The Zarr estate guards, their faces pale beneath their polished helms, shifted uncomfortably under Kahina’s serene, unblinking stare. The shattered kneecap of their comrade was a vivid, wet stain on the imported Serpentine marble. They dragged the whimpering man out, leaving a faint, coppery scent in their wake. “The Emperor will be… pleased,” the lead guard managed, his voice strained, before he bowed stiffly and retreated, his men hustling after him, the heavy oak doors closing with a thud that echoed through the salon. Kahina rose from her crouch, her silken robes rustling softly. The silver tea tray lay abandoned, its surface glinting innocently. She turned her attention back to Ozan, who remained motionless, his good eye still fixed on her, an unreadable depth in its dark iris. The blood on his torn tunic had begun to crust, dried brown from hours without treatment. “Laleh,” Kahina called, her voice clear and calm. “Prepare the chambers adjoining mine. And ensure a physician is discreetly sent for – one who understands the meaning of silence.” Laleh emerged from behind a towering lacquered screen, her face a mask of concern for Kahina, her eyes lingering on the still-trembling form of the Qadiran general. “Immediately, my lady.” She shot a wary glance at Ozan before hurrying off. Kahina approached Ozan again, extending a hand slowly, deliberately. “Can you stand, General Dakhmar?” He flinched back, a barely perceptible tremor running through him, but didn't speak. His gaze flickered from her hand to her face, searching, always searching, for a hidden blade in her words, a poisoned chalice in her touch. “I understand your apprehension,” Kahina continued, her voice soft, devoid of judgment. “But you are in my home now. And here, I am the only one who dictates your fate.” She paused, letting the statement settle, its quiet authority undeniable. “I will not call guards. I will not allow further harm to come to you.” She reached for his arm again, her fingers brushing the stiff fabric of his sleeve. This time, he didn't pull away entirely, though his muscles remained rigid. With a surprising strength for one so wounded, he pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the ornate armrest of the settee. He swayed, and Kahina instinctively steadied him, her hand warm against his forearm. “This way,” she murmured, guiding him gently towards a hidden passage behind a heavy embroidered hanging depicting the ancient founders of House Zarr. The passage was unlit, cool stone beneath their feet. Ozan’s head snapped up, his senses on high alert, but Kahina moved with an unhurried grace, her presence a steady anchor. They emerged into a private wing of the manor, far from the main thoroughfare. The chambers Laleh had prepared were spacious, a stark contrast to the rough dungeons Ozan had endured. A low brazier burned, casting flickering shadows across walls adorned with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns woven into dark silk. These were the Dream-catch weaves, ancient protective spells worked into wall hangings, said to soothe troubled minds and ward off malevolent energies. “The physician will arrive shortly,” Kahina stated, pulling a plush fur throw from a carved chest. “Rest. The weaves will offer what comfort they can.” She laid the throw on the bed, her movements economical. “I will be in the adjoining room. Call if you require anything.” He watched her, his silence a heavy cloak. She left him then, closing the connecting door softly behind her. Ozan stood in the center of the room, the lingering scent of magical salve and the faint aroma of jasmine from Kahina’s robes filling the air. He brushed his fingers over the smooth, dark silk of the Dream-catch weave, his brow furrowed. It hummed faintly under his calloused palm, a strange, low vibration that seemed to calm the pounding pulse in his temples. Hours later, Kahina was jolted awake by a guttural, strangled cry that tore through the quiet of the night. It was not a sound of pain, but of raw panic, torn straight from the gut. She was out of bed in an instant, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, her hand instinctively reaching for the small, weighted dagger she kept beneath her pillow. She burst through the connecting door. The room was bathed in the dim light of the dying brazier, but it was enough to see Ozan thrashing on the bed, trapped in the clutches of a nightmare. His body was a tangle of limbs, sweat plastering dark hair to his forehead, his face contorted in a silent agony. His eyes were wide open, yet vacant, staring at horrors only he could perceive. “Ozan!” Kahina called, her voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his terror. She moved towards him, cautious but firm. “Wake up! You are safe!” Her words seemed only to sharpen his frenzy. With a desperate lurch, he twisted, his body uncoiling with sudden, feral speed. Before Kahina could react, he was off the bed, a blur of motion in the near-darkness. A glint of something sharp flashed in his hand. He slammed her back against the nearest wall, his arm pressing against her windpipe, the glass shard held firmly against the tender skin of her throat. His breath came in ragged gasps, hot and frantic against her face. His eyes, though unfocused, fixed on her with unblinking ferocity. He was not seeing *her*, but the phantom of some past tormentor. The pressure of the glass was cold, a searing line against her skin. Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through Kahina, but she shoved it down, deeper than ever before. This was not the time for it. This was the moment she had foreseen, the tragic turning point she was here to rewrite. Her hands, instead of reaching for her dagger, came up slowly, carefully, to rest on his forearms, not to fight, but to ground him. She could feel the tremors running through him, the sheer, overwhelming panic. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice a low, steady balm in the chaos. “Ozan, look at me. You’re here. In Marqut. In the Zarr residence.” Her gaze bored into his, trying to pierce through the nightmare. “It’s only me. Kahina.” He blinked, a slow, agonizing process. The wildness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a momentary confusion, then a resurgence of frenzy. He pressed the glass shard harder, a tiny bead of blood welling up where it broke the skin. Kahina didn’t flinch. She leaned into his touch, into the pain, keeping herself anchored and present. “This is real, Ozan,” she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she rarely allowed herself to show. “I am real. You’re not there anymore. You’re with me.” Slowly, deliberately, she pulled him closer, enveloping him in a fierce embrace. The glass nicked her again, deeper this time, a thin line of warmth blossoming on her neck. But she held him, her arms wrapping around his broad back, one hand pressing firmly against the Dream-catch weave on the wall behind him. The faint hum of the woven magic seemed to intensify, wrapping around them both, a subtle shield against the unseen horrors. His rigid body began to tremble violently, then, with a choked sob, he collapsed against her, the glass shard clattering to the floor. His arms, which had held her captive, now clung to her, a desperate anchor in his storm-tossed mind. She held him as he shuddered against her shoulder, taking his weight, shielding him from the dark. She stroked his hair, the coarse strands surprisingly soft beneath her fingers. “It’s alright,” she murmured, over and over, a litany of comfort. “It’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe.” Minutes later, or perhaps an eternity, his trembling subsided. He pulled back slightly, his head still buried in the crook of her neck, his breath evening out. His good eye found hers, clear now, though still haunted. He saw the faint lines of blood on her throat, the mark of his nightmare. A profound, crushing horror flooded his face. He pulled away completely, his hands reaching for her neck, his fingers hovering over the wound, not touching, as if afraid to break her further. “Kahina…” His voice was a raw rasp, barely a whisper. Before she could answer, the door to the outside corridor burst open. Laleh stood there, her face ashen, clutching a dead messenger pigeon in one hand. Its leg was tied with a silk thread, and a miniature scroll, sealed with the dreaded Imperial sunburst, was clutched in her other hand. She held it out to Kahina, her breathing ragged. “My lady, this bird… it wasn’t meant for us. The seal is from the Emperor’s personal cipher, and the message… it speaks of a ‘diversion’ and ‘loose ends being tied tonight’!” As Laleh’s words hung in the air, a new sound cut through the silence of the corridors. Heavy, synchronized footsteps. Not the shuffling gait of household staff, nor the hurried pace of guards on patrol. These were deliberate, measured steps, too many of them, echoing ominously down the private corridor, growing louder, closer. They were already inside the compound. They were already in this wing. They were coming for them.

Night Terrors and Silk