Zafira did not resist when the guards seized her.
Resistance would have been honest—and honesty, she had learned, was a luxury Ashara punished. She allowed herself to be led through the palace corridors, her head bowed, her veil drawn low. Inside her clenched fist, the ring pressed into her skin, cold as winter stone.
With every step, it grew heavier.
The throne chamber was lit despite the late hour. Candles lined the marble floor in deliberate rows, their flames unnaturally still. Sultan Kadir the Fourth sat upon the Lion Throne, robed in black and gold, his face pale and drawn. Sleep had not been kind to him.
"Leave us," he commanded.
The guards hesitated only a moment before withdrawing. The doors closed with a sound like finality.
Zafira raised her eyes.
"You were in the western archive," the Sultan said. It was not a question. "You have always had a fondness for forbidden places."
"I was ensuring the records remained intact," she replied evenly. "Someone had to."
Kadir's lips tightened. "Records lie. That is their purpose."
He stood, descending the steps of the throne. As he moved closer, Zafira felt the ring stir—awake, like a held breath. A faint warmth spread through her palm, pulsing in time with her heart.
"You stood in the square this morning," Kadir continued. "I was told you watched without turning away."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Zafira met his gaze. "Because truth deserves witnesses."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched too far.
Then the candles flickered.
Kadir froze. His eyes darted to the shadows along the walls as they lengthened unnaturally, twisting into shapes that did not belong to flame. A low hum filled the chamber, vibrating through bone and stone alike.
"What did you take from the archive?" the Sultan demanded, his voice cracking.
Zafira opened her hand.
The ring gleamed dully in the candlelight, its runes awakening one by one, glowing the same blue as the fire that had consumed the square. The hum deepened into a whisper—dozens of voices layered together, too old to be human.
Kadir staggered back. "That seal was destroyed."
"It was hidden," Zafira said. "Like so many inconvenient things."
The ring grew hot.
Images flooded the chamber—visions torn from time itself. The founding of Ashara, not as scripture claimed, but as conquest. The Covenant, forged not with gods, but with something buried beneath the earth, something that demanded memory in exchange for power.
Kadir screamed, clutching his head. "Make it stop!"
Zafira felt the pull then—the ring calling not to her hand, but to her will. She understood with terrifying clarity that it was not a weapon.
It was a choice.
She closed her fist, severing the vision. The candles steadied. The shadows retreated.
The Sultan collapsed to his knees, shaking.
"You could have destroyed me," he whispered.
"Yes," Zafira agreed. "But I need you alive."
His eyes snapped up. "For what?"
"To witness," she said softly. "Just as I did."
She turned and walked from the chamber, leaving the Sultan broken and silent behind her.
Elsewhere in the city, bells began to ring—not in alarm, but in confusion, chiming at the wrong hours, counting a time that no longer matched the sun.
And far below Ashara, something ancient shifted in its sleep, responding to the ring's awakening.
It was counting down.
And it knew Zafira's name.