"That was close…" Leila muttered under her breath, letting out a sharp sigh as the tension in her chest began to ease.
The prince had been… unexpectedly kind, more so than she had anticipated. She had been convinced that he would drag her to the dungeons to face a merciless trial.
His reputation, clouded by the legacy of his father—a known tyrant—had filled her with dread. Yet, he had shown her a surprising degree of mercy.
But perhaps he was only pretending to be kind. A facade. She couldn't trust anyone from the Shah's family, not after everything they had done.
Her steps grew heavier as she approached the remains of the red-light district, her legs dragging as if weighed down by grief. At last, she reached the ruins of the Glory House.
Once, it had stood tall and proud, its halls alive with music and laughter. The air used to be filled with the sweet scent of perfumes mingling with the sounds of customers' chatter and the rhythmic steps of dancing feet. But now, there was only dust and the ghostly echoes.
Leila fell to her knees in the rubble, her hands digging into the sand as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her heart ached, a mix of sorrow and seething rage churning within her.
"I swear to the Goddess," she whispered, her voice trembling. Then louder, filled with raw emotion: "I swear, I'll make sure the governor suffers a fate worse than death!"
Her cries echoed.
This place… to outsiders, it had been nothing more than a den of sin, condemned by religious men and whispered about in scandalized tones. But to Leila, it was so much more.
The Glory House had been a sanctuary, a place of kindness and refuge. Her sisters—those remarkable women who society scorned—had given her food when she was starving, shared their meager earnings with her, and even bought her perfumes, no matter how terrible they were.
They had encouraged her, lifted her up when life tried to break her, and molded her into the woman she had become.
And it wasn't just her. The Glory House was known for taking care of orphans, feeding them, clothing them, and giving them a family in a world that offered them none. These women might have carried sad fates, but they were not bad people.
Yet that man—evil beyond measure—despite his wealth, privilege, and countless opportunities, had been so consumed by greed that he snatched away the only thing her sisters had left: their lives.
Hot tears streamed down Leila's cheeks, her chest heaving with the weight of her grief. She would never forget this day. And she would never forgive this empire.
With trembling hands, she wiped her tears, determination hardening her expression. She stood, her legs shaky but resolute, and turned toward the outskirts of the village.
The path was eerily quiet, the air heavy with the weight of her sorrow. But just as she was about to cross the border, a voice pierced the stillness.
"Leila!"
She froze, her heart leaping at the sound of her name. Whirling around, her eyes widened as she spotted Arman running toward her. Relief surged through her, but it was short-lived. As he drew closer, her gaze caught the blood staining his clothes.
Her eyes narrowed, her breath hitching. "Arman!" she cried, rushing toward him.
He stumbled into her arms, sobbing desperately.
"What is it? Are you hurt?" she demanded, her voice trembling with fear. Her hands frantically searched his body, her fingers brushing over his clothes in search of a wound. If he was alive, she could heal him.
But she found nothing.
"Leila… I've been looking everywhere for you," he choked out, his voice thick with anguish.
She hated this. Hated the sight of his tears, the way his shoulders shook with despair. She didn't know what had caused his pain, but whatever it was, she loathed it with every fiber of her being.
"Arman, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Speak to me! You're making me worry. How can I help you if I don't know what's wrong? Where did all this blood come from? You're not injured…"
Her words trailed off as she stared into his tear-filled eyes, dreading his answer. The blood on his clothes wasn't his, but she feared the truth might be even worse.
"Do you remember my friend?" Arman began, his voice shaky and laden with grief. "The one I told you about—the one whose sister was enlisted to join the Crown Prince's harem?"
Leila's eyes widened, her heart sinking as she watched the tears spilling from her brother's eyes. His voice cracked as he continued, struggling to speak through the weight of his emotions.
"I… I ran to his house to escape the guards who were chasing me," Arman stammered, his hands trembling as he wiped at his face. "They wouldn't stop, Leila. Even when I got inside, he—he tried to help me."
His words were jumbled up.
Leila's breath caught, dread pooling in her stomach.
"They stabbed him," Arman choked out. "He's on the verge of death now, Leila. Even the physician couldn't save him. They said it's hopeless."
"No," Leila whispered, her voice trembling. "Oh my God…"
"He's in so much pain," Arman cried. "And the physician… he advised us to let him go."
"Let him go?" Leila stammered. "You mean… kill him?"
Arman nodded, his expression agonized. "Yes. He's suffering so much. And this blood…" He gestured to his stained clothes, his voice breaking. "This is his blood. He was only trying to protect me."
Leila felt the ground shift beneath her. The weight of the situation was suffocating, and she struggled to steady her breath.
"Please, Leila," Arman begged, gripping her shoulders. "I need your help. Only you can save him. Only you can heal him."
Leila instinctively glanced around, her eyes scanning the area to ensure no one was eavesdropping. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
"You can't ask this of me, Arman," she hissed. "You know how dangerous it is!"
"Leila, I'm begging you," he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "He's my very good friend. I can't let him die like this. It's my fault he's hurt. If you don't help me, I'll never forgive myself."
Leila's throat tightened, guilt warring with fear inside her. "Arman, I can't. I can't use my powers. You know what will happen if anyone finds out."
"No one will know!" Arman insisted, his voice rising. Then, quieter, he added, "Please, Leila. Just a little bit of your blood. That's all I'm asking. I would never ask this of you unless it was urgent. If it were me lying there, dying, would you just walk away?"
Leila froze, his words cutting through her defenses like a knife. The thought of losing him—of seeing her brother in such a state—was unbearable. But the danger of using her blood, of exposing her secret, was too great to ignore.
She looked into Arman's tear-filled eyes, torn between the brother she loved and the risk she could not afford to take.
Leila felt her resolve crumble as Arman's words echoed in her mind. He was right—if it were him lying there instead, she wouldn't hesitate to help, no matter the risk. But it wasn't just about what she wanted. Healing someone in the village, especially under these circumstances, would be dangerous.
Nobody had to know. As long as everyone involved kept their mouths shut, it could work.
"All right," Leila murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "Stop crying, Arman. I'll do it."
Arman's head shot up in surprise, his tear-streaked face lit with hope.
"Let's go," she said more firmly. "Hurry up before someone notices."
Relief washed over her brother's face, and he nodded fervently, guiding her through the quiet streets. The cloak of darkness that had settled over the village worked to their advantage, shielding them from prying eyes.
Arman had already prepared for this moment, having explained the plan to his friend's father. He'd begged the older man to keep this a secret, swearing that he'd find a way to convince Leila to save the boy's life.
When they arrived, the boy's father met them at the door, his face etched with lines of worry and hope.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, a single candle flickering on the wooden table. Leila's gaze fell on the boy lying motionless on the bed. His face was ghostly pale, his chest barely rising and falling with shallow breaths. He looked more like a corpse than a living soul, and every inch of his body seemed to radiate pain, even in unconsciousness.
Leila took a deep breath and turned to the father. "Whatever I'm about to do here today must stay between you, Arman, and me. No one else can know."
The older man nodded solemnly, tears glistening in his eyes. "I swear it. You have my word."
Leila approached the boy's bedside, her heart pounding. She crouched down, her hand hovering over his lifeless form as she whispered to herself, This is dangerous… so dangerous. But if I don't do it, he's going to die.
Arman crouched beside her, his voice trembling. "Thank you, Leila. I owe you everything for this."
She glanced at him briefly before focusing back on the boy. "We don't have much time," she said softly. "Keep watch by the window. Make sure no one comes near this house while I'm working."
Arman nodded and moved swiftly to the window, peering out into the darkened street.
Leila closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, preparing herself to use the power she had long suppressed. It would take more than courage to save this boy—it would take everything she had.
"I promise. I'll stay quiet," the older man said, his voice trembling with desperation. "If anyone asks, I'll tell them it was a Sharman's doing. Just please, save my son. He's all I have left. Please."
Leila stepped forward quickly, catching the man before he could bow his head to her.
"Please don't do that," she said softly, her voice firm yet kind. "I'm just a child, like your son. Your thanks and grace belong to the Goddess alone, not to me."
The man's eyes filled with tears, and he nodded, clutching his trembling hands together as if in prayer.
Leila glanced toward Arman, who handed her a knife. The blade glinted faintly in the dim light, and she stepped closer to the boy lying motionless on the bed. Kneeling beside him, she drew in a steadying breath.
She made a small, deliberate cut across her wrist, wincing only slightly as the blood began to flow. Carefully, she tilted her hand, letting the crimson drops trickle into the boy's mouth.
As the boy's lips parted and he swallowed instinctively, Leila pulled her wrist away. Almost immediately, the wound on her arm began to close, sealing itself as though it had never been there.
Gasps filled the room. The older man's eyes widened in awe and disbelief. "How… how did you do that? That healing ability…?"
Leila stood and pressed a finger to her lips. "Remember," she said firmly, "you swore to keep this a secret. Not a word of this leaves this room."
The man nodded hurriedly, his hands clutching at his chest. "Yes, to my grave. I swear it."
But his curiosity was unrelenting. "You… you're not an ordinary person, are you? You are from the Norae Tribe aren't you?"