Aziz Ardashir had a ritual each morning. Long before the sun had risen, Ardashir went to light the candles in the prayer house by himself. He found he enjoyed the solitude of the prayer room before dawn, for the others went to the Jameh house in Ifsharan square.

A chill wrought the air in the halls. It was getting near winter, and the snows would be arriving. He preferred the winter to these transitional, in-between seasons of autumn and spring — they were like unfinished seasons, uncertain, in a process of change like a still-nascent youth. But winter — there was something definite about it.

He preferred certainty, concreteness, solidity. And there was nothing more certain than the dead of winter with its bare branches and pure coldness. It did not leave you speculating, doing the guesswork — it was what it was: one singular thing, not an amalgamation of temperatures, processes, and hues.

He washed up for prayer, letting the water run down his face and his arms. Rituals like this grounded you. He dried off and went on his way to the house of worship.

When he opened the door, he found that someone had already lit the candles. Who else came here at this hour? Whoever it was, they had ruined his early dawn peace.

But from within the darkness in the corners where the candlelight did not reach, he thought he saw the flashing eyes of an animal glinting. A silhouette moved, almost like a fox.

But no, it could not have been a fox — at the head of the dark prayer room, right in front of the stand from which the priest would recite, a figure stood in the shadows.

Someone had to come to pray. But — there was a strange light emanating from the figure, so that the light of the candle paled in comparison.

Ardashir approached closer, and it was then that he saw — it was the pacing woman from the street.

He froze.

She had become a nuisance.

I see the blood on your hands, Ardashir, even if they do not. And I will see you in hell.

The sheer impudence, to lean in such close proximity to him, without shame, and whisper such a thing.

The woman finished her prayer, turned her face to each shoulder, and brought up her hands to make supplication, as if she had not heard him.

“Begum, it is unacceptable for you to be here, as I have already cautioned you,” Ardashir declared, trying to maintain a semblance of civility. “Leave at once, or I will drag you out in disgrace, and I would not want to do that."

The woman folded up her hands and stood up to face him, and the brilliance of her eyes struck him. What possessed her to such impudence? Her gaze made him want to make her bow, to teach her how to look at someone like him, to lower her eyes.

She turned abruptly away and made for the doors into the courtyard.

“Do not return again, begum," Ardashir called, heading to the courtyard after her. "You will test my hand."

The next second, the woman rushed at him across the fountain and it was as if she crossed the distance between them with inhuman speed. She gripped his shoulders. Her auburn veil framed against umber skin, and her cold eyes glowed. Her grip tightened around his shoulder, and Ardashir felt a surge of current scorch his skin. Heavily, he shoved the woman’s arm off of him.

“What in damnation are you?” he growled, pulling out his dagger. He slashed at her, but the woman leaped away, backing into the courtyard walls.

But he lunged at her, and caught her by a breadth of a second — a slash across the arm.

She flew at him and hurled him against the stone wall. Lightning filled the courtyard.

His back was on fire. He was Aziz Ardashir the Chief of Ifsharan, one of the greatest Shayfahan generals Khardin had ever seen. And she dared to throw him in such a manner. And yet—

Somehow, somewhere inside him, he was beginning to understand why she was here. With difficulty, he stood up.

The woman raised her other hand, contemplating it. “Do you see this?” Energy resembling bolts of lightning flowed across her fingers. “This is because of you, so you should not be surprised, truly. It was your doing that led to a chain of events here, now, in this moment.” She raised the hand towards him, showing him. “This is all I gained since the day you killed my children. It is power. But do you know what?” she whispered. “I’d rather have my children still alive, still with me, than this power.”

“It would be a kindness, to save them from you,” Ardashir growled at her.

The woman’s eyes hardened, and he knew he had gotten to her. “I should kill you.” He saw that her hands trembled. “I want to more than anything. But I don’t know if I could live with myself. No, I don’t want to become you,” she whispered. “But I promise you this, Ardashir. Wherever you go next, I will be there. Everywhere you turn, you will find me.”

Ardashir laughed. “And I will kill you.” It didn't matter anymore why she was here. He launched himself at her with the dagger again, and this time, his blade caught the woman in the stomach. She stumbled backwards, blood pooling across her.

She moved in a flurry of motion, and a thunderous sound filled the room. The light blinded him, and when he could see again, she had disappeared.

Ardashir stumbled down the dark candle-lit halls for the guards, and when he turned a corner, they rushed down to him. “Sir, are you alright?”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

He grabbed one of the men by the neck. “Do you know what I am going to do to you?” He had not felt this rage, this hate in a long time, not since he faced the Deceiver. The injury in his back screamed.

He threw the man up against the wall.

“Sir, we need to take you to the physician.” The other guards grabbed his arms.

But he pulled himself away from them. “You let that damned woman — that madwoman inside again!” He growled through the pain.

The men looked at each other, then back at him. “No sir, we didn’t let anyone in.”

“Find her!”

With the entrances locked, the guards searched the Tower. Finding nothing, they returned to the courtyard.

At the western edge of the courtyard ground, there was a dark ring as if scorched by a fire, a lightning.

***

Curious eyes gathered around the scorch-mark in the courtyard all week long. The young apprentices from different studies milled around nearby the scorchmark pretending to simply be dawdling.

Jabir ibn Hayyan, the head of the Tower guards, had forbidden anyone to go near it. He had tried to get the servants to clean the scorch-ring on the floor of the courtyard, but no amount of abrasive soap or furious scrubbing could get the mark out of the ground. So, finally, they covered the ring with a jute rug.

He had begun an investigation into the auburn woman’s identity.

Some of the scholars began to whisper that the woman wanted to disrupt the compiling of the Interpretations, or that she was part of the protesters in the streets. Some said she was sent by a jealous rival to do witchcraft upon the Chief, to unravel his station and position.

The clinking of dishes and glasses, chattering and laughter came from the dining hall early before dawn. For it was the first day of the Fasting Month.

But I could not eat.

I climbed up to the calligraphy hall. The chill made it apparent Uncle Faizul had ‘forgotten’ to light the torches again.

The calligraphers arrived several hours later, settling into their desks. No one seemed much to want to jostle and talk, for it was only halfway through the week and we already had bags under our eyes.

Master Farhan let us out early, before it was time to break the fast.

I headed down to the kitchens to find Sahan.

I had not seen her much of late, buried in my own thoughts and the Interpretations.

“Let’s take some naan to the courtyard and see the scorch-mark ring,” I said when I found her in the kitchens.

Sahan was in the midst of the evening bustle, the rush of preparing everything in time for the breaking of the fast. The cooks rushed this way and that in the heat and smoke. Flour and crushed spices littered the counters and stone floors, earthen bowls of mixtures and troughs for kneading dough spread everywhere.

Sahan gazed pleadingly at Nanu Zaynab, who was wiping her hands across her forehead as she directed someone to take up the trays to the dining hall. Nanu Zaynab glared at me. “Always taking my Sahan, aren’t you?”

I smiled sheepishly at her. “She has to break the fast too, doesn’t she? Give her a break for now.”

Zaynab gave Sahan a good stare and sighed. “I guess it’s all done now, go ahead. We’ll clean up after.”

Sahan grinned wide, gave Zaynab a big kiss on the cheek as Zaynab laughed despite herself.

Sahan wrapped some food, tore off her apron and rushed out of the kitchens.

“Have you seen it?” she asked in wonder as we made our way up to the courtyard. “The scorchmark?”

“Not yet,” I said.

Three apprentices from the al-kimiya tower were ambling around, peering between the corners of the fountain and potted plants, whispering to each other. They wore robes of silver identifying them as the chemists. One of them exclaimed by a potted jynaria plant, moving it aside, and the others rushed over to them.

They muttered among themselves for a while, daring each other to touch something on the ground. But the tallest one with thick brows and sharp hazel eyes noticed Sahan and I, nudging the others. Quickly, the three shuffled away.

“Jabir may have banned the scorchmark from turning into some kind of monument, but I think it’s had the opposite effect,” Sahan whispered.

On the stone ground was a dark ring-shaped burn mark. Some force had nearly shattered the stone itself.

“How did she disappear to leave behind this kind of damage?” I murmured.

“What I want to know is what powers must she have? Whatever it is, I want it,” Sahan smirked.

I inspected the mark.

“Don’t touch it!” Sahan hissed. “Who knows what —”

I rubbed my fingers. “Smells of ash and fire,” I said. Sahan frowned.

The adhaan call for the evening prayer rose out over Ifsharan. Down below, the city would be scrambling back home to break the fast, closing up shops or leaving them haphazardly open.

We took our meal by the fountain, murmured prayers beneath our breaths and took the first bite of food since dawn. The cooks had made eggplants stuffed with peppers and kebabs.

Sahan chewed a date and gulped down rosewater drink. “So what is this important new business that has kept you so busy that you forgot about me?” She took a large bite of naan. “Uncle Abdullah says you are turning his library upside down. What are you so obsessed with finding out?”

“Sahan,” I said. “There is something I have to tell you.”

She stopped chewing. “I promise I won’t spit in Scholar Zinriyad’s daal again. Did someone say something to you?”

“Zinriyad? No.”

“Oh, alright then,” Sahan gulped down her food. “I swear it wasn’t during Ramadan,” she said quickly. “I would never do that while fasting. So what were you going to tell me?” she smiled sheepishly.

“The woman in the mosque —” I began. “She said she is from Thankar.”

“How do you know?”

“Her name is Nurbayn. I let her inside one of the afternoons.”

Sahan gaped.

“It wasn’t the morning of the attack, I wasn’t there. But I have been trying to understand — why would she attack him?” I said. “The day he confronted her outside, she whispered something to him. It is as if she knows him. She was watching him as if trying to identify him.”

“I wish I was there! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to get you involved,” I told her. “It really took a toll on Master Ardashir, the encounter with the woman.”

“Good,” Sahan said, chewing on her naan.

We sat for a while in silence as we ate. Leaves from the oak tree fluttered down, falling upon our shoulders. The moonlight overhead seemed to dim, the clouds sliding across the skies in the breeze, covering the sliver of moon.

Sahan murmured, “Something’s happened back home. There was a letter.”

I turned to her. There were circles beneath her eyes, I noticed now, and I did not think it was merely from the sleeplessness of the fasting month. I had been so distracted that I had truly been neglecting her. “Sahan,” I said, taking her hand. “What happened?”

“My amma is ill. A really bad fever, my brother wrote.”

“Sahan, you have to take my coin and go visit home. You need to go.”

Sahan frowned annoyingly at me. “My purpose in telling you this was not to beg for coin.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. I rummaged in the pockets of my robes, finding silver. “I have this for now, take it damnit, and I’ll give the rest of it from my rooms later.”

Sahan glowered at me. “I told you I don’t want it. I just wanted to talk—”

“Well, you can’t talk if you don’t let me do anything about it!”

“Fine then, I won’t!” Sahan said, standing up and gathering her things.

“That is not what I meant!” But Sahan was already stalking away back to the kitchens. “Why are you being so utterly stubborn?” I called. “Come back here!”

But I was already alone beneath the oak tree swaying in the darkness.

She reminded me of Qamarah when she took on her moods, when she was this stubborn and prideful that nothing could make you convince her otherwise.

Frustrated, I too went off up the stairs for the evening prayer.