The knock at the door came far too early for decency—or for the state Sanlang was in.
He swung the door open lazily, his shirt nowhere in sight, golden hair a royal mess, strands clinging to his temple like he'd fought sleep and won. His emerald eyes, half-lidded and glowing far too brightly for morning, scanned the figure on the other side.
Maya.
Her gaze dropped the second she registered the landscape of his bare chest.
She cleared her throat. "I was told Madam Noor hasn't returned home."
Sanlang leaned on the doorframe, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Oh, but she has," he purred. "She just didn't leave."
Maya raised a brow, still looking at the floor. "I see."
"I wasn't well last night," he added, dragging the words like silk across skin. "Burning, actually. Terribly hot. She stayed to nurse me."
Maya blinked. "Fever?"
Sanlang smiled like he was remembering a sin. "Uhmm.. Yeah Perhaps."
That's when Noor appeared behind him, not a trace of the night left on her. She was fully dressed—rose-hued high-neck dress, wrists covered. Her dark hair was brushed to perfection, cascading in waves that tried to hide what her neckline refused to show.
Sanlang looked over his shoulder at her and let out the softest sigh, like someone mourning the distance between fingertips and fire.
Maya finally lifted her gaze and looked straight at Noor. "Good Morning Ma'dam."
"Perfect," Noor replied smoothly, stepping forward. "Morning."
"Should I assume," Maya said, deadpan, "that your version of home care includes someone forgetting their shirt and setting off the building's smoke detectors with... fever?"
Sanlang smirked. Noor didn't even flinch.
"I brewed him tea," she said, all sugar and steel. "He just forgot how to hold the cup."
Maya nodded solemnly. "That explains the shirtlessness."
"And the bruises?" Sanlang offered with a low chuckle.
Noor snapped under her breath.
"I got burned," he murmured, gaze locked on her. "Repeatedly."
Maya raised both brows this time. "Must've been some scalding water."
"You have no idea," Sanlang said without missing a beat.
Noor stepped past him, brushing his arm lightly—too lightly for it to mean nothing.
"We should go," she told Maya.
Maya nodded, but as she turned, she paused.
"By the way," she said with a casual glance at Sanlang, "you might want to put on a shirt. The neighbors... I mean anyone wont just.. forget it."
Sanlang grinned. "So does Noor."
Noor didn't even blink. "They bite less."
Maya laughed under her breath as they walked toward the elevator.
And then—
Just before the door shut behind them, Sanlang's voice floated after Noor, like a promise wrapped in velvet and fire:
"I'm still burning, sweetheart."
She barely turned the knob before he wrenched the door closed behind her—slamming it shut with a sound like thunder.
Noor choked on a gasp.
Her back hit the wood hard. She just stood there—staring at him as if she'd forgotten how to breathe.
Sanlang.
Still half-dressed. Still golden. Still godless.
The morning light cut through the window and kissed his skin like it had missed him. His chest was bare—too perfect. Too clean. Except for the trails of blood curving down his back in angry, raw slashes.
Noor's fingers twitched.
And he—he was staring at her like she was the last thing in the world he could believe in. His lips parted, his breath uneven. His eyes weren't green anymore. They looked haunted—emerald lit with storm.
His voice, when it came, was not soft.
"I was dying."
A pause.
Her throat worked, but she didn't speak.
"I was burning alive," he said, lower this time, stepping closer, "and you—"
Another step.
"You put your mouth on me like salvation."
Her pulse stuttered. She looked away.
But he didn't let her.
Two fingers under her chin—lifting.
"I don't want salvation," he whispered. "I want the fire. I want the ruin. I want ....YOU."
And then he kissed her.
He kissed her like she was the very sin he had no intention of repenting. His mouth devoured hers—rough, aching, shaking with something too big for his body to hold. His teeth grazed her lip, and she whimpered—soft, involuntary.
He groaned into her.
"Do you feel that?" he murmured against her mouth. "That ache? That heat? Noor."
He pressed against her, all of him—hard, fevered, desperate. She could feel the shape of his desire against her, through the thin fabric of her dress, and the ghost of it made her legs weak.
She turned her face, breath catching, but he kissed her neck instead—slow, burning, dragging his tongue along her throat like he was branding her soul.
"You think you're walking away from me?" he said, lips tracing her jaw.
"You think I'll let you forget?"
"No," he growled, nipping the skin behind her ear.
"I'm going to leave myself under your skin—so deep, Noor, that no god can claw me out."
She pushed her palms against his chest—trying to breathe, trying to think.
But he caught her wrist.
Guided her hand behind him.
Laid her fingers across the wounds.
She froze.
They were still warm. Still weeping.
She looked past him—to the mirror across the hall.
And saw it all.
His bleeding back.
Her hand on it.
Her body pinned.
Her lips bruised.
The shame of it lit her eyes with a kind of sorrow that made him want to break her all over again.
"Don't look away," he said. "Don't you dare look away."
Her gaze snapped back to his—and her eyes were full of tears she'd never let fall.
He kissed them away.
"Let this haunt you."
Then his hand slid up her thigh, under her dress—slow, reverent.
But before she could moan, before she could fall—
He stopped.
Pulled back.
Just far enough for her to feel the loss. The hollow.
He smiled wickedly.
"This…" he whispered, breath ghosting her lips, "is just enough to make sure you'll come back."
And then he let her go.
Noor stood still—barely upright, trembling.
She didn't say anything.
She just bent, picked up her coat with shaking fingers, and walked out the door like she hadn't just been wrecked from the inside out.
And Sanlang…
He leaned his head against the wood after she left.
Closed his eyes.
And whispered, hoarse, cracked:
"Still bleeding for you…"
Noor slid into the passenger seat, the car door closing with a soft click that felt far too final.
Maya didn't look at her.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white, jaw tense. The engine rumbled to life, but she didn't move just yet.
"You have to come back to the orphanage," she said, finally with urgency. "It's about the boy."
Noor didn't respond right away.
The leather of the seat cooled her bare thighs through the fabric of her dress. She exhaled—slow, steady—adjusting the hem where it had ridden up during Sanlang's goodbye. The fabric still smelled of him. Her pulse still hadn't settled.
"Rian?" she asked, voice neutral.
Maya's gaze flickered toward her for the first time.
Something in her expression faltered—but she recovered fast. "Yeah."
Noor didn't miss the delay.
"What happened?"
"I think… I think he saw something." Maya finally pulled the car into gear. "He's not speaking, not blinking. Just… staring at the wall. He hasn't moved in hours. Not even to breathe, I swear."
Noor turned slowly to look at her, brows furrowing. "What do you mean 'not breathing'?"
"I don't know!" Maya snapped, then winced. "Sorry. I'm just—something's off. Even Zeyla wouldn't go near him."
That got Noor's attention.
They drove in silence for a moment, the city blurring by, and it wasn't until they turned onto the winding path toward the orphanage gates that Maya added, almost too casually:
"He said something. Before he went still."
Noor's fingers tensed on her lap.
"What did he say?"
Maya hesitated, then laughed—a forced sound. "It was probably nonsense. Just... something weird."
"Maya."
Her name sounded like a warning.
Maya sighed. "He said, 'The king touched the wound, now the mirror remembers.'"
Silence.
Noor didn't blink.
Her throat dried.
Her heart—ache, hunger, something—twisted inside her ribcage.
And then she smiled. Thin. Terrible. "Children say the strangest things."
"Yeah," Maya muttered, eyes narrowing at the road ahead. "Strangest things."
The doors to the orphanage swung open, and Noor stepped in.
But she was too calm for our own good . But Zeyla didn't miss a damn thing.
"Ah, the prodigal queen returns," Zeyla called from across the hall, arms crossed, one brow raised so high it could've sliced through clouds. "Tell me, My Lady—did the royal skies treat you kindly, or did your chariot break down on the way from Olympus?"
Noor walked past her without a word.
Zeyla fell into step beside her, mockingly slow.
"Don't tell me you got lost. I was about to send out a search party—armed with spite and perhaps a killing order."
Noor gave her a tired glance. "Not now, Zeyla."
"Oh, it's now," Zeyla said, eyes narrowing. "Because the you're waltzing in like you're late for brunch?"
They stopped at the hallway.
Silence stretched thin.
Zeyla's eyes dropped to Noor's neck. The high collar. The long sleeves. Covered.
Too perfect.
And still—
Zeyla didn't press it.
Instead, she smirked. "You hiding holy wounds under that dress, Your Majesty?"
Noor exhaled. "Zeyla, where is he?"
Zeyla's smile dropped just a notch.
"…room at the end. Hasn't spoken a word since yesterday. You might wanna brace yourself."
Noor said nothing else. She walked.
Zeyla followed, voice quieter now—. "You've got that walk again."
Noor opened the door.
The boy sat in the corner of the room, legs drawn up, eyes vacant.
Zeyla leaned against the doorframe, arms still crossed. "Kid won't eat, won't talk. Just sits there like he's watching something none of us can see."
Noor stepped in.
Zeyla's tone softened just barely. "You know him, don't you?"
No answer.
The boy looked up.
And his eyes—
Pitch black.
Noor stopped mid-step.
Still, Zeyla chuckled behind her. "Oh, come on. He's a little creepy, sure, but that's half the kids here—"
Then the boy moved.
He stood.
Crossed the space between them in a heartbeat.
Wrapped his arms around Noor's waist like he needed to anchor himself to something real.
And then—
Steel.
The knife plunged into her abdomen with a sickening, wet sound.
Noor gasped—but didn't scream.
Zeyla didn't think.
She moved.
Her foot slammed against the floor as she lunged, fury rising like blood through bone.
Her voice was a snarl. "You little—!"
But Noor raised her hand—shaking, soaked in crimson—and caught Zeyla's wrist mid-air.
"No."
Her voice was hoarse. Cracked.
Zeyla stared at her like she was insane. "No? He stabbed you!"
The boy trembled in her arms.
Then he whispered.
"Lior."
And passed out.
Zeyla stared.
Maya was frozen in the doorway, pale as bone, her lips parted in a silent gasp.
Zeyla knelt by Noor's side, fingers soaked in blood. Her eyes scanned the scene on front of her.
"Odd," she murmured. "The blade was clean. Sharpened recently. Not one you'd find in a kitchen drawer."
Maya staggered forward, still frozen. "Zeyla—he… he —"
"No," Zeyla interrupted, her voice clipped, crisp, like glass snapping. "He meant it. Look at the grip. Thumb to spine. That's not a frightened child. That's training."
She stood.Her gaze locked on the boy, who lay unconscious.
"His eyes," she said quietly. "Before he fell. Like something else was watching from behind them."
Zeyla didn't answer and pulled something from Noor's hair—so small, it was almost nothing.
A spider-thin black thread, glinting under the light. She turned it in her fingers, then tucked it into her pocket.
"Thread's not from her dress," she murmured.
Maya blinked. "How do you—?"
Zeyla didn't blink.
"Lior," Zeyla said flatly. "Maya…"
She stepped closer—too close.
"…you knew the consequences."
Maya's face went white.
"Careful," Zeyla whispered, her eyes gleaming like knives.
She turned, cradling Noor again, and walked toward the door.
As she passed the boy, she didn't look down—but she spoke.
"Next time… choose a better puppet."