Chapter 55 : The Scarlet Curse

Noor sat alone in her study, the dim glow of the lamp barely cutting through the darkness. Maps, dossiers, reports—her world laid out in ink and blood. But the words on the pages blurred, swallowed by the ghostly echoes clawing at the edges of her mind.

The fire.

The children.

She still couldn't hear them. Not clearly. Their screams had been devoured by the roaring inferno that night, their voices choked in the thick, acrid smoke. But she remembered the way their small hands had reached for her—blindly, desperately—as the flames devoured their fragile bodies.

A knock at the door.

Noor exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against the desk, grounding herself. "Enter."

Maya stepped in, the weight of the news already in her eyes. "We found one of their safe houses. It's a fortress, but we have a way in."

Noor's gaze flickered to her, slow, calculating. "And the men inside?"

"Armed. But—"

"Not dangerous enough," Noor finished for her, voice like ice breaking. A slow smile curled at the edges of her lips, but there was no warmth in it. "Tell the team to suit up. I lead the assault."

Maya hesitated. Noor could feel it. The unspoken plea caught in the air between them.

Maya finally said. "This is that night all over again, isn't it?"

Noor's fingers twitched.

For a fraction of a second, she was back there. Kneeling in the ashes, soot clinging to her skin, lifting bodies that had once been warm, once been alive. Their faces had been unrecognizable, flesh melted into bone, but she knew them. She had known every single one of them.

And the men who did it—who laughed as they watched it burn—were still breathing.

Her vision darkened at the edges.

"It was personal the moment they took their first breath," Noor murmured.

Maya studied her, searching for something—maybe the Noor she used to be. But that woman had died in the fire. Noor turned away, already pulling on her gloves, already stepping into the storm.

That night, Noor shed her silks for war.Her hair, once a cascade of dark waves, was pulled back into a severe braid. No ornaments, no softness. Only weapons strapped to her body, steel cold against her skin.

Standing before the mirror, she reached for the scar on her wrist—a phantom from the past. The only part of her that had burned that night.

She tilted her head slightly, exhaling a slow breath.

"Let's see how loud they scream."

As she stepped into the night, the storm inside her fully awakened. This wasn't justice. This wasn't redemption.

This was damnation.

_______

The next day

Zeyla's fingers curled into the blanket, breath unsteady. "Maya… tell me I'm seeing things."

Maya didn't answer. She couldn't.

Noor entered the hall, and the world itself seemed to shrink around her. The air stilled, the murmurs died, and for a fleeting second, it felt as if time itself hesitated in her presence.

Zeyla swallowed, hard. "She's…" Words failed her. "Unreal."

Maya's voice was barely a breath. "Otherworldly."

Noor had always been beautiful—an untouchable, distant kind of beauty, like a storm on the horizon or the glow of the moon on an endless sea. But this—this was ... Her presence wasn..; it was suffocating. An unshakable force that demanded submission without a single word.

Her face, framed by cascades of ink-black hair, was sharper tonight, as if carved from something more divine than human flesh. The absence of makeup only made her more terrifying—no illusion, no facade, just raw, unfiltered perfection.

Zeyla shuddered. "She doesn't belong here."

Maya forced herself to breathe. "She never did."

Zeyla's grip tightened. "Then why do I feel like… like she's here to judge us?"

Maya's stomach twisted. Noor's eyes swept across the room, slow, unbothered. Every gaze that met hers faltered, some turning away, others locking in place as if caught in a silent death sentence.

Maya exhaled shakily. "Because she is."

Zeyla's nails dug into her palm, her breath caught in her throat. "Maya… I don't think I can move."

Maya didn't answer—she couldn't. Every muscle in her body locked in place as Noor took her first step down the grand staircase.

The click of her heels against the marble floor echoed like a death knell, measured and unhurried. With each step, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, an invisible weight pressing down on every soul present.

Zeyla swallowed, her throat dry. "Why does it feel like the air itself is bowing to her?"

Noor descended with an effortless grace that was almost unnatural. The silk of her deep red dress barely stirred as she moved, as if even the fabric dared not defy her form. Her long, flowing hair cascaded like shadows spun from midnight, framing a face that belonged to no mortal realm.

Then her gaze lifted—unhurried, piercing.

Zeyla's breath left her in a silent gasp. A chill crawled up her spine, paralyzing. Her fingers trembled against the sheets, a cold sweat breaking across her skin.

Maya, standing beside her, felt it too. The moment Noor's eyes met hers, something ancient and merciless coiled around her lungs. It was not the stare of a woman. It was the judgment of something beyond human comprehension.

"Maya," Zeyla whispered, barely audible. "She's terrifying."

Maya clenched her fists, trying to steady her breathing. "That's because she's not like us."

Noor's gaze swept across the room, unreadable yet absolute. One by one, those who met it faltered—some turning away in silent submission, others frozen in place as if caught in the moment before execution.

Zeyla gritted her teeth, her body trembling. "Her eyes… they strip you bare. Like she already knows every sin you've ever committed."

Maya exhaled shakily. "She does."

Zeyla's breath hitched. "She's walking… No—she's descending."

Maya swallowed, feeling her throat run dry. "Like an omen."

The atmosphere thickened, pressing down on the onlookers like an invisible weight. Noor stepped forward, the sound of her heels—a measured, deliberate rhythm—echoing through the silent estate. It wasn't just beauty that held them captive. It was something darker. Something that coiled around the heart, tightening like an unseen noose.

"How can something so blinding be so terrifying?" Zeyla whispered, gripping Maya's arm as Noor passed.

Maya barely found her voice. "That is Noor."

Men lowered their gazes as if afraid that meeting her eyes would strip them bare.

She moved toward her car, unhurried, untouched, every step sinking deeper into their bones. Beauty made to worship. A presence meant to destroy.

______

The sky groaned beneath the weight of an oncoming storm, the wind howling through the trees like a chorus of unseen voices whispering warnings too late to be heard. The world itself seemed to recoil, as if it knew what was coming.

Then—the screech of tires against wet pavement.

A convoy of black SUVs came to a skidding halt, their headlights slicing through the dense rain. Doors burst open, boots slamming onto the ground, men fanning out with the precision of seasoned killers. They were prepared for a fight.

They had no idea what awaited them.

A single figure stood in the middle of the road.

Drenched in blood.

A sword gleamed in her grip, long, curved, dripping with the remnants of lives already taken. She did not flinch at the flashing beams of light, did not move at the sound of cocking guns. She simply *stood*, the wind tugging at her crimson dress, soaked in the same shade as the blood pooling at her feet.

Noor.

Her face was a blank canvas, devoid of emotion, yet there was something *wrong* about the way she held herself. As if she was waiting. As if she was listening to something only she could hear.

The men hesitated.

"Kill her."

The order was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The first gunshot rang out.

Noor moved.

Not away. Not to dodge.

She *stepped into* the bullet.

The metal barely grazed her cheek, a shallow cut forming before sealing itself within seconds, as if even her body refused to be touched by something so pitiful.

Then she disappeared.

A blur of crimson and steel.

The man who had fired the shot barely had time to gasp before his torso split open from shoulder to hip. The sound of steel against flesh was drowned out by the wet, gurgling screams as his body *peeled apart*, organs spilling onto the pavement.

Noor did not stop.

She twisted, her sword singing through the air, carving through the next man's throat so smoothly that his head remained on his shoulders for a fraction of a second before gravity claimed it.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then—chaos.

They opened fire. A storm of bullets rained upon her, the air vibrating with the sheer force of it. Noor did not run. Did not hide. She *danced* between the gunfire, her movements fluid, inhuman, a wraith among men.

A blade through the chest.

A severed arm spiraling through the night.

A man screaming as his intestines slithered from his belly, hands shaking as he tried to *push them back in*.

Noor did not blink.

She did not hesitate.

She *painted* the ground in gore, her sword a brushstroke of carnage, sweeping across bodies with the grace of a maestro leading a symphony of death.

A man lunged with a knife—she *caught* the blade between her fingers, steel cutting into her skin, blood mixing with the rain. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, she shoved it into his throat, twisting until the gurgling stopped.

Another swung a machete at her head—she *ducked*, the wind of it brushing her cheek, before she slid behind him and *carved* a path up his spine. His body seized, frozen mid-step, before collapsing in a twitching heap.

A gun pressed against her back.

Noor turned her head slightly, catching the reflection of the man behind her in the slick, bloodied pavement.

"Run," she whispered.

He did.

He never made it five steps.

The sword left her fingers, spinning through the air like a whisper of death, before embedding itself into his skull with a sickening *crack*. His body dropped, twitching once before stilling.

The air was thick with the scent of copper, the taste of death clinging to her lips.

Her own people—Maya, the others who had arrived too late—stood frozen at the edges of the carnage, unable to move, unable to breathe.

This was Noor.

No.

This was something ___

A being wreathed in agony.

A devil in human skin.

The last man standing—his breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. His hands, blood-slick, trembled around the knife he clutched as if it could protect him. He could not move. Could not think.

Noor walked toward him, slow, deliberate, her bare feet leaving prints of red upon the pavement.

She knelt before him.

Tilted her head.

The man choked on his own sobs.

"You should have run," she murmured, reaching out.

He *screamed*—a high, broken thing—until her hands found his face, her fingers digging into his eyes, curling into his skull.

Then, there was only silence.

She rose, stepping over the bodies, retrieving her sword.

The wind carried no whispers now.

The last man standing trembled, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Blood trickled from his brow as he raised shaking hands in surrender. Noor advanced, her steps measured, predatory. Her fingers wrapped around his throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. His legs kicked feebly, a dying insect caught in the grasp of a god.

"You thought you could stop me," Noor murmured, her voice almost gentle, yet dripping with something far colder than rage. Her lips curled into a smile—not one of amusement, but of finality. "You thought you could take something from me. You thought you could win."

The last thing he saw was the shadow in her eyes before her fist caved in his skull. The wet crunch of bone shattering was swallowed by the eerie silence that followed. Noor let his corpse drop like an afterthought, giving it one final kick as if clearing a rock from her path.

The room reeked of blood and gunpowder. The bodies of Drangheta's men lay strewn across the floor like discarded puppets, limbs twisted unnaturally, their wide, unseeing eyes reflecting the flickering flames creeping along the walls.

Noor exhaled slowly. The world settled into a strange, suffocating stillness.

Her men hesitated at the threshold, reluctant to step into the graveyard she had made. Their faces were pale, their breath held. They had witnessed war before, but never like this.

Maya, ever the first to move, approached without hesitation. Noor turned to her, and in that instant, their eyes met.

Maya didn't flinch, didn't waver. She simply nodded.

"Yes, ma'am."

That was all Noor needed.

Her voice cut through the silence like the edge of a blade. "Secure the area. Sweep for survivors."

The men obeyed, their boots crunching against glass and corpses as they hurried to complete their task. But none dared look at Noor too long. The image of her standing amidst the carnage, drenched in blood, her dark silk dress untouched by the chaos, was burned into their minds.

Noor turned away from them, her gaze drawn to the lone grand piano in the center of the ruined hall. It was an absurd thing, really.

She walked toward it, brushing her fingers over the ivory keys, now stained with soot. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the bench, her back straight, her hands poised.

The first note rang out, delicate and haunting.

A second later, an explosion tore through the east wing.

Debris rained down like shattered glass stars. The men outside flinched, their heads snapping toward the building, eyes widening as they saw Noor—seated at the piano, playing.

She pressed another key. A detonation erupted from the upper level, flames licking hungrily at the tall ceilings. With every note, another explosion followed, as if the music itself commanded the destruction.

A crescendo.

Another wing collapsed.

A higher note.

The fire spread faster.

Inside, the inferno reflected in the vast ceiling like a crimson rainstorm, cascading down in a burning downpour. The chandeliers shattered one by one, raining molten glass, their final symphony nothing more than the wailing cries of a dying empire.

Outside, the men stood frozen in awe and terror, watching as Noor orchestrated the destruction like a maestro of ruin. She was not merely playing—she was conducting judgment.

Maya's fingers clenched at her side. Watching Noor in this moment, she understood something few ever would.

She does not destroy out of rage. She destroys because she must.

As the final note echoed through the collapsing hall, Noor pressed the last key with deliberate grace. The sound lingered for a heartbeat—then the final explosion detonated behind her, swallowing the building whole.

Flames roared skyward, an offering to the gods of vengeance.

Noor rose from the piano, untouched by the firestorm raging around her. Her steps were unhurried as she walked through the wreckage, past the smoldering remains of an empire she had just reduced to dust.

The men outside, still too stunned to move, parted instinctively as she approached.

Maya, standing at the forefront, bowed her head slightly, a gesture of both submission and reverence. Noor glanced at her, an unreadable expression flickering across her face before she turned her gaze to what remained of their car.

It was utterly destroyed. Twisted metal, shattered glass—a wreckage as unrecognizable as the men who once thought they could defy her.

Noor tilted her head slightly. Then, in a voice laced with the faintest trace of amusement, she murmured,

"Ohh, that one was my favorite."

She settled into the ruins of the car as if it were a throne, resting her head against her palm in casual elegance.

The men, still processing what they had witnessed, felt something shift in their understanding. This was why Maya stood at Noor's side and not them.

It wasn't just loyalty.

It wasn't just respect.

It was because Maya understood Noor.

As the last embers of the burning empire faded into the night, the men realized something else. Noor was not merely a leader, not just a warrior.

She was a force of nature.

And she had just played the final note in the requiem of her enemies.

______

Sanlang wakes to the sound of rain.

Heavy droplets lash against the tall windows of his penthouse, a relentless storm that drowns the city in sheets of silver. The air inside is thick with the scent of wet earth and cold steel, but beneath it, something else lingers—something faint, something familiar.

His body feels drained, his skin damp with the remnants of fever. He blinks against the dim light, pushing himself up, but a sharp sensation curls in his chest—unease.

Then, he sees it.

A black envelope.

It rests on the glass table beside his bed, its dark surface catching the occasional flicker of lightning. His breath slows. How did it get there?

With careful fingers, he picks it up. The paper is crisp, untouched by the dampness in the air. Too perfect. Slowly, he opens it.

Inside, a single ivory card bears an inked message, the handwriting sharp and deliberate:

"You were never meant to forget."

A chill races down his spine. His grip tightens around the card. The words are simple, yet they pull at something buried deep—a feeling, a name, a promise long eroded by time.

Then, a scent drifts from the paper. Jasmine and old paper.

His breath catches.

A flicker of memory stirs—rain, a shadowed corridor, the press of cold metal against his palm. A voice—soft yet firm—"Remember this moment, even if you forget me."

The storm outside rages on. But inside, silence coils around him, thick and heavy.

Miles away, Noor stands by the tall windows of her study, watching the rain carve rivers down the glass. In her hand, she turns a small, aged flute, its surface scratched, in her hands frozen at a forgotten hour.

Her lips part, forming a name—but she never speaks it.

Instead, she tucks it away, her expression unreadable. The wind howls through the vast estate, carrying secrets only she remembers.

The night stretched endlessly, its silence broken only by the faint rustling of wind against the glass. Noor stood motionless by the window, the weight of the past pressing against her ribs, heavier than before. Beneath the pale glow of the moon, she was a portrait of quiet devastation—carrying secrets only she remembered, bound to a fate only she understood.

Then—pain. A slow, relentless tightening around her heart, not physical, but something far deeper. It clawed at her insides, coiling through her veins like an unshaken curse. Her breath hitched, fingers curling against the windowsill. The world around her blurred for a moment, swallowed by a strange, creeping stillness.

The air shifted. Not with sound, not with movement—just a change, subtle yet suffocating. The shadows in the room stretched unnaturally, shifting as though something unseen had slithered through them.

And then, a voice. Low, disembodied, spoken from nowhere and everywhere. "You hesitate."

Noor's grip tightened. "And yet I stand."

A chuckle, soft and chilling, curled through the room like smoke. "How far will you go this time?" the voice murmured, neither mocking nor kind—just knowing.

Noor exhaled, the ache in her chest pulsing like an unanswered call. "As far as it takes."

The darkness hummed in approval—or was it amusement? "Even if it leads you back to the beginning?"

Something in her wavered, just for a second. She already knew.

The pain surged, sharp and unrelenting, but Noor only closed her eyes walking down the memory lane. "If I have to…" she whispered, almost to herself, "then let the abyss take me once more."

The room darkened further, the candlelight bending, struggling, resisting. The shadow did not respond. It merely watched.