"That's not possible," the Shah declared firmly, his voice echoing through the vast courtroom as he rose from his throne and strode back to take his seat. A deep furrow formed on his brow as he continued, "The daughter of that woman was born with hair as black as the night. Everyone knows one of the defining characteristics of the Norae people is their white hair, a mark of their healing power."
"My lord," Arash interjected smoothly, stepping forward with a cunning gleam in his eyes, "what if that is exactly what the conniving wench wants us to believe? She lived within these palace walls, right under our noses, for years before her deception was exposed. Who's to say she hasn't been hiding more secrets?"
The Shah paused, considering the argument, and slowly nodded. The logic was undeniable. It seemed more than plausible.
"There is more," the governor offered, stepping forward with a grave tone. "A boy was recently injured—grievously so, to the brink of death. According to the boy's father, it was this girl who saved him, though the method is… most peculiar. The father claims she healed him by feeding him her blood."
The Shah's eyes narrowed. "Her blood?"
"Yes, my lord," the governor affirmed, his words deliberate, as though tasting their significance. "And there is something else. It is said this same girl now lives as a fugitive outside the village. She may very well be the daughter of that Norae woman."
Silence descended upon the courtroom, heavy with tension. The Shah gripped the arms of his throne tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Then we must capture her at once," he ordered, his voice a decisive boom that left no room for dissent.
Arash bowed low, his expression carefully masked, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "If you would permit it, my lord, I will need some of the palace guards to assist me. By tomorrow, there will be no stone left unturned, and I will find the girl. Once I do, we can confirm whether the rumors are true."
"Take as many guards as you require," the Shah decreed, waving his hand in dismissal.
Arash straightened, bowing once more before turning to leave the courtroom. As he exited through the towering doors, the smirk that he had struggled to suppress fully emerged. Victory was within his grasp. With the palace guards at his disposal, the crown prince would no longer be able to protect the girl. She would be his. If the whispers were to be believed—if the girl truly possessed the ability to heal through her blood—then she would become the key to fulfilling his most desperate desire.
The legends surrounding the Norae people were well-known, whispered in awe and fear among scholars and peasants alike. Their blood, it was said, held unparalleled healing properties—powerful enough to mend even mortal wounds. And in the most extraordinary of folktales, it was believed that the Norae could defy the very boundary between life and death. A dead man's soul could be drawn back to his body, provided he had not been gone for more than a week. But such miracles required something far more than blood alone—flesh. For the dead to rise, they must consume a piece of the Norae's flesh.
And that suited Arash just fine.
His son, Shapour, had been dead for three days. If the girl truly was the daughter of a Norae woman, then he would make her heal his son. He would bind her, break her, do whatever it took to force her. She would give her flesh, her blood—her very essence—to bring Shapour back.
…
"You still haven't explained who this lunatic is or why he refuses to leave our home!" Arman grumbled bitterly, his glare fixed on Shahkhur, who lounged on his chair, chewing noisily on the meal Arman had carefully saved for his sister, Leila.
"And he eats like a starving horse!" Arman's voice rose in pitch as he gestured dramatically toward the stranger. "Do you have any idea how poor we are? I get that you're homeless and maybe a little…"—he twirled a finger near his temple—"unwell, but you can't just barge in here and devour every little food you see!"
"It's been ages since I last had proper human food," Shahkhur interrupted lazily, his mouth still half full. He sniffed the air as though critiquing a royal feast. "The flavor's strange—bland and funny, if I'm being honest—and the spices are all over the place. But I suppose that's to be expected. Peasants like you could never hope to match the skill of palace cooks."
With that, he tipped the bowl back to swallow the last morsel before tossing it carelessly to the side. The empty dish clattered to the floor, and Leila's soft frown deepened into a glower.
Arman let out an exasperated groan, pulling at his already disheveled hair. "Oh, for the love of—! It doesn't even help that he's practically naked!" he shouted, throwing his arms in the air. "He's wearing rags, rags, Leila! His nakedness is one strong breeze away from traumatizing us both!"
Leila said nothing, her arms crossed as she regarded Shahkhur warily. Her silence only fueled Arman's frustration. "Leila!" he bellowed, spinning to face her. "Say something!"
Leila finally spoke, her tone quiet but firm. "What do you want me to say, Arman? We're lucky we're still alive."
Arman blinked at her in disbelief. "Alive? Alive!? You mean to tell me you actually believe this madman is the great and terrifying Shahkhur?"
"I showed you my fangs," Shahkhur interjected, sounding almost bored now.
Arman scoffed loudly. "And you think that proves anything? Highly doubt they're authentic." He folded his arms, glaring defiantly at the stranger.
Shahkhur's golden eyes flicked toward Arman, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Would you like to test their authenticity, boy?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Perhaps you'd prefer a demonstration—one bite or be torn apart, take your pick."
"Stop it!" Leila's voice cut through the tension like a knife. She stepped forward, placing herself between her brother and Shahkhur, her expression hardening. "You promised me you wouldn't hurt him."
"I promised not to kill him," Shahkhur corrected smoothly, pushing himself up from the bed with unnerving grace. "But if he is so desperate to see whether my canines are real…" His voice dropped to a near growl as he stepped forward, flexing his fingers like claws. "I'll gladly tear off an arm."
"No," she snapped sharply, her voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade, Arman groaned again before he left the room in anger.
An unintentional growl rumbled in Shahkhur's chest, low and primal, betraying his displeasure. The sound startled even him—her words had struck something he didn't like, though he couldn't pinpoint why. He hated that they held any effect on him at all. But still, grudgingly, he returned to his seat.
"Arman is right," Leila continued, her tone steady and firm, her frustration evident. "This might be a hut, and we might be peasants, but we are still human beings, and you will respect that. You've already made a mess of our home, Shahkhur. You ate the meal without a word of gratitude, and then—what did you do?—you threw the bowl aside as if we were your slaves!"
Shahkhur's gaze darkened as her words struck a nerve, but he remained silent. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his shoulders tensed like a predator holding back the urge to pounce. Another low growl escaped him, and this time, he turned his face stubbornly away, staring at the cracked wall instead of her accusing eyes.
"Let's go and find the shaman already," he grumbled after a long pause, the irritation clear in his voice. "I want to be human as soon as possible."
"Now you're in a hurry?" Leila scoffed, straightening up and fixing him with a pointed glare. "It's midnight, Shahkhur. If you were a shaman, would you be wandering the village at this time of night?"
She didn't wait for his answer. With a resigned sigh, she crossed the room to start cleaning the mess he'd made earlier. Shahkhur slumped back slightly, his pride still stinging from her words, but the mate bond made it more difficult to deal with.
He frowned but said nothing more, watching her with narrowed eyes. For someone so small and so mortal, she had an infuriating way of making him feel powerless.
Finally, Leila broke the silence again, her tone softer now but no less determined. "I've gathered some information. There's a chance the shaman might be in the neighboring kingdom. Ever since the announcement of the upcoming war, the security at the village borders has grown tighter. The smaller merchants and business owners are probably finding it difficult to get in the village."
Shahkhur nodded absently, her explanation washing over him. He wasn't particularly interested in the details—only the outcome mattered. "So when do we leave?"
"We can't travel by day," Leila replied, glancing up at him with a tired expression. "You can't, at least. Not in your natural form. You'd terrify half the kingdom before we even made it out of the village."
"We can force your transformation into a human," she explained. "If you consume a piece of my hair… or drink my blood."
"The latter should do," he suggested, his tone casual yet unwavering.
Leila froze mid-motion, a frown quickly darkening her face. Selfish. He was so selfish.
"And correction, please," Shahkhur added with a faint smirk, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. "This here is my natural form. The tiger… that's the unnatural one."
"Natural form or not," she shot back, regaining her composure, "aren't you going to leave?"
He tilted his head, that same infuriating smugness playing on his features. "Why would I leave my mate?"
Leila stiffened, the word mate sinking into her like a stone dropped in a still pond. There was something different about the way he said it this time—a subtle edge of possessiveness laced through the purr in his voice. It sent an uninvited heat crawling up her neck, and she hated that her cheeks betrayed her by blushing.
"H-How many times do I have to tell you?" she stammered, trying to sound indignant, though the slight tremor in her voice weakened the effect. "I am not your mate!"
Shahkhur shrugged, the movement lazy as if the very argument was beneath him. Then, without warning, he pushed himself up from the creaking wooden chair and began walking toward her.
"Until this whole thing is over," he murmured, his voice softer now, though it carried an unsettling weight, "we are bound to each other."
Leila took an instinctive step back, her heart quickening as he closed the space between them. But before she could retreat any further, his large, calloused hands cradled her face, holding her in place. The warmth of his palms contrasted sharply with the cold, shivering tension that rippled through her body. She wanted to pull away, to fight back, but her body refused to obey.
"W-What are you—"
"I have this strange urge," Shahkhur confessed quietly, his golden eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that seemed to see straight through her. "A desire I'm desperately trying to control. But…" He exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself. "Just being close to you makes it better, so until morning I will stay here."
His words were like a spark to kindling, setting her already racing pulse aflame.
"Desire?" she whispered, her voice betraying more curiosity than she intended. "What… what sort of urge?"
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flicking back up to her eyes, darker now, unreadable. "It's best you don't know."