The scream died in my throat, swallowed by the rush of wind through the newly shattered window. A sliver of moonlight, sharp as the blade arcing towards my bed, illuminated the assassin’s face. He wore night-spun linen, his pupils fixed on my collarbone. The cold steel, honed to a whisper, aimed for the spot above my heart, a familiar target. Not this time. Not again. My past life, a flicker of pain and searing heat, flashed behind my eyes. I remembered the heavy thud, the choked gasp, the unbearable warmth of Rustam’s blood as he took this very strike for me. I remembered the agony of the flames that followed, consuming us both. A primal roar, wordless and ancient, tore through me. Not a sound, but a surge of power, raw and untamed. The air around the jagged sill hummed. Glass shards, stalled mid-plunge by my sand-weaving, hovered in rows of serrated teeth. He faltered. My will seized the fragments. They swirled, a miniature sandstorm of deadly precision, then launched themselves, a silent, glittering volley. There was no sound of impact, only a wet, choked gurgle as the glass, sharp as any obsidian blade, tore through his exposed throat. He collapsed, a heavy sack, his blade clattering harmlessly against the polished floor. A dark, viscous pool began to bloom under his head, staining the intricate motifs of my hand-woven rug. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip of blood onto silk. I sat up, my bare shoulders rising from the tumbled furs, my breathing measured and calm. My eyes, still reflecting the moon’s cold light, swept over the fallen body, assessing angles, potential escape routes, the efficacy of the kill. Clean. Quick. No lingering suffering. A thunderous crash from the corridor ripped through my composure. The heavy, inlaid door to my chamber splintered, torn from its hinges. General Rustam var-Shirazi filled the doorway, his weight braced over his braced left knee, the burn scars along his cheek pale under the hallway lanterns. His hand was on the hilt of his sabre, the blade half-drawn, his stance wide, ready to cleave through any threat. His grey eyes swept the room, pausing on the shattered sill. My lethal stance melted away like ice in the desert sun. The calculating glint in my eyes vanished, replaced by a wide, trembling gaze. A shrill cry broke from my lips. “Rustam! Oh, Rustam, my dearest!” I bounded off the mattress and threw my arms around his neck. My arms wrapped around his neck, tight enough to bruise, burying my face in the hard plane of his chest. My sobs, entirely manufactured, wracked my frame, loud and uninhibited. “Oh, the horror! The unspeakable terror!” He froze, his body rigid as a desert petrified tree. His sword, which had been halfway drawn, slipped back into its scabbard with a soft *shink*. His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, gauntlets clinking. A wash of dark red climbed his throat to the rims of his ears, entirely rattled by my embrace. “Farzaneh? Are you… are you unharmed?” His voice, usually a deep rumble, was a fractured whisper. His scent, a mix of dry desert wind and polished steel, filled my senses. I pressed closer, my ‘sobs’ muffling the sound of my thoughts as I coolly assessed the still-bleeding corpse. *A novice, perhaps, but well-placed. Or an amateur trying to look professional.* “Unharmed, my love,” I wailed, peering up through dry lashes. “Though my poor heart is shattered! You saved me, my hero!” I planted a loud kiss directly onto the scar on his jaw, tucking my face back beneath his chin to feel the rapid pulse in his neck. He cleared his throat, stiffening. “There was… an intruder?” His gaze fixed on the crumpled shape near the sill, taking in the severed artery and the shattered pane. “A villain, a fiend!” I declared dramatically. “But you arrived just in time, my lion! He would have surely… oh, I cannot bear to think of it!” Rustam gently, almost hesitantly, disentangled himself from my embrace. My theatrical wails ceased immediately, though I kept a tremulous hand on his arm. He knelt beside the fallen man, his gaze sharp, analytical. He reached out, pushing aside the cloak that had fallen away from the assassin’s wrist. There, etched into the pale skin, was a stylized black lotus, its petals curling inwards like a fist. Kamran's personal mark. Air locked in my ribs. In our previous life, his syndicate had waited months to strike within the Sapphire Pavilion. He was accelerating his timeline.

The Glass Throat