dipping, her ears ringing as though pressure was building deep inside her skull.
Fiora's breath grew uneven.
Her fingers trembled—barely.
Her throat tightened with silent effort.
Another servant stepped forward.
"please! You'll die!"
Maya stared at them, stunned. Die? Why? From what?
Then it happened.
Zeyla's spine arched violently, as though someone had pulled her from far underwater. A sharp gasp carved through the room, raw and wet and alive.
Color flushed back into her cheeks.
Her fingers twitched.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Maya stumbled backward.
She's alive.
Fiora withdrew her hands slowly, shoulders rising with a breath that sounded painful.
But her voice was steady.
"For the next three days," she said, looking at Zeyla first, then Maya, "you must not go near Lady Noor."
The silence that followed felt like a verdict.
Zeyla swallowed, throat tight. "Who… who are you really?"
Fiora's answer was immediate.
"I am a __just a servant."
A lie dressed in truth.
Or a truth hiding a past.
Maya didn't know which frightened her more.
A servant approached and bowed deeply.
"He has arrived."
Fiora closed her eyes, just for a heartbeat—a moment of bracing.
"I must go."
"Fiora—wait!" Maya stepped forward. "Tell me what's happening!What will—"
Fiora didn't turn.
"Because mortals do not survive the gravity of the truth."
The words left the room colder.
Then Fiora was gone.
---
For a moment, Zeyla and Maya simply stared at each other .
Zeyla gave a weak half-smile.
"So… are we part of a secret cult now, or what?"
Maya let out a breath that was halfway to a laugh.
"At this point, I'm just trying to survive the week.Afterall some mysteries are best left unresolved."
Zeyla snorted softly.
"If this ends up on hidden camera somewhere, I'm suing."
Maya's shoulders eased.
"Only if you split the settlement with me."
"Deal."
Their humor was thin, brittle—
but it kept the fear from spilling over.
---
The hospital lights flickered.
A cold scent curled through the vent—
rain that never falls.
Zeyla stiffened without knowing why.
Maya's pulse stumbled.
The air thickened once more.
Sanlang stepped out of his car, gravel crunching underneath.
The estate loomed ahead of him, but tonight the walls felt different.
As he reached the entrance, it wasn't Maya or Zeyla who greeted him.
It was her.
A woman he didn't recognize.
A woman he somehow recognized.
She stood framed in the doorway, posture straight, gaze unwavering.
Sanlang felt a flicker of déjà vu lace through his chest.
He swallowed it down.
"Good evening," he said softly, masking confusion beneath control.
"Good evening, sir," Fiora replied, bowing her head.
"I am Fiora. Lady Noor's attendant for the time being. Maya and Zeyla are away on business."
Away?
That alone made something coil in his stomach.
He nodded.
"I see."
"Please follow me."
As they walked deeper into the corridors, the estate's air grew heavier. The walls hummed with something unspoke.
Sanlang's heartbeat quickened.
They entered the grand hall. Seven servants lined the walls in pristine uniforms, but their eyes—
Their eyes widened when they saw him.
One stepped forward, unable to stop himself.
"Isn't he— we need to report this to hea—"
"Enough." Fiora's voice cut through the air like iron.
The servant paled instantly and dropped his gaze.
Sanlang frowned.
Before he could question, the answer came unbidden.
The doors to Noor's chamber opened on their own.
The chamber felt wrong the moment Sanlang stepped inside.
He looked up.
Noor stood by the window.
The moon behind her made her look unreal. Her silhouette was perfect, her stillness dangerous, her beauty something the world saw only in dreams it couldn't keep.
Sanlang felt something tighten low in his abdomen—
sharp, hot, immediate.
Heat spread through him too quickly.
His breath hitched.
"Noor…"
Her name slipped out of him before he could stop it.
She didn't answer.
But the room shifted—
just a blink, a soft distortion in the air—
and suddenly she was seated on her chair, her throne, legs crossed, gaze steady on him.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The pressure began.
Invisible at first—
like hands pressing lightly along his spine—
then heavier, sinking into his knees, pushing blood upward until his vision tinged red.
His throat worked.
He staggered a step forward, then down—
kneeling before her without command.
He hated how natural it felt yet blissful at the same time.
Heat, devotion, pain, longing—
all tangled tight, dragging him deeper.
Noor watched him silently, her gaze unreadable.
He lifted his eyes, breathing hard.
Something in him cracked when he saw her up close—
the shape of her mouth,
the softness under the darkness,
the quiet ache in her eyes.
He whispered her name again, barely:
"…Noor…"
That was all it took.
She stood and stepped down from her throne, the fabric of her dress brushing the floor like a shadow given form. She moved without sound, without hesitation, as if gravity didn't fully apply to her.
She knelt before him.
His breath shattered.
Her hand came to his jaw, unexpected, warm, certain—
and before he could understand what was happening,
her lips pressed against his.
Her lips pressed against his.
His eyes flew wide. His breath snapped in his throat. A heat surged through him so violently he thought his ribs might crack.
He whispered her name into her mouth—
"Noor—"
But she didn't stop.
The kiss deepened, deliberate, consuming, dragging something buried far beneath him to the surface.
Then—
Something broke.
A flash of white ripped through his vision.
He inhaled sharply, pulling back just enough for their breath to mix. Noor's eyes widened—not in fear, but in recognition.
His irises were no longer green.
They glowed.
Two full moons stared back at her.
Her expression went still. The entire chamber followed—air tightening, walls groaning softly as if bowing.
Sanlang rose without thought, without effort, without the hesitation of a mortal man. His posture changed—shoulders settling into an ancient ease his body should not have remembered.
Noor remained kneeling before him.
The flicker of astonishment she tried to hide only sharpened the moment.
Sanlang looked down at her.
His breathing steady.
His presence wrong in a way that made the air tremble.
He exhaled her name, but it wasn't the same voice.
It was older.
"...Noor."
The house trembled faintly—boards creaking, candles thinning into blue flame.
A faint shimmer crawled across the floorboards, responding only to him.
He spoke again.
Quiet. Measured. Dangerous.
"What name did you call me with?"
Noor lifted her chin, steady beneath him.
Her voice matched his in darkness.
"The one I buried."
Sanlang's hand curled at his side, breath leaving him like frost.
Her tone lowered, every word a warning wrapped in silk.
"And yet I did."
He stepped forward. The ground didn't echo beneath him.
"You summon the wolf and expect the priest to return."
Noor's expression did not shift.
"I opened a door," she said.
"You crawled through it."
A wind stirred in the chamber—windowless, sourceless. Candles leaned away from him as if they recognized a master they hadn't seen in ages.
He looked at her with the clarity of someone waking into old skin.
"You know what I am."
"I know what you were," she corrected.
"Now… you wear him like a name that no longer fits."
He paused.
A beat that didn't belong to Sanlang at all.
Then he reached out—fingers brushing her jaw.
"You feared I would forget."
"No," she whispered.
Her voice was a blade drawn slowly.
"I feared you would remember."
Something flickered in the air.
Sanlang's thumb moved to her bottom lip, grazing it like a remembered vow.
"You carried my name like an oath."
Noor swallowed, but she did not break.
"And you carved mine into your ruin."
The silver in his eyes deepened, shadows folding inward like stormlight caught in a cage.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath moved her hair.
"Do you still choose me?"
Her answer came like a dying star's last whisper:
"Always."
When he kissed her again, it was not worship.
It was reclamation.
It was two ancient beings meeting in the ruins of their past names—
and accepting the monster the other had become.