The azure pillar of light pulsed, then dissolved, leaving an afterimage seared onto the terrified night. The shouts were closer now, a rising tide of fury and pursuit. Tariq, his hand still faintly clutched to Golnaz’s arm, stirred, a pained groan escaping his lips. His eyes, though barely open, held a raw, primal intelligence. “Palace… secure it,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper, before his head lolled against the cold stone. His brief awakening had drained him further. He was heavy, impossibly so, a deadweight of muscle and pain. She needed him out of sight, and fast. “Soraya, the back alley! The service entrance by the hibiscus gardens!” Golnaz snapped, her voice tight with urgency. Her own body felt like a live wire, every nerve humming with unstable energy. The absence of suppressants burned like lye, her ribs locking against an unstable gale. She could feel tendrils of raw magic prickling her skin, her vision flickering at the edges. One wrong move, and she might spontaneously combust. Or worse, turn Tariq into a particularly ornate garden gnome. Soraya, surprisingly quick-witted, was already hauling Tariq’s other arm over her shoulder. “Heavier than a cartload of spices, isn’t he?” she grunted, her face tight with exertion. “And you, Witch. You’re practically glowing. Try not to attract any more attention, yes?” They moved with a desperate, clumsy haste, dragging Tariq’s unconscious form through a labyrinth of narrow passages and overflowing refuse bins. The clamor of Omid’s approaching forces grew louder, a hungry beast closing in. Golnaz’s magic surged, scorching marrow and muscle. She used it, not with finesse, but with raw, undirected will, to bend a rusted iron grate, creating a makeshift shortcut into the estate grounds. The sudden burst of power wrenched through her, setting her molars to grinding. Once inside the relative calm of the fragrant gardens, the real struggle began: getting Tariq back to his bedchamber without alerting the household staff. They slipped through servants’ corridors, past slumbering guards, Soraya grumbling about her ruined silk gown, Golnaz muttering about the exquisite pain in her chest. They finally reached Tariq’s opulent chambers, the door ajar. A single, gilded oil lamp cast a soft glow across the familiar, enormous bed. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over Golnaz. But the relief was fleeting. A figure, draped in swathes of shimmering violet silk, was perched on the edge of Tariq’s bed, one hand delicately stroking his brow. Pari. Her half-sister, looking like a vulture that had raided a silk merchant’s entire stock. Pari’s gaze, greedy and triumphant, swept from Tariq’s still form to Golnaz, then to Soraya, and finally back to the unconscious lord. A glint of something sharp, like a freshly sharpened dagger, sparked in her eyes. “Well, well, if it isn’t the disgraced witch and her pet street rat,” Pari purred, her voice dripping with saccharine venom. “How thoughtful of you to bring my true husband back to me. Did you truly think you could keep this manor, this wealth, this magnificent lord, from his rightful wife? A forged contract, you say? How quaint.” She brandished a scroll of parchment, its wax seal ostentatiously large, the script florid and undeniably fake. “This, my dear, is a notarized declaration of our union, signed and sealed by a most… persuasive scribe. And now, with the Beast awake, albeit briefly, I shall cement my claim.” Pari leaned in, her painted lips puckering, aiming for Tariq’s unmoving mouth. Golnaz’s vision narrowed to a pinprick. The blaze in her veins roared. Her hands, still tingling with raw power, twitched. She had endured abuse, poverty, and betrayal, but seeing this grasping parasite attempt to defile Tariq, who had shown her more kindness in a few weeks than her family had in a lifetime, was a bridge too far. Her magic, untamed and furious, responded. The violet silk gown Pari wore, a stolen piece of finery, began to undulate. Not with the sway of fabric, but with something living beneath its surface. Pari, oblivious in her moment of gloating, reached for Tariq’s hand. “My sweet, sweet lord,” she cooed, “soon, you will see who truly deserves to be your queen.” “Oh, I think he already knows,” Golnaz growled, her voice low and dangerous. A faint, chitinous rustle filled the opulent chamber. The silk of Pari’s gown tightened, then bulged. A leg, segmented and jointed, poked through the fabric. Then another. Pari shrieked, a high, piercing sound that scraped against the gilded ceilings. The violet fabric ripped, not from a tear, but from the synchronized emergence of dozens of small, dark, scuttling creatures. Live scorpions, their tails arcing, their pincers snapping, swarmed over Pari’s body, her stolen gown dissolving into a horrifying, crawling mass. Pari’s face went from smug triumph to utter terror in an instant. She screamed again, a raw, animalistic sound, flailing wildly as the scorpions, conjured from the very fibers of her greed, pinched and bit. “Get them off! Get them off me, you monster!” she wailed, scrambling off the bed, trampling her fake contract underfoot as she tried to tear the writhing, stinging mass from her skin. The scorpions, imbued with Golnaz’s furious magic, seemed to cling, multiplying with every panicked jerk. Pari, half-naked and covered in venomous arthropods, burst from the bedchamber, her screams echoing down the hall, fading into the night as she fled the halls, her screeches echoing into the night. Soraya stared, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across her face. “Well, that was… effective. If slightly dramatic. You truly are a menace, Golnaz.” Golnaz didn’t respond. The furious surge of magic that had turned a silk dress into a living nightmare had been too much. Her vision blurred, the edges of the room spinning into a golden haze. The unbanked heat, which had been a roaring torrent, now detonated. Her veins began to glow, a network of searing gold beneath her skin, pulsing with an unbearable intensity. Her knees buckled. The opulent carpet rushed up to meet her. “Golnaz!” Soraya’s voice was distant, muffled. “What’s happening?” But Golnaz could only feel the overwhelming heat, the pressure building, threatening to tear her apart from the inside. Her magic, no longer glitching, but failing, reached a catastrophic peak. The last thing she registered was a deep, resonant voice, magically amplified, booming through the very stone of the Al-Ruz Sun Palace, shaking the foundations, rattling the windows, demanding attention from every corner of the city. Omid’s voice. And it was filled with cold, merciless fury. “Bring me the witch within the hour, or I burn the Sun Palace to the ground.”

Scorpions and Speaker Threats