The stone beneath my cheek was rough, cold with the gorge’s ancient breath. A scent of iron and ash clung to the air, thick and metallic, but beneath it, the sick sweetness of jasmine. Laleh. Always jasmine. I tasted blood, not just from the bite on my lip, but a deeper, acrid burn from my throat. “Roshanak Safar-Kavri,” a voice boomed, amplified by the natural acoustics of the Divan of Marv. The scholastic citadel, carved into the sheer faces of the Qammarid chasm, loomed above us like a monstrous, petrified warden. Tiny figures clustered on the tiered balconies, each one a witness, a judge. Below, on the jagged outcrop serving as this wretched stage, Qareen sentinels stood – their forms like woven light, their eyes searing points of emerald on the cusp of an eclipse. My neck ached, forced into an unnatural angle by the iron collar. I could just see her, standing on a dais of polished onyx, her silken robes the colour of dawn, unblemished by the dust of the execution block. Laleh. Her face, framed by dark, lustrous braids, was a study in serene sorrow. A tear traced a path down her cheek, perfect and glistening, catching the sparse light that filtered through the ravine’s maw. “A tragic end for one so promising,” Laleh’s voice, a melodic whisper, carried with chilling clarity. “Her heart, so twisted by envy, sought to unravel the very threads of our peace.” Envy. Peace. The words were a mockery. My vision blurred, not with tears, but with heat behind my ribs. Salt and bile rose in my mouth. They wanted a weeping villainess, a broken aristocrat begging for mercy. They would get a truth-sayer, even if it cost me the last flicker of this usurped life. I gathered the blood in my mouth, the metallic tang a fortifying draught. With a grunt that tore at my raw throat, I twisted my head, the iron collar scraping my skin. My aim was true. A crimson spray splattered across the pristine white satin of Laleh’s shoes, blooming like a malevolent flower against the purity. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Laleh flinched, her carefully constructed mask cracking for a fleeting moment, revealing a flash of genuine revulsion. “Parasite!” My voice, hoarse and ragged, ripped through the abyss, echoing off the ancient walls. “Usurper! You stole my lives! You rewrote their destinies! These hands,” I held up my bound wrists, rattling the chains, “are clean compared to the rot in your soul! You are a fraud! A weaver of lies! You condemned the innocent to save your own hollow skin!” The sentinels recoiled, their luminous forms flickering with agitation. Their ethereal spears snapped into position, their emerald eyes blazing. Murmurs escalated into shouts from the crowd, a mix of outrage and terror at my blasphemy. Laleh’s face, now devoid of sorrow, was a mask of cold fury. “Silence her!” she hissed, the command cutting through the din. “Erase her!” But a different sound cut through the chaos—a sharp, guttural roar that ripped from the back of the crowd. A man, his clothes tattered, his eyes shadowed by despair, lurched forward. Ozanir. My disgraced instructor. His face was gaunt, but in his eyes, a desperate fire ignited. He had been forbidden from wielding the spirit resonance, his power sealed by the very chains of his 'disgrace'. Yet, as the emerald-eyed wardens surged towards me, Ozanir threw his head back. A raw, guttural scream tore from his lungs, and the air around him fractured. Veins, thick and black, pulsed beneath his skin, warping the surrounding space with arcane pressure. It wasn't a summoning; it was a tearing. His own essence, forcibly constrained for years, exploded outwards, shattering the magical limiters that had bound him like glass. Power, raw and untamed, flared from him, pushing back the glowing phantoms like an invisible fist. “Taran!” he bellowed, his voice distorted by the eruption of his power. My younger brother, small and trembling, was huddled in the front row, his face pale with horror. Ozanir moved with impossible speed, a blur of raw force. He seized Taran, who was frozen in terror, and tucked him against his side. The polearm-bearers recovered, their points humming with retaliatory magic, but Ozanir, now a whirlwind of uncontrolled energy, carved a path through their ranks. He didn't fight to kill; he fought to escape, pushing them back, buying seconds. Then, a blinding flash. A searing white light consumed the execution block, obliterating the cliffs, the soldiers, Laleh’s enraged face. It was as if the Loom of Safar itself had decided I was too much a loose thread to remain. [A thread frays; will you weave or wither?] The monotone voice of the Warden of Safar, devoid of comfort, devoid of malice, resonated directly in my mind. The light faded, replaced by an inferno of sound and heat. Smoke choked me, thick and acrid, burning my nostrils. The stench of charring wood and melting wax was overpowering. The world spun, disorienting and violent, before I hit something soft, then hard. A gasp, a groan. My head throbbed. I lay amidst splintered timber and mirrored puddles of melted ice. Flames roared, consuming a grand ballroom, turning the once opulent wall-hangings and gilded chandeliers into a crumbling pyre. Masquerade masks, scattered across the floor, stared up with vacant, painted eyes. Above the cacophony of the fire, screams mingled with the frantic, out-of-tune strains of a string orchestra. Someone was beneath me. A man, his breath shallow, his body alarmingly still. I scrambled off him, my vision slowly clearing through the smoke. He lay half-buried under a collapsed beam, a jagged wound blooming crimson on his chest. His masquerade mask, a delicate silver filigree, was askew, revealing a face too young to be dying. His hand, slender and pale, reached out, clutching at empty air. His eyes, a startling shade of amethyst, were wide with pain and disbelief. “The… the heir… the… blood…” he choked, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on nothing. I gripped his hand, locking my fingers over his cold knuckles. This was it. The first broken soul. The first life Laleh had twisted. But then, a shadow detached itself from the roaring flames, impossibly tall, unnaturally silent. It moved through the inferno as if the heat did not exist, the flickering light casting long, dancing specters around its form. The air around it crackled with a familiar, dangerous energy. It was Ozanir. But not the disgraced, despairing instructor I had seen moments ago. This Ozanir was older, battle-scarred, lines of hard experience etched around his eyes. His movements were fluid, deadly. His power, no longer raw and uncontrolled, hummed with a quiet, terrifying mastery. He knelt beside me, his eyes, once pools of despair, now held a deep, ancient knowing. They were fixed on me, relentless and heavy. “Roshanak,” he whispered, his voice rough, resonant with years of waiting. “I have waited a decade in this timeline for you to fall.”

The Severed Thread