*Burn my estate? My treasures?* A primal, avaricious fury, far stronger than the pain, surged through Golnaz. She wouldn't let him. Not her treasury. Not her inlaid lapis ceilings. Not her husband, who smelled of sandalwood and powdered sugar. Soraya’s frantic hands hauled her upright by the silks. Golnaz focused on her companion's pallid face. “He wants me,” she rasped, her throat scraping raw. “To buy time for Tariq.”
“Time for what?” Soraya yelled. “He’s flat on his back, and you’re turning into a kiln!”
Golnaz shoved past her, staggering toward her bedroom chambers. “He singled out my possessions, Soraya. My *things*. And Tariq. He gets nothing.” Her gaze swept across the room, past the discarded robes and the scattered cushions, landing on the towering, cedarwood armoire. It wasn’t enough. No, it would *never* be enough. She needed more. All of it.
She ripped open the armoire doors, revealing shelves crammed with the spoils of her short, luxurious marriage. Strings of ancient pearls, heavier than river stones. Chiseled jade bangles, each thick as a man’s wrist. Torque chokers of hammered bullion, set with rubies the size of quail eggs. She seized handfuls, her scorched fingers fumbling with clasps. “Help me,” she ordered, finding her footing even as skin flares flickered. “Every single coin-weight piece. Every gem. I need to be… armored.”
Soraya, though bewildered, didn't argue. Perhaps the sheer audacity of Golnaz’s command, even in the face of imminent death, was enough to stir her into action. Together, they draped Golnaz in a clattering cascade of wealth. Heavy bullion discs were strung across her ribs, overlapping like fish scales. Bracelets stacked from wrists to elbows, forming a clinking brass-colored wall. Pendants coiled around her throat, burying her chin in bullion. Her loose hair was threaded with thick links, bells jingling with every step. By the time they finished, Golnaz was an ambulant brass monument to avarice, waddling stiffly under thirty pounds of plunder. Each piece felt like it absorbed a fraction of the internal inferno, though the relief was minimal.
“The guards won’t fight for us,” Soraya whispered, helping Golnaz heft a cumbersome shoulder mantle made of interconnected yellow-metal scarabs. “They’re mercenaries. They’ll open the gates at the first sign of real trouble.”
“Then I’ll meet him at the gates,” Golnaz declared, her voice rough, but resolute. “He wants the witch. He can have her briefly. Long enough for Tariq to wake.” She didn't know *how* Tariq would wake, or *if* he even could, but she had to believe. She *had* to.
She clattered down the grand marble steps, metal plates clashing against stone. The metal shone with reflected fever-light, yellow glints snapping off her armor. The house mercenaries dropped their pikes, mouths hanging open as the walking vault marched past. They parted for her, not in deference, but in sheer, dumbfounded awe. As she reached the main courtyard archway, the crash of a ram vibrated through the flagstones.
With a jingle and a clang, Golnaz pushed open a smaller side door, stepping out into the late afternoon light. Hakim Omid stood amidst a throng of rough-looking men, their faces grim under the desert sun. Behind them, the battering ram paused, its heavy impact still reverberating. Omid bared ivory teeth against his sun-darkened skin. He surveyed her absurd plating, snorting into his beard. “Behold the dung beetle,” he mocked, his magnified voice rolling over the plaza. “Dressed for her own sacrifice.”
“This beetle stings, apothecary,” Golnaz countered, fighting to stay upright as the heavy bullion scorched her ribs. “And your crude thugs won’t stop me from enjoying a peaceful afternoon tea.”
Omid’s smile vanished. His hand snapped forward, and a coiled strand of viridian luminescence whipped from his palm, binding her torso. Her metal carapace offered no resistance. Plates screeched as the glowing snare hoisted her two feet off the paving. Her internal fire flared against his grip, then sputtered. He was systematically draining her, pulling the energy from her core, like a malicious gardener plucking a wilting flower.
“Your magic is a volatile disease, little witch,” Omid crooned, stepping closer, his face alight with manic glee. “But it makes a delectable draught. So potent. So raw. Perfect for feeding my master plan.” He closed his eyes, savoring the flow as the green tendril pulsed. The radiance beneath her skin faded to an ache. Her vision blurred, the courtyard gates and Omid's grin smearing into gray. She was falling, not through space, but through herself, into a cold, dark abyss. *No. Not like this. Tariq…*
Just as the last spark of her consciousness threatened to wink out, a thunderous roar ripped through the air, vibrating through her very bones. The massive cedar portal exploded inward, showering splintered timbers and bronze fittings across the cobbles. Dust and debris billowed, temporarily obscuring the entryway, but then a figure emerged from the swirling chaos.
He was taller than she remembered, broader. His desert robes were torn, revealing glimpses of taut, muscled skin, scarred but strong. His dark hair, usually meticulously bound, was loose, framing a face etched with fury, his eyes glowing like heated brass, blazing with focused fury. Tariq. Not the masked Shadow. Not the comatose Beast. But something else entirely. The Beast of Zaribad, fully awake, shedding a lethal menace that sent Omid’s hirelings tumbling backward.
Omid’s jade snare slackened. His grin collapsed into chalky panic. “Impossible!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “The curse… it should have held!” He gripped the spell-tether, trying to drain Golnaz, but his stare locked onto Tariq’s steady advance.
Another step. A low growl rumbled in Tariq’s chest, a sound that made the very air vibrate. Tariq raised a single claw-ringed hand. The viridian bind snapped, dropping Golnaz onto her metal-padded rump. Tariq stepped across the crushed gateway timbers, wading straight into the green ward Omid had cast across the alley. The barrier, forged to slice bone, simply dissolved around his shoulders like steam. He locked eyes with Hakim Omid, amber irises lethal, and rasped, “Nobody touches my wife’s magic. Or her baklava.”