The wind howled through the ancient ruins of Uch Sharif, stirring centuries-old dust into spirals that danced like spirits. The moon hung low, bleeding red against the dark velvet of the sky—a rare celestial warning that only a few in the world could read. Zahra was one of them now.
She stood at the edge of a forgotten courtyard, the Book of Veils clasped tightly to her chest and the new crystalline staff glowing faintly in her other hand. The earth beneath her hummed, as though responding to her heartbeat. Behind her, Arif and Mufti Rafiq followed silently, their steps cautious.
"This is the place," Mufti Rafiq whispered. "The last seal is beneath this soil."
Zahra nodded, her gaze fixed on the ancient gate buried halfway in the ground—rusted, cracked, but still alive. Glyphs etched along its edge shimmered in faint gold, responding to Zahra's presence.
Just then, the air shifted.
A sudden chill.
Then a sound—ragged breathing.
From the shadows of the broken pillars emerged a figure. Not human.
It was draped in layers of tattered red cloth, its face hidden behind a skeletal mask adorned with rubies. Its eyes burned like coals set deep within sockets of darkness.
"The Crimson Herald," Mufti Rafiq muttered, his voice thick with dread.
Zahra stepped forward. "I am not afraid."
The Herald tilted its head, amused. Its voice crackled like fire burning through bone.
"You should be, Healer of the Flame. You stand where saints were buried alive. Their blood fed this soil. Their screams still echo here."
Without another word, it raised its skeletal hands. The ground trembled.
Then — they rose.
Figures cloaked in decaying burial shrouds, eyes stitched shut, mouths gaping as if forever frozen in silent wails. These were not jinn. They were not men. They were something else—souls caught between realms, cursed for their allegiance to the Shadow.
"Protect the seal!" Zahra shouted, raising her staff. A surge of white-gold energy burst from its tip, pushing back the first wave of the risen.
Arif drew his blade, now etched with Zahra's protective runes, and engaged the closest attacker. Mufti Rafiq began chanting verses from the ancient language, his hands tracing sacred symbols in the air that burned like sunlight.
But there were too many.
Zahra spun, staff humming louder with each motion. Her strikes were precise—burning through the corpses like a sword of light. Yet, each one she felled was replaced by two more.
The Crimson Herald watched, unmoved.
"You fight fate, Mystic Surgeon. But every guardian must bleed. You cannot hold back the tide."
Zahra growled, "Maybe not. But I can damn well try."
She closed her eyes for a moment, clutching the book tightly.
Within its pages, one passage whispered louder than the rest: "When blood touches the cursed soil, the gate shall judge the bearer."
She looked down at her hand.
Then, without hesitation, she drew a small dagger and pressed it to her palm.
"Zahra, no!" Arif shouted.
But it was too late.
Her blood hit the soil—and the earth exploded in radiant light.
The risen screamed, burning to ash in the brilliance.
The Crimson Herald shrieked and staggered backward, its form flickering like a dying flame.
From the center of the courtyard, the gate began to rise. Not opening—ascending. The glyphs turned white-hot, pulsing in sync with Zahra's heartbeat. Then came the voice.
A deep, layered resonance that shook the sky itself.
"The Healer has bled. The Gate shall choose."
Everyone fell silent—even the Herald.
From the gate poured a silver mist, swirling around Zahra alone. It enveloped her, lifted her off the ground, and showed her visions—of the past, the future, and of another Zahra standing in another time, holding the same book, eyes filled with sorrow.
A prophecy repeated.
A flame shall rise. A choice must be made. One to heal. One to destroy.
The mist faded. Zahra fell to her knees, gasping.
The gate had given her knowledge, but not peace.
She stood up slowly and looked at the others. "We have less time than I thought. The Bone Collector was only the first. The Crimson Herald won't be the last."
Mufti Rafiq stepped forward, gently helping her up. "What did the gate show you?"
Zahra hesitated, then whispered, "That the Circle was never complete. There's a thirteenth... hidden from even the Council."
Arif frowned. "A traitor?"
"No," Zahra said. "Something worse. The Mirror Guardian—one who was made to reflect the Healer. My opposite. My undoing."
Suddenly, a deep laughter echoed through the ruins.
The Crimson Herald was not dead.
But its form was weakened—cracks along its mask, shadows leaking from its robes like smoke.
"I shall return," it rasped. "And when I do... the Mirror shall rise."
With that, it vanished in a flash of dark red fire, leaving only scorched earth behind.
Later That Night—Back at Camp
Zahra sat alone, the book open in her lap. The campfire crackled nearby, but she felt no warmth.
The passage repeated itself in her head.
"One to heal. One to destroy."
She had seen the face of the Mirror Guardian in her vision.
It was her own.
Not a twin. Not a reflection. But her soul—split long ago by powers she didn't yet understand. Somewhere out there, a version of her had chosen darkness. And now, that version was waking up.
Mufti Rafiq approached quietly and sat beside her. "I saw your vision."
She looked at him. "Then you know. She's me. But not me."
He nodded. "Your soul was fractured when you were a child. To contain the Flame. One part became you. The other... was hidden away. Watched. Sealed."
"And now," Zahra said, "that seal is breaking."
He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You are stronger than her."
Zahra smiled faintly. "Am I? Or have I just been lucky?"
Arif's Revelation
Arif returned from the edge of the forest, where he had been guarding the perimeter.
His face was tense.
"We have a problem," he said.
They turned to him.
"In the village nearby, they found a boy last night. Alive, but speaking in tongues. He carved Zahra's name into the walls of his room... backward."
Zahra stood. "Backwards?"
"Yes. And not just in Urdu. In Aramaic. Sanskrit. Even Egyptian."
Mufti Rafiq's eyes widened. "That's not the boy speaking. That's an Echo."
"An echo of what?" Zahra asked.
The old scholar took a deep breath. "Of her. The Mirror Guardian."
Final Scene—The Broken Temple
By morning, they arrived at the boy's home.
It was more of a shrine now. The family had fled in fear, leaving only flickering lanterns and blood-stained walls.
Zahra stepped inside.
Immediately, her staff glowed—a reaction to intense spiritual energy.
The boy sat cross-legged in the center of the room, eyes white, murmuring.
Zahra knelt beside him. "Can you hear me?"
The boy suddenly stopped and tilted his head.
Then, in Zahra's voice, he spoke:
"We are two sides of the same coin. You heal. I burn. When the thirteenth circle is drawn, we shall meet. And only one of us shall leave whole."
Then he collapsed.
No heartbeat.
Zahra checked his pulse — nothing.
Arif cursed under his breath. "She's killing through vessels now."
Mufti Rafiq looked grim. "No, not killing. Possessing. And soon, she won't need hosts at all."
Zahra turned to the wall.
There, drawn in black ash, was the symbol of the Eye — split in two.
Her heart pounded.
The Circle of Shadows was forming.
But so was its opposite.
The Circle of Mirrors.
And the war between them had just begun.