The room they gave him was small and cold, lit only by a single narrow torch that sputtered like it was suffocating in its own smoke.
Jake sat on the stone bench, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands — trembling, unsure, foreign to him.
His thoughts came in waves.
Not gentle ones.
Crushing ones.
She lied.
No — she hid things.
But why hide something that big?
Why pretend to be someone else?
Why bring me into a world I don't understand?
The room felt smaller the longer he sat there.
He tried to breathe normally, but every inhale stung.
His ribs still ached. His head still spun.
And the silence pressed in like a weight.
Whenever his thoughts spiralled too fast, he used to ground himself by thinking of Liora — the calm she carried, the steady way she breathed when he couldn't, the strange comfort of her presence.
He reached for that image now.
But instead, he saw her standing between her siblings and the door — small, trembling, humiliated.
He saw her siblings smirking.
He saw her flinch at his gaze.
And that hurt worse than the ribs.
His breath hitched.
Stop thinking about it, he told himself.
You're fine. You're alive. She's right down the hall.
But the truth echoed in his skull:
He and Liora were no longer on the same side of anything.
A knock at the door broke through the noise.
It creaked open, revealing someone Jake had never seen before — a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, dressed in the soft grey robes of a palace retainer. Her hair was dark brown, braided in tight rows behind her head, and her eyes — warm amber — flickered with polite concern.
"Jake Faust?" she asked gently. "May I come in?"
Jake blinked, startled. "Uh — yeah. Sure."
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with quiet hands.
Her footsteps were soft, practised.
Her posture relaxed in a way that immediately made the room feel less suffocating.
"My name is Samira," she said with a small bow. "I'm one of the junior guides assigned to foreign guests of the House."
Jake exhaled slowly. "Foreign guest. That's… generous."
Her mouth twitched with sympathy. "We're not all as cold as Princess Hafsa's siblings."
He stiffened. "Liora. Her name is Liora."
Samira smiled kindly. "Then I will call her that."
She paused. "I saw what happened earlier. I'm sorry."
Something softened in Jake's chest.
Finally — someone who understood.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's fine. Just… a lot."
"Yes," she said quietly. "The House of Mors is overwhelming even for its own children."
Jake's gaze lifted.
Something about her tone felt… knowing. But not invasive.
Samira stepped closer, lowering her voice. "If you need someone to talk to… or simply a place to breathe without the weight of stone and spirits pressing around you, I can show you a few quieter corners."
Jake hesitated.
She responded exactly like she expected him to.
Kind. Calm. Understanding.
Not too familiar.
Not too distant.
Just enough to slip past his guard.
"That sounds… nice," he said before he could overthink it.
Samira smiled warmly — almost too warmly — and gestured for him to stand.
He followed her out.
He didn't notice her glance down the hall one way… then the other… as though checking the coast was clear.
He didn't notice the way her expression shifted for one heartbeat into something colder — calculating — before returning to gentle concern.
He didn't notice any of it.
Liora saw them before they saw her.
Jake… walking beside Samira.
Jake… talking.
Jake… smiling, even if faintly.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Samira bowed politely as they passed.
Liora didn't return it.
The girl was harmless.
She'd worked in the palace for years.
Never once had she shown ambition toward politics or power.
And yet—
Something about her presence near Jake set every instinct in Liora's body on high alert.
Jake noticed her standing there.
His expression didn't brighten.
It tightened.
"Where were you?" he asked, not coldly, but not warmly either.
She swallowed. "Trying to request an audience with my father."
"…And?"
"They won't let me through."
Jake nodded — but there was no sympathy this time.
Just an acknowledgement.
Liora's gaze drifted to Samira.
And Samira smiled sweetly.
Too sweetly.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Samira said softly. "Jake looked overwhelmed. I offered him a walk."
Liora's chest burned.
Not with jealousy — she didn't have the luxury of that feeling.
But with fear.
Fear that she was losing him.
Fear that he was slipping into the cracks her family had forced open.
"I don't trust her," Liora said quietly once Samira walked away.
Jake's jaw tightened. "Why? Because she talked to me?"
"That's not—Jake, listen—"
"No."
His voice was tired.
Exhausted.
Hurt.
"Liora, I don't want to fight anymore. If you have a problem with the one person here who's actually being kind—"
"That's not fair," she whispered.
But Jake was already stepping back.
"I need space. Please."
The word "please" cut deeper than any cruelty would have.
She let him go.
Because what right did she have to hold him close
When she'd never let him see the parts of her he deserved to know?
Her siblings' words echoed in her skull:
She always runs.
She always has to.
She always shames us.
She closed her eyes.
Jake was slipping away, not because of Samira…
But because Liora had built her entire life on a truth she refused to show him.
And now he was paying the price.
Three Days Later
Jake spent most of those days wandering the palace with Samira.
Liora spent most of them alone.
The ache between them grew, not with anger, but with something worse:
Distance.
Loneliness.
Misunderstanding.
Liora watched him from afar, heart quietly fracturing each time he recoiled from her attempts to talk.
Jake watched her when she wasn't looking, feeling guilty every time he saw the exhaustion pulling at her eyes.
But neither knew how to cross the void.
Not anymore.
On the third sunrise, the doors finally opened.
"Princess Hafsa," the guard announced. "You and your companion may enter."
Jake and Liora were led through towering obsidian archways into a room carved from darkness itself. The air was cold. Silent. Heavy with the presence of ancient magic.
Lining the hall were robed figures of the Mors Council, faces hidden behind gilded masks.
And at the far end, on a throne of blackened limestone, sat her parents.
Her mother first: Hair as white as desert moonlight. Skin the soft gold of dunes at dawn. Eyes—bright, metallic gold—that watched with the focus of a surgeon.
For a single heartbeat, the formality broke, and a flash of reunion joy—unmistakable motherly relief—crossed her face before the mask of duty returned. Her gaze then flickered to Jake, cold and assessing.
But it was her father who commanded the room.
Alim Al-Samawi.
The Living Death.
His hair was black as void. His irises are a deep, unnatural purple—the exact shade of dying twilight, the colour between the last breath and the next world.
His presence wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It pressed against the bones. Against the lungs. Against the soul.
Jake felt it from across the room. Liora felt it in her blood.
"Daughter," Alim said quietly—and the sound was both loving and terrifying.
Jake swallowed hard.
This was the man Liora had run from. This was the world she belonged to.
And Jake suddenly understood: She hadn't been afraid of her family. She had been afraid… that they would take her back.
And that she would have to leave him behind.