"Do you think I haven't tried?" Leila's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, and Arman's gaze lowered. "If my blood could save Mother, I would have done it a hundred times over."
"Then why?" he asked, his voice filled with confusion and frustration. "Mother's blood could cure even the gravest illnesses, bringing people back from the brink of death. Why can't you do the same for her?"
Leila's face tightened, her patience thinning. "Mother's illness isn't an ordinary sickness!" she snapped. "If giving every drop of my blood could save her, I'd do it without hesitation. But this is beyond any healing I can offer—Mother was cursed."
"Cursed?" Arman's voice softened, disbelief flickering in his eyes. He blinked, trying to comprehend.
"Yes… cursed by the goddess herself," Leila whispered, her tone laced with sorrow. She turned away, gathering the last of the wet clothes into a wooden tray and walking over to the clothesline. Arman followed her, not willing to let it drop.
"Explain what you mean by cursed," he demanded, his voice tense. "What did Mother ever do to deserve such a fate from the goddess?"
"Arman… calm down," she urged, but his stubborn silence told her he wouldn't back off. Sighing, she set the tray down and began draping the damp clothes on the line.
"All right," she said softly. "Mother was born into a hidden clan of healers, the Norae people. They're a small, ancient clan with silver or white hair, green eyes, and skin so pale it seems otherworldly. The Norae have unique powers—magic that allows them to conceal themselves from the outside world, which has made them seem like nothing more than myths to most people. For nearly a thousand years, they've remained unseen, hidden from the human world. They knew humans would try to exploit their powers if their existence were ever discovered."
Arman listened, his brow furrowing with both awe and confusion. "So… Mother was part of this hidden people. But how did she end up here? And why would the goddess curse her of all people?"
Leila took a deep breath, bracing herself to continue the story.
"Their powers were immense," she continued, her voice soft but steady. "The Norae could heal even the dead. Some of them were said to have the ability to manipulate time and other elements. But there was a rule—if their powers were ever used for evil, a curse would fall upon them. Their blood, which could heal, would turn into poison that would slowly destroy both their bodies and their spirits, and they would wither away, piece by piece."
Arman's fist clenched, his eyes hardening with frustration. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have such a gift turned into a curse. His voice, though low, was filled with barely contained anger. "So, even if you give mother your blood it wouldn't save her?"
Leila sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the truth. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "No. It wouldn't. I've tried, Arman, so many times. It's almost as though my blood makes things worse. There's nothing more I can do for her."
The sound of Arman's fist slamming into the nearby tree startled her. She jolted slightly, but his anger was raw and intense.
"How could the goddess be so foolish?" he muttered, his teeth gritted with frustration. "How has Mother ever used her blood for evil?"
Leila paused, taking a moment to steady herself before answering. "You must have heard of the great Shah of Reza," she began, her voice lowered as if the weight of history hung in the air. "He conquered nearly eleven neighboring kingdoms, stretching his empire and becoming the Shahan Shah—the King of Kings. It was said that the Shah's army was invincible. No matter how grave their wounds, the soldiers would never die, never tire. As long as they drank from the potion made from Mother's blood, they would heal instantly, and the battle would turn in their favor. The Shah's empire grew, flourished, and many innocents perished in the wars he waged."
Her gaze dropped to the ground, her eyes shadowed with sorrow as the painful memories resurfaced. "It was only after the wars ended, when the empire had been expanded and the world had forgotten the cost, that Mother's sickness began. Her blood, once so powerful, lost its healing properties, and she started to wither away."
Arman stood still, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, but his expression softened with understanding.
"She didn't have a choice, did she? They used her, and now… now she's paying the price." Arman proceeded fiercely, his voice trembling with emotion. "She was locked up, caged like an animal. She was forced to give her blood, starved and tortured by that beast, all the while trying to protect us. She never wanted any of this."
Leila's shoulders sagged as she listened to her brother's words. "Well, that didn't matter. The rules are the rules," she replied, her tone more resigned than defensive. "Whether she wanted to participate or not, she still did. Thousands of women and children died because of what she was made to do."
Arman's eyes blazed with anger, the tears pooling in his gaze betraying his pain. "And what punishment will the Shah receive for his actions?" he asked bitterly, his voice laced with disbelief. "He forced her into this, but he never paid the price for his tyranny. Instead, he rewarded us with a broken hut in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wild beasts and nothing to protect us from them. That's no better than condemning us to death."
Leila stood silently, feeling the weight of his words in her chest. Arman was right. His anger was justified, but she knew there was little she could do to change the reality they were trapped in.
"And the goddess," Arman continued, his voice rising with frustration, "she's just going to turn a blind eye? Be biased and unfair? What makes her any different from that tyrant Shah?"
"I know you're frustrated," Leila murmured, trying to soothe him, though her own heart was heavy with similar resentment. "But getting angry won't change anything. I need to start preparing the oils and gather the medications I'll need for Mother."
She offered him a brief, sad smile, hoping it would ease his pain even slightly. But instead, he turned away, stomping off in anger, his back stiff with resentment.
Leila sighed heavily, watching him retreat. She understood Arman's rage.
She knew that the goddess's decision was cruel and unjust. What right did she have to punish her mother so harshly, especially when the Shah of Reza continued to prosper and reign, untouched by the suffering he caused? It was a bitter thought that gnawed at Leila's heart—perhaps it was due to his wickedness that he had lost his beloved son, the crowned prince, to Shahkhur. But even that didn't seem to be enough of a reckoning for the pain he'd caused.
The mere thought of Shahkhur made her heart seize in her chest, her pulse quickening as the memories of that horrifying encounter came flooding back. She had come face to face with death itself, and it was nothing short of a miracle that she had survived. The entire ordeal felt surreal, like some twisted fever dream, but the bruising grip of his hand on her neck was too vivid to dismiss. Even now, recalling that moment made her stomach lurch and her throat tighten.
"That was horrible," she muttered to herself, feeling the shiver creep across her skin.
For a fleeting moment, doubt surfaced in her mind. Could she really follow through on her promise? And even if she tried, would it be enough? The weight of uncertainty pressed on her, and she caught herself toying with thoughts of abandoning the promise altogether. But she quickly shook her head, reassuring herself that Shahkhur was trapped by the same goddess who had cursed her mother. He was bound to the forbidden forest, unable to step outside its borders—a beast shackled by divine will.
With that grim reminder, she pushed the thoughts away, telling herself he would remain in his prison. He could haunt her memories, perhaps, but he could never harm her again.