Chapter 64 : Prelude of chaos

The scent of gunpowder and oil clung to the air as Zeyla sat cross-legged on the grand oak table, polishing her blade with practiced ease. She ran the cloth down its length, checking for any imperfections. Finding none, she smirked and gave it a little twirl before setting it down beside an array of knives, each one sharper than the last.

Venturo, sprawled lazily on a velvet chair, watched her with amusement. He was the picture of effortless elegance—dark hair falling over his eyes, long fingers spinning a small throwing knife between them. He looked more suited to a ballroom than a battlefield, but anyone who thought that didn't live long enough to correct their mistake.

"You're awfully meticulous today," Venturo drawled, tilting his head. "Who wronged you this time? Maya? One of the boys? Or did someone forget to restock your snacks again?"

Zeyla let out a scoff, inspecting a particularly nasty-looking dagger. "Oh, please. If I went on a rampage every time someone inconvenienced me, we'd have run out of servants last year. No, tonight just feels like a bloodbath kind of night."

Venturo chuckled, stretching his arms. "Ah, that special time of the month when you get extra stabby. Should I warn the good men of Drangheta, or let them find out the hard way?"

She shot him a grin. "Oh, I'm sure they'll figure it out when their intestines hit the floor."

Their banter was interrupted by a subtle shift in the air. A ripple. A change. The kind of hush that wasn't forced, but natural—the way a forest stills before a storm.

And then she descended.

Noor.

The moment she stepped down from the staircase, the world held its breath.

She was a vision in red. A short silk dress, scandalously above the knee—something no one had ever seen her wear before. Her long legs moved with an unhurried grace, each step slow, deliberate, as if she was descending not stairs but a throne. Dark waves of hair cascaded down her back, catching the low chandelier light like flowing ink. Her lashes, thick and dark, half-veiled her obsidian eyes, which held no emotion, no warmth—only something vast, endless, and unreadable.

And yet, the beauty of her did not soothe.

It terrified.

A dense, suffocating power radiated from her, something too ancient, too cruel, too absolute to belong to a mere human. It pressed against the room like unseen hands on throats, making even the seasoned warriors shift uneasily.

For the first time in a long time, Venturo found himself speechless.

Zeyla, however, was not.

She let out a low whistle, tilting her head. "Well, well. Either we're about to commit mass murder, or Madam Noor has decided to start breaking hearts along with skulls. But hey, I support change."

Venturo finally regained his voice, though it came out lower than usual. "You sure she hasn't already broken every heart in this room? Or are we just witnessing our own funeral in real-time?"

Noor said nothing.

She didn't spare them a glance, didn't acknowledge their existence. She moved as if they weren't there, as if nothing was there, as if the entire world was beneath her notice.

She walked past them, towards the grand piano at the end of the hall.

Zeyla exhaled, shaking her head. "Yeah. That's not the walk of a woman going to play a love song."

Venturo leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. "No," he murmured, watching Noor sit, her fingers poised over the keys.

"That's the walk of a woman about to end the world."

The first notes of Moonlight Sonata spilled into the room, a sound both eerily soft and suffocatingly heavy. Noor sat at the grand piano like a figure carved from obsidian and fire—flawless, untouchable. Her red dress clung to her, silk cascading over long legs she never exposed. The candlelight caught the waves of her dark hair as it fell over her shoulders, framing a face too perfect for this world. Yet it wasn't her beauty that unsettled the room.

It was her silence.

Venturo exhaled, his sharp features unreadable as he leaned against the pillar. "This song again."

Zeyla, still cleaning the last of her knives, didn't look up. "Means she's thinking."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

A few men in the room shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of Noor's presence without her even acknowledging them.

Venturo's voice was quiet but laced with something dark. "She plays this before every war."

Zeyla's smirk was humorless. "Then we'd better start counting bodies."

The melody twisted, dipped into something even more haunting, the soft press of keys almost cruel in their precision. It was a song of grief, of inevitability. Of death.

Venturo's fingers tapped idly against his arm. "Do you ever wonder if she plays it for herself?"

Zeyla finally looked at him, her dark eyes sharp. "No. She doesn't get that luxury."

The air grew heavier. The men in the room, assassins and killers in their own right, felt the unnatural chill slither down their spines. Noor's aura was suffocating now, a presence that defied logic—beautiful, yes, but menacing. Like staring at a goddess moments before she decided whether you lived or died.

The song reached its peak, a slow, agonizing crescendo.

Venturo let out a breath. "Drangheta won't know what hit them."

Zeyla smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "No." She glanced at Noor, then back at him. "But we do."

The first note of Moonlight Sonata fell into the silence, not merely played but conjured. Noor's fingers moved across the keys with an ease that was almost unnatural, each stroke measured, deliberate—too deliberate.

The sound did not just fill the grand hall; it took shape, winding its way through the room like smoke, curling into unseen corners, seeping into the very walls.

Venturo, leaning against a pillar, let out a low whistle, arms folded across his chest.

"Well, that's unfair," he mused. "She's already terrifyingly beautiful. Did she have to be able to do that too?"

Zeyla didn't respond.

She was staring—not at Noor, but at the balcony.

At the butterflies.

They had arrived in silence, slipping into existence as if they had always been there, only waiting for the right moment to be seen. Their wings shimmered, but not like anything earthly. It wasn't a glow, wasn't a reflection of light—it was as though they had been cut from the fabric of the night sky itself, holding within them the memory of the stars.

One landed on Noor's wrist, just above where her veins should be. Another hovered near the piano, its wings beating in slow, deliberate strokes.

Zeyla felt something crawl up her spine.

Something wrong.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Just… an understanding.

A quiet, unspoken knowledge that whatever she was seeing, whatever she was feeling—she wasn't meant to.

Venturo smirked. "You know, Zeyla, you're usually the one making sarcastic remarks, but you've been awfully quiet." He tilted his head. "Something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Zeyla's jaw tightened. "Maybe I have."

Venturo raised an eyebrow.

His gaze flickered back to Noor. She hadn't acknowledged the butterflies. Hadn't reacted to them at all. She continued playing, her expression unreadable, dark lashes casting shadows over her obsidian eyes. The deep red of her dress swallowed the light, shifting like liquid as she moved, her long legs crossed beneath the piano's glow.

She looked unreal.

Venturo let out a slow breath, his usual amusement dulling into something quieter. "She's… different tonight."

Zeyla didn't answer.

Because she wasn't sure if tonight was the first time Noor had been different.

Or if she had always been like this.

Maya stepped into the hall, her boots barely making a sound against the polished marble floor. The melody of Moonlight Sonata wove around her, an unearthly presence that slowed her steps. Noor was still playing, the notes sinking into the air like whispered secrets.

The butterflies…

Shimmering, delicate creatures, their wings moving in slow, reverent patterns around Noor, as if drawn to something only they could understand.

Maya exhaled. "I'm back."

Zeyla barely turned.

Her eyes were fixed on Noor, on the eerie way the butterflies reacted to her, as if she wasn't just playing the piano—as if something else was happening entirely.

"You came back last night," Zeyla muttered.

Maya nodded. "And Madam Noor already knew."

That made Zeyla blink. She finally looked at Maya, studying her face, searching for exaggeration.

Maya just shrugged. "It felt like she already knew. Before I even said a word."

Zeyla huffed, crossing her arms. "Of course she did. I don't know why you people even bother with reports. She probably knew before you even left."

Maya gave her a look. "You could at least pretend to be surprised."

"I'm shocked. There. Happy?"

Maya sighed, shaking her head. "She really doesn't change, does she?"

Zeyla turned back to Noor.

And for a split second, she wondered.

Doesn't she?

Because the woman at the piano, surrounded by those delicate, unnatural butterflies, didn't look entirely human.

There was something celestial in the way she sat—like a deity playing a song the world had long forgotten. The butterflies shimmered like fragments of a star-strewn night, caught in motion, orbiting around Noor like they had always belonged to her.

Maya continued, oblivious to Zeyla's growing unease. "I gave the report, but… I don't think she really needed it. I swear, she barely even reacted." She sighed. "I don't know why I always expect her to."

"Because you're still hopeful," Zeyla muttered. "It's kind of sweet. And kind of stupid."

Maya frowned. "And you?"

Zeyla tilted her head, watching as one butterfly landed on Noor's shoulder. "Me? I gave up on expecting things from her a long time ago."

Maya scoffed. "No, you didn't."

Zeyla didn't argue.

Because she wasn't sure if tonight was proving Maya wrong—

—or proving her right.

Noor's fingers glided over the piano keys with effortless precision.The white butterflies fluttered around her, delicate creatures drawn to something unseen. They landed on her shoulders, in her hair, as though they belonged there.

To anyone watching, it was mesmerizing—Noor, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, lost in her music, a vision of quiet elegance. But for Maya, there was something unsettling beneath the beauty.

Beside her, Zeyla stood frozen, her gaze locked on Noor with an unreadable expression. Her hands trembled slightly, clutching at the fabric of her dress.

"I've seen this before," Zeyla murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Maya turned to her, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Zeyla exhaled slowly, as if dredging up a memory she had tried to bury. "That night… I heard this same melody. I saw the butterflies. I was going to enter the hall, but something stopped me. It was an overwhelming feeling… like if I stepped in, I wouldn't make it out."

Maya felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

Zeyla's voice dropped lower. "The next morning, there were bodies. More than a hundred soldiers, all dead. Some were unrecognizable. The way they were killed…" She swallowed hard. "It wasn't normal. It wasn't human. And the only thing left behind was this same silence. This same song."

Maya looked back at Noor, who continued to play, her expression unreadable. And yet, Maya couldn't shake the feeling that Zeyla's words weren't just paranoia.

Something in Noor's silence felt heavier than the melody itself.

The final note lingered in the air, dissolving into silence. Noor's hands rested on the keys for a moment before she slowly withdrew them, as if releasing something unseen. The butterflies still clung to her, delicate against the deep hues of her silk dress.

Maya forced herself to breathe. She had seen Noor in battle, seen her command an empire with a glance, but —this quiet, haunting presence—felt different. Was this Noor's true self?

Zeyla stepped back, as if distancing herself from a force she dared not acknowledge. "She remembers," she murmured.

"Remembers what?" Maya asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Zeyla didn't answer. Instead, she turned, her expression unreadable, and left the hall without another word.

Noor finally looked up, her gaze settling on Maya. Those eyes—deep, knowing, carrying the weight of something unspeakable—sent an ache through Maya's chest.

Maya hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "It was… unlike anything I've heard before."

A faint smile touched Noor's lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. She stood, the butterflies lifting into the air as if sensing the shift in her presence. She walked past Maya, the scent of oud and something faintly metallic trailing behind her.

Maya swallowed hard. She wanted to ask—to demand—what Zeyla had meant. What had really happened that night?

But she didn't.

Because deep down, she knew that some questions were better left unanswered.

"Here it comes." Noor's voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

The words had barely left her lips when the heavy doors crashed open. The deafening explosion of gunfire filled the hall, bullets raining down in a ruthless onslaught. Chaos erupted. People screamed, diving for cover behind pillars and overturned tables. The scent of gunpowder thickened the air, mixing with fear and desperation.

But Noor didn't move.

She remained seated at the grand piano, fingers still hovering above the keys, expression unreadable. The bullets zipped past her, embedding themselves into the walls and furniture, but she sat there—calm, untouched.

Maya, crouched behind a stone column, felt her heart hammering against her ribs. "She's not moving! GOD, she's going to get shot—"

"What is she doing?" Zeyla hissed, pressing herself against the marble wall, her sharp eyes darting to Noor. "She's a tactician, not a fool. But this... this is reckless even for her."

The general beside her clenched his jaw. His hand was already on the hilt of his Gun, but he hesitated. "She hasn't given the signal," he murmured, his military instincts warring with the sheer absurdity of what he was witnessing. "She wants them to think they've won."

Then, Noor stood.

Not in a rush, not in fear, but with a slow, deliberate grace. Her silk dress barely whispered as she took a single step forward. The gunfire still raged, but—

Not. A. Single. Bullet. Touched. Her.

A suffocating stillness gripped the room.

Then—

A blade, glistening under the chandelier, flashed in her hand. Noor unsheathed it so smoothly it was as if it had always been there, hidden against her spine. A deadly extension of her will.

"Enough."

And she moved.

To the untrained eye, she was a blur. To those who understood power, she was a force of nature. One second she was standing, the next she was amidst the intruders.

Steel sang. Blood followed.

A gun was raised—Noor was already behind its wielder, her blade slicing through his throat before his finger could reach the trigger. Another assassin lunged—Noor pivoted, severing his arm in a single, effortless arc before burying her sword in his chest.

Maya's breath hitched.

"She's... faster than bullets."

Zeyla's grip tightened around the dagger in her belt, but she didn't dare move.

The attackers didn't even have time to scream. Noor danced through them like a wraith, each movement calculated, each strike precise. Bodies fell. Blood sprayed in wide arcs, painting the pristine marble floor a deep, glistening red. The heavy scent of iron filled the air.

The last man standing locked eyes with Noor. His hands trembled. He turned—attempting to flee.

Noor exhaled.

A flick of her wrist.

The blade left her hand, slicing through the air with lethal precision. It found its mark—the back of his skull. He collapsed instantly, face-first onto the blood-slick floor.

Silence.

A single droplet of blood dripped from the tip of Noor's blade, echoing in the vast chamber like a taunt.

She stood in the center of the carnage, her posture elegant, her expression unreadable.

Then she turned.

And they saw her eyes.

A deep, smoldering red rimmed her irises, as if the blood of her enemies had seeped into her very being.

The general swallowed hard. "Dear GOD... that look. That's not just a warrior. That's a predator."

Zeyla felt her stomach twist. "She's not ... No one should have this kind of power."

Even the assassin-trained , conditioned to feel nothing, stood paralyzed.

"Is this what true power is?" one of them whispered. "Why does it feel... terrifying?"

Noor exhaled, the sound soft against the suffocating quiet. She lowered her sword, letting the blood drip onto the marble, her gaze sweeping across the room.

Then—

She smiled.

And it sent a chill through everyone present.

Without a word, Noor turned away from the corpses and walked back to the piano. Her bloodstained dress trailed behind her like a war banner. She sat down, wiped her hands clean with a cloth, and placed her fingers back on the keys.

The haunting melody resumed.

It was as if the massacre had never happened.

The tension in the room refused to ease.

Then Noor spoke, her voice as soft as the melody she played.

"That was a bluff."

Maya, still kneeling amidst the destruction, barely found her voice. "A... bluff?"

Noor's fingers glided over the keys, her eyes distant. "They were sent to test us. If they had succeeded, the real attack would've followed."

Captain Gregory, pale but composed, finally regained his voice. "Then... what now, my lady?"

Noor's hands stilled on the piano. Her gaze, sharp as glass, flickered toward him. "Retrieve the children. I hid them in the dungeon during the last assault. I want them safe."

The general didn't hesitate. He bowed sharply and strode out, his men following without a word.

As the hall emptied, only Noor, Maya, and Zeyla remained, standing amidst the ruin. Noor turned her attention to them, her stare piercing.

Both women knelt instantly.

"My lady, your wish is our command."

Noor nodded, her expression unreadable. Then—her gaze sharpened.

"Where is he?"

The question sent a fresh wave of tension through the air.

Maya hesitated. Zeyla's breath hitched before she forced herself to respond.

"He left that night... and hasn't contacted us since."

Noor's grip on the piano keys tightened almost imperceptibly. The faintest flicker of something—anger, worry, something deeper—crossed her face.

"He left without a word?"

The air grew heavier.

Noor stood, turning on her heel without another word. Maya and Zeyla scrambled to their feet and followed as she made her way down to the basement garage.

The sleek racing car gleamed under the fluorescent lights, its engine already purring like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

Noor slid into the driver's seat.

Maya and Zeyla barely had time to strap in before the tires screeched against the pavement, the car rocketing out of the estate like a bullet fired from a gun.

"Madam Noor!" Maya's voice crackled through the comms over the roaring engine. "Where are we going?"

Noor's grip on the wheel was unwavering, her voice low.

"I know where he'll be."

Her foot pressed down harder. The car surged forward, weaving through the city like a predator chasing prey.

Tonight, Noor was out for blood.

The car cut through the darkened road like a silent predator. Noor's hands rested steadily on the wheel, her gaze fixed ahead, but there was something in the way her fingers tapped against the leather that made Zeyla uneasy.

The night was too quiet. The weight of what had just happened at the estate still clung to the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.

Zeyla exhaled, glancing at Maya beside her. The younger woman sat with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but the slight tension in her shoulders told Zeyla she wasn't as calm as she seemed.

"You never told me what you found," Zeyla murmured, breaking the silence.

Maya didn't react at first, as if debating whether to answer. Then, with a slow breath, she finally spoke.

"Drangheta's stronghold…" she said softly. "It's a graveyard of the living."

Zeyla felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine.

Noor didn't react, but Zeyla knew she was listening.

"How did you even get inside?" Zeyla asked.

Maya leaned her head against the window, eyes distant.

"I played a dead woman."

Zeyla frowned.

"Explain."

Maya let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "He deals in flesh, Zeyla. But not just trade—breeding, training, breaking people from the inside out. I took the identity of one of his acquisitions. A girl who never made it to his doorstep. I slipped in with a batch of new arrivals."

Zeyla's breath hitched. "That's suicide."

Maya shrugged. "Maybe. But I needed to see it myself."

Noor remained silent, eyes unmoving on the road.

Maya's voice grew lower, almost distant. "The first night, I watched them break a girl's fingers one by one just to see if she would scream. The second night, they made another choose which of her friends would die. The third night…" She hesitated, as if pushing away the memory. "They found a traitor. They skinned him alive while the rest of us watched."

Zeyla's fingers curled into fists.

Noor's grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Maya's expression darkened. "I was almost caught. He knew something was wrong. He didn't see my face, but he knew someone didn't belong. I had to kill my way out. I barely made it back to Madam Noor before collapsing at the gates."

Zeyla turned slightly, watching Noor. "Did she say anything?"

Maya's lips curled slightly, but it wasn't a smile.

"Just one thing."

"What?"

Maya's voice dropped to a whisper.

"'He won't live for long.'"

A cold silence settled over the car.

Zeyla swallowed, a flicker of fear tightening her chest. She had heard those words before. Years ago. The night Noor had burned a syndicate to the ground.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe.

This wasn't just another enemy Noor planned to eliminate. This was a death sentence.

And Drangheta… had just signed it.