There was a kind of silence Roshan knew in her bones—deeper than meditation, older than pain. The kind that cloaked the gates of a city on the cusp of vanishing into the desert. The kind where silhouettes stood still in the blood-red light of a falling sun, half-swallowed by sandstorms. They seemed to move, to reach, like jinn circling just beyond reason’s edge—never arriving, never real. A silence that whispered one terrible truth: you were late.

And late meant everything to a Hidden One. Especially to the young. Especially to one so newly bound that the cut on their finger still throbbed under the cloth—a fresh oath, barely healed.

You were Roshan’s protégé. Her petal, she’d called you once, in a moment she regretted.

Not yet an Assassin by title, not officially—not like Basim had been. No, you’d waited longer. Endured harsher missions. Colder silences. Her sharp tongue. Her sharper eyes. She stitched your wounds herself when you returned bleeding, but she never softened the words. Never softened herself.

How could she?

The wounds of her former life—the cruelty of a husband, had left her wary of closeness. So she trained you harder than the wind over the Zagros. And then—paradoxically—sent you on the easiest missions.

It wasn’t mercy. It was fear.

And yet, there you were, always barking back like a stray fed once too many times. Not vicious, just... eager. Wanting to matter. Wanting her to say it.

You conforted her. Not just in what you did, but in what you saw—things she hadn't meant for you to see. Her silences. Her weariness. You filled them with warmth she hadn't asked for. Maybe even affection she didn’t dare name.

She had seen it in your eyes. That glimmer of hope. Of feeling. And she’d crushed it. Coldly. Deliberately.

The garden was closed and heavy with the scent of crushed petals and still air. Above her, leaves swayed in lazy circles, whispering secrets. Roshan opened her eyes, just as a huff of breath and the rustle of silk broke the quiet.

She didn’t move from her spot on the garden’s edge.

You stumbled out from the pile of woven mats and old silks. Cuts jagged along your robes, hood fallen back, hair tangled, dusted with dried blood and sweat. You looked irritated. Ashamed.

It didn’t take long for her to know.

You’d gone beyond the mission. Again. Trying to prove something—again. And again, you’d failed.

Your hand brushed off your robe, breath sharp as you turned—

Only to freeze when you saw her.

Roshan stood silent, framed by arching shadows and the red flare of the dying sun behind her. She said nothing at first.

Just those cold, unforgiving eyes.

And you—foolish as ever—straightened your back. As if posture could scrub away failure.

You’d never be enough.

Not for her. Not for yourself.

And yet—what you didn’t know, what she would never say—was that she carried you in her heart more closely than any other she had ever trained.

Still, her words came like flint striking stone. Roshan’s voice cut the silence like a blade drawn in ceremony.

“You weren’t followed,” she said flatly. “But you were seen.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your jaw worked. There was a pause, long enough for a wind to rise through the garden. Petals stirred above. Something like grief passed through her face—but only for a breath.

“You are not a blade yet,” she said “You are still the metal in the fire. Act like it.”