Chapter 59:The Dying Shadow

The dungeon smelled like the rotting carcass of hope—damp, metallic, and suffocating. The kind of place where ghosts didn't even bother to linger because the living were already doing a fine job of haunting themselves. Noor walked ahead, her silk dress trailing behind her like a shadow that had learned obedience. Maya and Zeyla followed, their footsteps careful, as if the stones might whisper their names to something lurking beneath.

There was no screaming. Not anymore. Heath had exhausted his ability to beg hours ago. Now, silence clung to the walls like dried blood, thick and impossible to scrub clean. Noor stopped in front of the cell, her gaze indifferent, but the kind of indifferent that suggested she had already played out every possible outcome in her head and was merely waiting for reality to catch up.

"I'm not what you think." Her voice sliced through the stillness, soft but absolute.

Maya swallowed. Noor's words always came wrapped in riddles, but this… this was a warning wrapped in silk, drenched in something ancient.

Heath stirred, barely lifting his head. His lips curled into something resembling a smile, though it wavered at the edges. "I knew you'd come," he rasped. "I knew you couldn't stay away."

Maya let out a breath through her nose, resisting the urge to say, Oh, buddy. Wrong woman, wrong genre.

Noor's expression didn't change. If the gods had sculpted indifference, they would have used her face as reference. "Strange," she mused, tilting her head as if examining a piece of art she hadn't quite decided whether to burn or frame. "I was under the impression that when a man begs for salvation, he should at least attempt humility, not… perform."

Heath chuckled, though it sounded more like broken glass being swept across stone. "You don't scare me, Noor."

Noor smiled. The kind of expression one wears when watching a child reach for fire, knowing they will only learn through pain. "Oh, You never did understand the fundamental flaw of arrogance. You see, a rabbit may convince itself it is a wolf, but the real tragedy is when it believes the wolf is interested in proving it wrong."

Zeyla shivered.

Maya… Maya felt the distinct sensation of standing on the precipice of something that shouldn't be touched, something that whispered in languages older than words.

Noor stepped forward, her presence swallowing the dim light of the torches. She knelt beside Heath, her hands working with clinical precision, applying medicine to his torn skin as if it were nothing more than an obligation.

Heath sucked in a breath, his body flinching. "You're kind," he murmured, as if he were discovering the truth of the universe. "No matter what you pretend to be… you still care."

Noor didn't blink. "And you still believe caring is synonymous with mercy. How quaint."

Heath coughed, laughing through the pain. "You can't live without me."

Maya had to admire his dedication to bad decisions.

Noor stood, adjusting the fabric of her sleeve with the kind of slow, deliberate motion that made time itself hesitate. "What a peculiar delusion." Her voice was mild, conversational. "Tell me, Heath, do you believe the sun grieves the moon when night falls?"

Heath's smile faltered.

Noor's gaze dipped, unreadable. "Do you believe the ocean weeps when a ship sinks?"

Heath swallowed, his fingers twitching against the chains. "Noor—"

"No." Noor's voice dropped to something softer, something that made Maya's heart stutter. "You mistake destruction for longing."

The room inhaled.

Zeyla's nails dug into her palms.

Maya had the distinct feeling that if death itself walked among them, it would be sitting at Noor's feet, listening.

Noor moved to the fire, lifting the sword from the embers. The glow reflected in her dark eyes, but no light touched them.

Heath tensed, realizing too late that no amount of borrowed confidence could unwrite inevitability.

The blade met flesh.

The air filled with the scent of burning.

Heath screamed.

Maya closed her eyes. Zeyla watched, because some truths refused to let you look away.

Noor remained still, her grip steady, her expression a portrait of something that belonged in a museum where only fools dared interpret it.

Heath gasped, voice hoarse. "You don't have to do this."

Noor tilted her head, genuinely curious. "Is that what you told the others?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Zeyla exhaled, tension bleeding from her bones in slow, painful increments.

Noor's breath was steady, her grip firm—but her silence spoke louder than any scream ever could. The dungeon, already heavy with its ghosts, seemed to inhale in anticipation.

Heath chuckled—a wet, rasping sound, like a man who had long since abandoned the notion of self-preservation. "Ahh… there it is," he murmured, his lips cracked and curled into something almost reverent. "That rage. That grief. I missed it."

Maya's pulse thrummed in her ears. What is he talking about?

Noor's jaw tightened. "You speak as if you are owed my rage."

"Oh, but I am," Heath whispered, his eyes burning feverishly. "Because I was the only one who saw what they took from you. I was the only one who knew."

The world constricted. The flames in the corner of the room flickered. The chains groaned as Heath leaned forward, blood trickling from his wounds, his body weak but his voice… stronger than ever.

"I remember it, Noor," he hissed, grinning as if he had just been handed a divine revelation. "I remember the screams, the fire, the silence after. I remember what they stole. And I remember you—standing there, covered in someone else's blood, looking at the space where it used to be."

Noor's breath hitched, just for a moment. Just long enough for Heath to feel it. To see it.

Maya's stomach twisted. What the hell is he talking about? What did they take?

Zeyla's hand twitched toward her blade, as if instinct demanded she end this now before something irreversible shattered in Noor's eyes.

But Heath wasn't done.

"I did it for you," he whispered, voice raw with devotion. "Everything I did—it was for you, Noor."

Noor's lips parted, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. A single tear—furious, unwelcome—escaped the corner of her eye. But her voice, when it came, was a blade against bone.

"You think betrayal is a gift?" she spat.

Heath grinned wider, the madness fully unraveling now. "Oh, Noor. You needed me to do it. You just weren't brave enough to admit it." His breath shuddered. "I saved you from your grief. From your own weakness. From what you could've become if they hadn't—"

The sword clattered to the ground.

"Oh, Noor," he rasped, head rolling back against the stone. "God missed a step when He made you."

Noor didn't move.

"Look at you," Heath continued, voice cracking, drunk on agony, on something no sane man would chase. "Eyes like God's unfinished wrath, hands like a priestess of execution—no wonder they tried to break you. No wonder they failed." He grinned, his teeth red, glistening. "No wonder I had to do it."

A sound left Noor's throat—something between a breath and a growl, something human and not. Her hands clenched, trembled. The fury, the grief, the unspeakable storm she buried every day was rising. Clawing. Burning.

But Heath wasn't done.

"I was the only one who saw it," he whispered, his body shuddering violently. "That night. That place. The way they ripped it from you." His eyes gleamed with something ugly. "You think I forgot, Noor? You think I didn't hear you screaming?"

Noor inhaled sharply.

Maya felt the shift before she saw it. The moment the air cracked.

And then Noor screamed.

A sound not meant for mortal throats. A sound that split stone and time and silence itself.

Maya stepped back. Zeyla flinched.

But Heath—Heath gasped like a man witnessing a miracle.

Noor moved.

Not in steps. Not in motion. But in an unraveling. In a collapse of restraint.

Her hands—delicate, deadly—struck Heath's chest, once, twice, again, again, again. A storm given flesh. A goddess collapsing the sky into a single, devastating force.

"You," she snarled, eyes shining—not with sorrow, not with grief, but with something older than both. "You dare speak of ...?"

Heath wheezed, choking on laughter, on blood, on something he could no longer contain. "I dare—because I saved you."

The words slammed into Noor like a blade to the ribs.

"I SAVED YOU, NOOR," Heath screamed, eyes wild, his body convulsing against the chains, shaking with something beyond pain. Beyond reason. "I DID WHAT YOU COULDN'T!"

Maya flinched. She had never—never—heard Noor scream like that before. Not in pain. Not in anger. But in something deeper. Something breaking open.

Heath only laughed, delirious, exalting in it. "Yes!" he gasped, head thrown back. "That's the Noor I remember!" His breath hitched, his body trembling. "And guess what, my love?" He leaned closer, chains rattling, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He's coming for you. And he's coming for it."

Noor stilled, her entire body going rigid.

"The Drangheta," Heath murmured, eyes wild with delight. "He knows. He's coming to take it. He's coming to take you."

The room exhaled.

Maya's blood ran cold.

Heath, ever the entertainer, let the moment linger, then added, almost cheerfully, "Oh, and did I mention? I had an escape planned already. Surprise!" He threw his head back in another fit of laughter. "But you caught me first! So, really, I suppose I owe you an apology. Or maybe a thank-you gift? How about a head start?" He grinned, teeth stained with blood. "You always did love a good hunt, Noor."

The fire crackled.

Zeyla's grip on her dagger tightened.

Heath laughed harder, his body writhing as the fire crept closer. "Ohhh, finally—some drama! And they say I'm the mad one!"

Noor turned on her heel, eyes still glistening with unshed fury.

Heath's laughter followed her. "Run, Noor," he called after her, voice drenched in something almost… gleeful. "Run while you still can!"

The dungeon was suffocating. The fire crackled in the distance, but it was nothing compared to the burning in Noor's chest.

Heath hung limply in his chains, blood dripping from his mouth, his breaths shallow. But even now—even now—he smiled.

Noor stood before him, her hands trembling, her bloodied fingers curled so tightly that her nails cut into her own palms.

"Maya," she said softly.

Maya stiffened. "Y-Yes?"

"Leave."

Maya inhaled sharply. No. She couldn't. Not now. Not when Noor—

"Now."

It wasn't a command. It was something worse. It was Noor giving Maya a choice—one she wouldn't give herself.

Maya hesitated, but Zeyla stepped forward. "Come." Her voice was calm, steady. Absolute.

Maya swallowed, casting one last look at Noor—at the woman she had followed, admired, feared.

Then she left.

And Noor… Noor was alone.

Alone with the last piece of her past.

"You Were Always There"

Heath let out a slow, ragged breath. "So, this is it?" His voice was hoarse, tired. But there was something else beneath it. Something… soft.

Noor's fingers twitched.

He smiled, lips splitting from the effort. "No more banter? No sarcastic remarks? No rolling your eyes at me?"

She inhaled sharply, her throat tightening.

Heath chuckled weakly. "I liked it when you argued with me. You'd cross your arms, tilt your head, and look at me like I was the dumbest man alive." His voice trembled. "I probably was."

Noor's vision blurred.

"I remember," Heath continued, voice barely above a whisper, "when you laughed at me for burning my toast."

Noor's breath hitched.

"You sat on the counter, swinging your legs, calling me useless." He chuckled again. "And I let you."

Noor's hands shook.

"Do you remember," Heath rasped, "when I tried to teach you how to dance?"

She closed her eyes.

"You were so stiff, like you were waiting for an attack." He coughed violently, blood dripping onto the floor. But he was still smiling. Always smiling. "But by the end of the night, you were laughing so hard you couldn't breathe."

Noor's lips parted, but no sound came.

"And then—" Heath's voice cracked. "And then you cried."

Noor froze.

His eyes softened. "Like a kid. Right there, in my arms. You sobbed like the world was ending."

Her knees buckled.

And then, barely a whisper—

"I wanted to save you, Noor."

"You Were My Only Truth"

Noor shook her head.

"You chose to leave me," she hissed, her voice shaking. "You chose to betray me."

Heath's lips trembled. "You think I wanted to?"

"You didn't stop them!" she screamed. Her voice cracked, her body trembling.

Heath's head fell forward. He was shaking.

"I was afraid," he whispered.

Noor's eyes burned.

"You… you always seemed untouchable. Like nothing could break you." He let out a wet, choked laugh.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝"

Noor stood frozen, her breath uneven, her fingers twitching at her sides.

"But I saw it," Heath rasped. "I saw the cracks. The way your hands would shake after a fight. The way you'd stay up all night, watching over everyone else, like if you closed your eyes for even a second… they'd disappear."

Noor's vision blurred.

Heath swallowed hard. "I saw you smile—" His voice wavered. "That small, secret smile you only had when you thought no one was looking. Like you'd found something worth holding onto. Like you were still human."

Noor's breath hitched.

"And then I saw you lose it all."

Her knees nearly buckled.

"You think I didn't fight for you?" Heath's voice cracked. "You think I didn't want to burn the world when they took it? Took you?"

Noor clenched her fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms, fresh blood dripping between her fingers.

"Then why didn't you?!" her voice breaking.

Heath sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body shaking. "Because you wouldn't have let me!"

The words slammed into her like a fist.

"You think I don't know you?" His lips curled into something like a grin—

"𝐓𝐡𝐞 only 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐈 𝐊𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮"

"Then why didn't you?!" Noor's voice cracked, her control slipping, shattering into something unrecognizable.

Heath let out a strangled breath, his body convulsing, but his damn smile remained—half delirious, half wrecked.

"Because you wouldn't have let me."

Noor froze.

"You never let anyone catch you, Noor," Heath whispered. His body trembled violently, blood soaking through his clothes, but his eyes—his eyes never left her. "Not me. Not them. You stood alone at the edge of the world, waiting for the fall. And I—" he let out a broken laugh, "I couldn't pull you back."

Her nails bit into her palms, warm blood trickling between her fingers, mixing with the firelit shadows. "You—" she shook her head violently, "You should've !"

Heath coughed, something wet and dark spilling from his lips, but the madness in his eyes remained.

"I did, Noor." His voice was barely a whisper now, shaking, crumbling. "I tried every damn day." His breath hitched, his whole body seizing. "But you don't save gods, do you?" His lips curled, trembling. "You worship them, you follow them—" he gasped, "or you destroy them."*

Noor felt something deep in her chest crack.

Heath inhaled sharply, struggling to stay upright. His body was failing him, the poison in her blood crawling through his veins like ice, but his mind—his soul—was still reaching for her.

Heath's eyes flickered open—barely. His breath hitched as if the weight of his own body was too much to bear. But when he looked at her, he smiled.

"Noor," he whispered, his voice so weak it barely reached her.

She clenched her jaw. She refused to move. Refused to give in. Refused to—

But then Heath shifted. His shackled hands twitched, his body dragging forward.

And he did something that made Noor's breath stop.

He pressed his lips to her bleeding palm.

A gasp tore from her throat, her whole body going rigid.

His mouth trembled against her skin. His breath was warm, shaking, desperate.

And then—he drank.

Noor's vision blurred.

Tears—hot, unbidden—slipped down her cheeks.

The pain should've been unbearable. The wound was fresh, deep, pulsing. But it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

"You were all I had," he rasped. "Even when I couldn't remember—even then, Noor, there was only you."

His voice shook now, breaking apart. "I saw you in every dream, in every shadow. Smiling. Bantering. Crying. Arguing with me like I was the most unbearable man alive." His lips twitched in something like a smirk, something tragic. "Maybe I was."

Noor's breath shuddered violently, her vision blurred.

Heath's voice softened.

"You were my only truth."

Her knees nearly buckled.

"You were my first memory."

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

And then, softer—softer than the fire, softer than death itself—

"You were my last home."

Noor snapped.

She grabbed his face, her fingers digging into his skin, her nails pressing too hard, her entire body shaking—

"You left me," she whispered, her voice wrecked, hollow. "You were supposed to stay, Heath!"

His breath shuddered. His lips, bloodied and broken, parted slightly—

"I—"

His body convulsed violently, his eyes rolling back for a second before he jerked forward.

Noor gasped, her grip tightening, not letting him go.

"Stay with me!" she snapped, shaking him, "You hear me?! Stay with me!"

But Heath… Heath was already falling.

The chains rattled.

His head lolled forward.

His breath—stopped.

And Noor—

Noor made a sound that wasn't human.

A sound so full of agony, so raw, so wrong that the flames themselves seemed to falter.

A sound of something breaking.

Of something that could never be fixed.

---

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

Somewhere else—somewhere that was not this dungeon, not this nightmare, not this world—Heath stood.

He was kneeling.

His forehead pressed against Noor's silken dress.

And he was weeping.

The throne room was drenched in blood. The walls were soaked in it, the marble beneath his hands slick with it.

Noor sat on the throne, her expression unreadable.

"You're tired, Heath."

Her voice was soft. So soft it hurt.

Heath swallowed hard. "I don't want to go." His voice shook, his fingers clenching in the fabric of her dress. "I can't go."

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head, watching him. "But you already have."

Heath shook his head violently, his whole body trembling. "No. No, I—" He looked up, eyes burning. "I was yours, Noor." His breath hitched. "Always yours."

Noor leaned forward, her fingers brushing against his temple, so gentle it made his whole body ache.

"You were," she whispered.

Heath let out a broken sob.

And then—

Darkness.

---

Noor snapped back into her body like she had been ripped from another world.

And Heath—

Heath was dead.

She stared.

At his lifeless body. At his closed eyes. At the blood splattered across his face, his chest, his hands.

And then—slowly, mechanically—she reached forward.

Her fingers, trembling, brushed against his cheek.

She smoothed his hair back, just like she used to.

And then, in the softest, most ruined voice—

"I told you to stay."

Maya standing in the shadows with zeyla broke.

She had never seen Noor grieve. Never seen her shatter.

And Zeyla—Zeyla stood silent, her gaze unreadable.

Because she had always known.

Noor was not invincible.

She had just never been given the luxury of breaking.

But now—now, with Heath gone—

Something inside her was gone, too.

She pulled back, so slowly, so gently, her fingers lingering.

Heath's body slumped against the chains, lifeless. The warmth was already fading from his skin.

Noor rose to her feet. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as if each one carried the weight of a thousand years. She did not look back.

The fire behind her cast long shadows against the stone, but it could not touch her now. Nothing could.

And Heath—Heath was falling.

Not through the darkness of death, but through something softer.

Through her.

Through the last thing she had given him.

Through the blood he had swallowed, still warm, still pulsing with the echo of her voice.

And then—

A memory.

---

The world was quiet.

A soft wind whispered through an endless, empty space. Heath stood in the middle of it, weightless, his body whole, his pain gone.

But he was not alone.

Noor stood before him.

Not the Noor he had left in the dungeon. Not the woman covered in blood, eyes hollowed by grief.

She stood tall, untouched, her silk dress flowing in the unseen wind, her hands folded in front of her.

Her face was unreadable, her dark eyes endless.

Heath inhaled sharply. "Noor…?"

She didn't answer. She only lifted her hand—palm open, fingers delicate.

And he understood.

She was offering him peace.

The last thing he had never been able to give her.

His throat tightened. "I don't deserve it."

Noor tilted her head slightly, the way she always did when she knew something he didn't.

Then—soft, like a whisper carried through time—

"I forgive you, Heath."

His breath hitched.

"Now rest."

His eyes burned, his chest clenched—

And then, for the first time in his life—

He let go.

The wind carried him away.

And Heath—

Heath was finally free.

___________

The night stretched long and silent, a hollow thing, as if the world itself was waiting to breathe again.

Maya sat stiffly on the stone railing, arms wrapped around herself, though no warmth could reach her. The weight of the dungeon still clung to her skin—the smell of blood, of fire, of something far heavier than death.

And Noor… Noor had walked away.

Only silence.

Only absence.

Zeyla stood beside her, staring out into the endless dark, her gaze unreadable.

Then, with a slow shake of her head, she let out a breath and muttered, "Tch. So this is what gods look like when they grieve."

Maya turned, startled by the quiet venom in her voice. "Grieve? That wasn't grief, Zeyla. That was—" she swallowed, voice unsteady, "nothing."

Zeyla let out a humorless chuckle. "Nothing? No, Maya. That was everything."

Maya shivered. "She didn't even cry."

"Cry?" Zeyla scoffed, tilting her head, a smirk curling at her lips though it held no amusement. "Tell me, Maya, Does the sky wail when a star fades?" She exhaled sharply. "She does not grieve like the rest of us, because she has no one left to grieve for her in return."

Maya clenched her fists. "Then what does she do, Zeyla?"

Zeyla's gaze flickered, her smirk fading into something colder. "She carries it."

A pause.

A long, unbearable silence.

Then, softer now—darker,

"She carries her dead in silence, because she knows no one else will."

Maya inhaled sharply. "But she forgave him."

"Ah, yes." Zeyla's voice was dry, almost mocking. "A gift, wasn't it? How kind. How cruel. To hold his face, to let him drink the poison from her hand, to give him the peace she was never given. Tell me, Maya—" she turned to her now, eyes glinting like a blade in moonlight, "what must it feel like to be forgiven by the one you destroyed?"

Maya shivered. "He didn't deserve it."

Zeyla let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "No one ever does."

Maya's breath was uneven now, something deep in her chest twisting. "She left him there. Just… left him."

"Tch. And did you think she wouldn't?" Zeyla leaned back slightly, her expression unreadable. "She walked away because she had to. Because grief is a thing that must be buried quickly, before it festers. Before it ruins. Before it kills."

She sighed, rubbing her temple. "You expect too much of her, Maya. You want her to shatter. To wail."

Maya's stomach twisted. "And she isn't?"

Zeyla fell silent.

Then—softer now, almost gentle—

"She was, once."

A sound.

Soft. Haunting.

It drifted through the cold night air like mist over water, weightless yet heavy, fragile yet unbreakable.

Maya's breath caught in her throat. "Do you hear that?"

Zeyla didn't answer right away. She only closed her eyes for a moment, as if steadying something deep inside her. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, distant. "Yes."

It was music.

No—a flute.

A melody so delicate it barely seemed to exist, yet it curled through the air, wrapping itself around the estate like unseen hands. It came from nowhere and everywhere, slipping through the trees, brushing against the walls, seeping into the very stones beneath them.

Maya shivered. "Where is she?"

Zeyla exhaled, a sound more tired than anything else. "She is grieving ,Maya."*

Maya turned sharply, staring at her. "What do you mean?"

Zeyla let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "You think grief is loud? That it wails and breaks and drowns the world in its misery?" She shook her head. "No. That's for people who still believe someone will listen."

The notes trembled—not with hesitation, but with something deeper, something raw, something that no words could contain. They bled into the night like unspoken confessions, like a sorrow so vast that it could not be carried in her hands, only released into the wind.

Zeyla murmured, her gaze lost in the distance. "She breaks. A little more each time." She exhaled, something tired, something resigned. "Until there is nothing left of her."