The scent of Mourner’s Myrrh hung heavy over the Grand Conservatory, mingling with bitter resin. Shireen Nazari stood rigid among the assembly of Astara’s finest gem-alchemists, her hands clasped tight over the somber folds of her dark robes. Above them, the Mirrored Citadel’s crystalline spires pierced the turquoise sky, reflecting the sun in a thousand fractured gleams. Below, the immense hall, usually vibrant with the hum of active enchantments, was hushed, save for the low chanting of the High Weaver. The previous Grand Weaver was gone, her luminous essence returned to the Gem-Veil. Shireen’s heart thrummed a nervous rhythm against her ribs. The ceremonial incense, a swirling tendril of silver smoke, drifted past her nose. It was meant to calm, to guide the departed spirit. For Shireen, it brought only chaos. A sudden, searing shock ripped through her mind, not an ordinary recollection, but a phantom echo from a life cut short. The air around her shimmered, not with magic, but with an internal tremor. The Grand Conservatory vanished, replaced by a crumbling stone chamber. The chanting faded, overtaken by the rasp of her own desperate breath. A younger Shireen, not this one, lay slumped against a cold wall, her eyes wide with disbelief. Looming over her, cloaked in shadow, was a figure. His face was set hard, his dark irises dark as pitch, devoid of warmth. Kian Rostami. His hand moved. Not the graceful, precise movements of the rival gem-alchemist who perpetually outshone her in every class. This was a brutal, swift strike. In his grip, a Sun-Ruby dagger, impossibly sharp, pulsed with malevolent crimson light. It plunged. Not into the air, not into a dummy. Into her. Into her chest, just above her beating heart. A gasp tore from her throat. The world spiraled into a blinding white flash, then oblivion. Shireen gasped aloud, a strangled sound that cut through the mournful silence like a rusty knife. The vision vanished, leaving her drenched in a cold sweat, her chest aching with a phantom wound. Kian. It was Kian. He had killed her. He was going to kill her again at the Grand Exhibition. He had to be. It was the only explanation for the terrifying clarity of the vision. Her hands, clammy and trembling, fumbled with the mourning-gem she held—a small, dark obsidian shard enchanted to absorb light and sound, creating a pocket of personal solemnity. But her fingers, slick with panic, lost their grip. The gem tumbled from her grasp, striking the polished floor with an audible *clink*. The jet sliver, instead of dimming, exploded. A dazzling burst of vibrant, celebratory hues—fiery reds, brilliant blues, verdant greens—shot upwards, spiraling into a magnificent, utterly inappropriate fireworks display. Giggles, quickly stifled, rippled through the younger apprentices. The High Weaver’s chant faltered. “Shireen Nazari!” a sharp, sibilant voice hissed from her immediate left. Yasmin Vahid, her perfectly coiffed hair now dusted with iridescent sapphire dust from the gem’s explosive display, glared at her. Yasmin, always immaculate, always poised, now resembled a poorly decorated confection. “Are you utterly incapable of basic decorum? This is a funeral, not a celebratory feast!” Before Shireen could stammer an apology, a shadow fell over them. A tall, lean figure stepped forward, his presence as chilling as the desert night. Kian Rostami. His dark eyes, so like the ones in her nightmare, swept over the chaos, then settled on her. Air caught in her throat. He wasn’t just a rival; he was her executioner. “Clumsy, as always, Nazari,” Kian’s voice, a low rumble, was laced with a familiar, weary disdain. He knelt, his movements fluid and precise, utterly unlike her own flailing. His fingers, long and elegant, danced over the crackling remnants of the shattered mourning-gem, a subtle hum of counter-magic emanating from his touch. The brilliant light show fizzled, fading into dull smoke. He had neutralized the volatile blast as effortlessly as he breathed. His face, usually impassive, was creased with a slight frown. His proximity was suffocating. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of polished jade and elemental lightning that always clung to him. The sight of the dagger flashed again, so vivid she almost screamed. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her, and she couldn’t let that happen. Not again. “Idiot,” he muttered, standing, a single, inert obsidian fragment resting in his palm. “You need to pay more attention.” He tossed the fragment into a disposal chute with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He was dangerous. Lethally dangerous. The only way she could survive the Grand Showcase, the ‘kill-or-be-killed’ final trial that had ended her in another life, was if he wasn’t a threat. After the funeral rites concluded, Shireen sprinted through the arched hallways, her mind racing. She found Omid Fard, her cousin, sprawled on a plush Divan in the apprentice lounge, trying to levitate a bowl of candied dates into his mouth. He was loud, a bit dim, and her most reliable accomplice. “Omid! I need your help!” she whispered, practically vibrating with urgency. “It’s life or death!” Omid, startled, dropped the bowl, sending dates scattering across the ornate rug. “By the Whispering Sands, Shireen! What is it? Did you finally perfect the Exploding Truffle?” “Worse! Kian Rostami is going to murder me!” she blurted, then quickly lowered her voice, scanning the empty lounge. “At the Grand Exhibition. I saw it. He *killed* me! With a Sun-Ruby dagger!” Omid stared at her. “The brooding Rostami? The one with the perpetually furrowed brow? Are you sure you weren’t just dreaming about his incredibly sharp cheekbones?” “Omid!” she hissed. “This is serious! I have to survive the Grand Exhibition. And the only way to do that is to make sure Kian Rostami is… distracted. Permanently.” “Distracted? By what? More of your exploding gems?” he asked, picking up a date. “No! By a wife! We need to find him a wife! Someone who will occupy all his attention, so he doesn’t have time to plot my demise!” Shireen leaned in conspiratorially. “Someone… captivating. Someone he’ll dote on, adore, be completely obsessed with! So obsessed he forgets I even exist!” Omid paused, a date halfway to his mouth. “A wife for Rostami? Shireen, you’re brilliant! What could possibly go wrong with a scheme like that?” Shireen didn’t have a chance to answer. A cold voice sliced through the air from the doorway. “Since when does the academy’s worst student understand quantum-gem weaving, Shireen?”

The Incense of Doom