The Socialite

Chapter 2, The First Dynasty

A day had passed since the investigation began. The Ensharra estate, usually a beacon of quiet luxury, now felt suffocating under the weight of grief, suspicion, and something more elusive—secrets buried under centuries of power.

In the private study of Andrew Ensharra, Detective Daniel Caldwell sat across from Ishtar “Izzy” Ensharra. His partner, Detective Alena Cross, occupied the seat beside him, her notepad open, pen poised.

In the private study of Andrew Ensharra, Detective Daniel Caldwell sat across from Ishtar “Izzy” Ensharra. His partner, Detective Alena Cross, occupied the seat beside him, her notepad open, pen poised.

Izzy, now far removed from the wild, reckless party girl of the previous night, sat with a casual poise—the kind that came naturally to those used to being watched. Today, she was every bit the supermodel and socialite she was known to be, draped in one of her signature couture outfits, sleek and expensive.

A smirk played on her lips as she crossed her legs, her golden-painted nails tapping rhythmically against the armrest.

“You missed me so much, Detective, that you had to interview me first?”

Daniel, unimpressed, didn’t even blink.

“Ishtar, where were you when your great-grandfather, Andrew, was murdered?”

Izzy tilted her head back, groaning dramatically.

“You’re no fun.” She exhaled through her nose before finally relenting, her expression shifting into something slightly more serious. “I was on a shoot for a new fashion line coming out.”

There was a beat of silence before Alena’s pen stopped mid-scribble. She lifted her head sharply, her brows knitted together in realization.

“Wait. She’s that Izzy? Izzy the Socialite?”

Izzy’s smirk widened. She lifted a hand in a mocking little wave before giving a dramatic bow in her chair.

“The one and only.”

Alena blinked, still processing, before muttering, “My sister is obsessed with you.”

“I’ll give you an autograph later.” Izzy winked.

Daniel, clearly unamused, waved the comment away like an annoying gnat.

“That wouldn’t be professional. Get it together, Detective Cross.”

Alena immediately straightened in her chair, her cheeks darkening. “Sorry, sir.”

Daniel turned his gaze back to Izzy, his expression cold, unreadable.

“Did you kill Andrew Ensharra?” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “You had a lot to gain from his death.”

Izzy stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter.

It wasn’t a giggle, nor was it nervous. It was full-bodied, rich, like she had just heard the most absurd joke in the world.

She leaned forward, resting an elbow on her knee, and grinned.

“Gain?” she repeated, amusement still dancing in her voice. “More like lose.”

Her eyes flickered with something dark, something old—something that only Daniel understood.

She tilted her head. “Or did you forget everything that happened when we first met?”

Daniel’s expression didn’t shift, but something passed through his eyes—a flicker of memory, of something buried in the past between them.

Alena, glancing between the two, felt the temperature in the room drop just slightly.

She tightened her grip on her pen.

What the hell was she missing?

1620s: Egypt under the Ottoman Empire

The sun gleamed over the sprawling estate of Nathaniel and Natalia Ensharra, casting warm golden reflections onto the crystal-clear waters of the massive pool. Laughter rang through the air, the sound of teenagers basking in the privilege of youth and wealth.

Izzy Ensharra, fourteen years old and already effortlessly beautiful, lounged on a chaise by the poolside, her long, sun-kissed legs stretched out as she sipped on an ice-cold drink. She was flanked by her two closest friends—Bizilla, her future right-hand, and Nanaya, both equally glamorous and carefree. Four boys sat nearby, watching them with interest, eager for attention.

The afternoon was perfect—until it wasn’t.

From the tree line, a small figure emerged.

Erica Ensharra, only six years old, walked toward the house, her arms wrapped tightly around a large stuffed owl. The toy, slightly worn but clearly beloved, rested against her chest as she clutched it like a lifeline.

Her black dress, lace-trimmed socks, and scuffed Mary Janes made her look out of place against the sunlit paradise of the Ensharra estate. Her face was smudged with dirt, no doubt from wandering the woods again—her favorite place.

Izzy noticed her immediately.

A grin curled on her lips.

“Oh, look, the little witch is back from her haunted forest,” she said loudly, drawing giggles from her friends.

Bizilla smirked, flipping her hair. “What do you think she was doing? Casting a spell on us?”

Nanaya leaned in, her voice mockingly serious. “I heard if you look her in the eyes for too long, she’ll curse you.”

The boys chuckled.

Erica stopped in her tracks, gripping the stuffed owl tighter, her small face burning with embarrassment.

Izzy sat up slightly, still grinning.

“Come here, Kira,” she called, using the childhood nickname her sister had once loved.

Erica hesitated.

Izzy’s voice was syrupy sweet. Too sweet.

But she was six years old. And Izzy was her big sister.

So, she obeyed.

She walked up to Izzy, her big eyes still filled with uncertainty.

Izzy reached out, brushing a gentle hand over Erica’s curls, giving her a soft, sisterly smile.

Then, in one swift movement, she snatched the stuffed owl from Erica’s arms.

Before the little girl could react, Izzy tossed it into the pool.

The splash was loud.

There was a moment of silence.

Then—

“NO!” Erica screamed, her breath hitching in panic as she watched her beloved toy sink beneath the water.

Izzy leaned back, her expression twisting into disgust.

“Such a weirdo,” she muttered, shaking her head before turning back to her friends, dismissing Erica like she was nothing.

Erica’s chest heaved, her tiny hands clenched into fists.

And then—

She jumped in.

The second her body hit the water, panic overtook her.

The cold. The depth. The way the water swallowed her whole.

She didn’t know how to swim.

Her small limbs flailed as she tried to reach her stuffed owl, but the water dragged her down instead.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t—

“Kira!”

The sound of her name being shouted cut through the chaos just as a splash came from the far end of the pool.

Tristan.

He had just arrived from the woods, still in his hiking clothes, when he saw her sinking.

Without hesitation, he dove in.

It took only seconds for his strong arms to wrap around Erica and pull her up to the surface. She coughed, gasping, water streaming from her mouth and nose.

By the time Tristan hauled her to the edge of the pool, the others had fallen dead silent.

Tristan lifted his soaking wet, shivering little sister onto the poolside tiles before pulling himself out after her.

He crouched down beside Erica, brushing wet hair from her tear-streaked face.

“Why were you in the pool when you know you can’t swim?” he demanded, voice still breathless from the rescue.

Erica sniffled, her lips quivering as she pointed a trembling finger at Izzy.

“She… she threw my stuffy in…”

Slowly, Tristan’s head turned toward Izzy.

His face, normally composed, twisted into something cold.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Izzy stared back, her previous confidence gone.

“I—I didn’t think she’d actually jump in after it!” she stammered, her eyes darting away from her older brother’s piercing glare.

Tristan exhaled sharply, turning his attention back to Erica.

He stood up and lifted her with ease. “Let’s get you dried off and changed,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

As he turned to carry Erica into the house, he paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at Izzy.

“Dad will deal with you later.”

And with that, he walked away.

Leaving Izzy standing by the pool, her heart pounding, the weight of what she had done settling over her like a curse.

The grand estate was unusually silent that night. The air, thick with tension, seemed to press down on the walls, suffocating the warmth that once filled the home.

In the kitchen, under the glow of the overhead lights, Izzy sat stiffly on a chair, her arms crossed, her jaw tight. The room felt too big, too empty, now that all her friends had been sent home.

Across from her, Nathaniel and Natalia Ensharra stood, their faces etched with disappointment.

Nathaniel’s piercing golden eyes bore into his daughter. His usually relaxed posture was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Natalia stood beside him, her arms folded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hadn’t said a word yet—she didn’t have to. Her expression alone carried the weight of her disappointment.

Nathaniel exhaled sharply through his nose, his tone low but seething.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Izzy?”

Izzy refused to look at him.

“You humiliated your sister,” he continued, stepping forward. “You endangered her life—over what? Some childish cruelty? You were supposed to protect her!”

Izzy’s fingers dug into her arms, her nails pressing hard against her skin.

“She’s not my sister,” she muttered.

Nathaniel’s brow furrowed. “What did you just say?”

Izzy’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with resentment.

“She’s not even my sister!” she spat. “She’s some fatherless bastard that Mom brought home!”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

And then—

A sharp crack echoed through the kitchen.

The force of the slap jerked Izzy’s head to the side.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Nathaniel froze, his hand still hovering in the air, his expression instantly shifting from rage to horror.

Natalia gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Izzy sat completely still, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Slowly, she raised a trembling hand to her cheek, feeling the sting of where her father’s palm had struck.

Her chest heaved, and she felt a burning pressure build in her throat.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Her voice broke when she screamed—

“I wish I could live at Great-Grandpa Drew’s home!”

And then she ran.

She pushed past her mother, her bare feet slamming against the marble floor, her breath hitching as she bolted down the hallway and up the grand staircase.

Nathaniel reached out instinctively, his voice desperate—

“Izzy, wait—!”

But she was already gone.

Her bedroom door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the halls like a final, damning note.

Nathaniel stood there, his outstretched hand slowly falling to his side.

His chest rose and fell, the weight of his own actions settling in like a heavy stone in his gut.

He had never hit any of his children before.

He never thought he would.

Natalia finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

“You should have never done that.”

Nathaniel pressed his fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes.

“I know.”

But it was too late.

The bedroom was a masterpiece of Ottoman opulence, a space where golden filigree danced across the ceilings and richly woven silk draperies cascaded around the room. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, burning softly in a nearby brass censer.

The soft glow of candlelight flickered off the polished wooden beams, casting elongated shadows over the intricate Iznik-tiled walls. The bed, a grand structure with carved walnut posts, was adorned with deep crimson and gold fabrics, its canopies lined with delicate embroidery.

Nathaniel sat at the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped together in contemplation. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the floor, but his mind was elsewhere—turning over the night’s events again and again.

Across the room, Natalia sat at her ornate vanity, a low, backless chair beneath her. A large mirror, framed in gilded wood, reflected her poised yet pensive expression as she removed her earrings, one by one.

She broke the silence first.

“What Izzy did was wrong, yes,” she said, her voice steady but thoughtful. “But she doesn’t understand the truth.”

Nathaniel glanced at her reflection in the mirror, his brow furrowing.

Natalia met his gaze through the glass, her dark eyes unwavering.

“She doesn’t know that the sister she despises is a child created by our patriarch, Andrew Ensharra—the same great-grandfather she so adores.”

Nathaniel inhaled slowly, running a hand over his face.

“I know,” he admitted. “She’s too young to understand how twisted he really is. How could she? To her, he’s just the generous old man in the grand estate who lets her do as she pleases.” He exhaled, his fingers tightening. “But I can’t keep allowing her to torment Kira.”

Natalia turned from the mirror, watching him closely.

“So what will you do?”

Nathaniel straightened, his expression set with resolve.

“I have no other choice,” he said. “She’s going to boarding school—with the rest of the askeri children.”

Natalia’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

“The askeri children?” she repeated. “That will take her away from her friends.”

Nathaniel’s expression hardened.

“Those friends are part of the problem.” His voice was firm now, the decision final. “They’re a bad influence, and you know it.”

Natalia sighed, lowering her gaze. The weight of his words settled over the room like a heavy, unseen presence.

The flickering candlelight cast shifting patterns on the walls, and the murmurs of the night wind outside whispered through the latticed mashrabiya windows.

There was nothing left to say.

Izzy’s fate had been sealed.

The summer heat of Ottoman Egypt had begun to wane, replaced by the early whispers of autumn. The air was thick with the mingling scents of coal smoke, spiced tea, and desert dust, as the locomotive loomed over the bustling station—a gleaming iron beast prepared to swallow its passengers whole.

Nathaniel led his family through the crowded train platform, his grip firm on his leather luggage strap. His wife, Natalia, walked beside him, poised as ever, her silk headscarf wrapped elegantly around her hair.

Behind them, Tristan carried his own luggage with ease, his gaze alert as he watched over his younger sisters. Izzy, however, dragged her suitcase behind her, her usual radiance dimmed, her once-vibrant presence dulled by the weight of her own emotions. Kira, on the other hand, skipped slightly as she held onto the strap of her small satchel, her eyes filled with excitement.

They made their way down the narrow corridors of the train, past other travelers dressed in flowing kaftans and European-style suits, the scent of fine tobacco and perfumed oils trailing in the air. Eventually, they reached the private compartment Nathaniel had reserved—a luxurious space with velvet seats, polished wooden walls, and golden lanterns swaying gently as the train trembled in preparation for departure.

Nathaniel placed his luggage overhead before settling into his seat. Natalia gracefully sat beside him, while Tristan positioned himself near the door, arms crossed as he silently observed his sisters.

Izzy sank into her seat by the window, her expression vacant. Her fingers traced the cool glass as she leaned her head against it, her breath fogging up the surface slightly. The rhythmic hiss of steam filled the air as the train let out its final boarding call.

Then, with a deep mechanical groan, the locomotive lurched forward, the iron wheels clanking as they began to turn.

The station slowly drifted away, the world outside shifting from stone buildings to endless stretches of golden sand and green fields as they left the city behind.

Izzy let out a sigh.

This was it.

She was being sent away.

Her world—the one she had carefully built around herself with glitz, laughter, and high society—was slipping through her fingers like desert sand.

Across from her, Kira sat bright-eyed, her small hands pressed against the window as she watched the scenery blur past. She had never traveled so far before, and for her, this was an adventure.

The contrast between them was stark—one girl watching the world with wonder, the other watching her own fade away.

Hours had passed in near silence, the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels filling the space where conversation had faded. Occasionally, there had been brief exchanges—a comment about the changing scenery, a remark about how far they had come—but for the most part, the Ensharra family sat in contemplative quiet.

Nathaniel, still engrossed in his thoughts, finally turned to his son and reached into his coat pocket. Pulling out a few lira, he placed them in Tristan’s palm.

“Tris, take your sisters and go get something to eat,” he said in his usual composed but firm tone.

Tristan gave a small nod before looking toward his sisters. “Come on, let’s go.”

Kira sprang up from her seat eagerly, practically bouncing beside him, while Izzy lingered. She moved with dragging steps, as if each motion took extra effort, her discontent weighing her down.

The train was lively as they made their way through the various cars, weaving past different travelers, each wrapped in their own world. An old man with a long white beard sat hunched over a chessboard, his opponent—a younger man—contemplating his next move. Families with small children sat together, their voices a mix of laughter and gentle scolding. A pair of merchants spoke in hushed but animated tones, exchanging notes and gold over a map.

The aroma of grilled meat, warm bread, and spiced tea filled the air as the siblings finally reached the food car.

Standing before the wooden counter, they took a moment to scan the chalkboard menu with its selection of hot meals.

Kira, practically bouncing on her toes, turned to her older sister. “Izzy, what are you gonna get?”

Izzy stared at the menu for a long moment before answering, her voice softer than usual. “Kebabs.”

There was no teasing or arrogance in her tone. No jest at her sister’s enthusiasm. Just a quiet reflection, a moment of stillness between them.

Kira’s eyes lit up. “Can I try some?”

Izzy turned to her and, without thinking, reached out to gently play with Kira’s dark hair, twisting a lock between her fingers. But her gaze remained distant, locked on Kira’s face as if memorizing her.

Sensing something was wrong, Kira tilted her head. “Izzy?”

Izzy blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She let out a small, unsteady breath, then quickly wiped at her face.

“Nothing,” she murmured, forcing a weak smile. Then, turning to Tristan, she said, “Order Kira and me kebabs. I’ll be back.”

Before either of them could react, she stepped away, walking toward the back of the train.

Kira instinctively moved to follow, but Tristan placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Let her go, Kira,” he said gently but decisively.

Kira hesitated, her eyes lingering on Izzy’s retreating form as she disappeared through the next train car.

Sighing, Tristan turned back to the vendor and placed their order.

“Two kebabs and one dolma.”

As they waited, Kira stood in place, still watching the door Izzy had left through, a small crease of worry forming on her young face.

Izzy pushed past the other passengers, her vision blurring as hot tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t care about the murmured protests or the annoyed glances thrown her way—she just needed to get away.

Her steps were quick, urgent, as she weaved through the moving train, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She barely registered the shifting bodies around her—the merchants haggling over silks, the travelers engaged in quiet conversation—none of them mattered.

All that mattered was reaching the back.

Finally, she shoved open the last door and stepped onto the fenced-in platform at the rear of the train. The night air hit her like a wave, cool against her flushed skin, but it did nothing to soothe the ache rising in her chest.

Gripping the railing with white-knuckled fingers, Izzy tilted her head back and let out a raw, agonized scream.

The sound was swallowed by the wind, carried away across the open desert, unheard by anyone but the empty night.

Tears spilled down her face in thick, uncontrollable streams, her chest heaving with sobs too deep to suppress.

Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed onto the cold metal floor of the platform. Clutching the railing, she buried her face into her arms and let it all go—the anger, the sorrow, the fear, the loss.

The reality of it all—the fact that she was truly leaving the only world she had known—hit her like a crushing weight.

She was being sent away.

Away from her home.

Away from her friends.

And, despite everything, away from her little sister.

Izzy shook with grief, the night stretching endlessly before her, the rhythmic clatter of the train the only answer to her cries.

Izzy wiped her face with the sleeve of her coat, smoothing down her clothes as she took a deep breath. The last thing she needed was to draw more attention to herself.

Steeling her expression, she stepped back inside, the warm air of the train car feeling suffocating compared to the cool night outside. She passed through two cars, keeping her head down, trying to push forward—until a hand grabbed her arm, yanking her to a stop.

She gasped, whipping her head around to see an older boy, maybe seventeen, with a scowl twisting his features. His expensive tunic was stained with tea, and his face was flushed with irritation.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he snarled, his grip tightening. “You bumped into my friend earlier, and now I’m the one who’s burned for it.”

Izzy blinked in confusion, then quickly put the pieces together—earlier, when she had been rushing to the back of the train, she must have accidentally knocked into someone, causing them to spill tea.

“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix this,” the boy snapped. “I think you need to be taught a lesson.”

Izzy’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to pull away, but his grip held firm.

The commotion had drawn attention. Passengers looked on, some whispering, some watching in tense silence.

A familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Izzy,” Tristan called out, appearing with Kira beside him. His sharp gaze flicked between his sister and the boy. “What’s going on?”

Izzy’s voice was frustrated, but controlled. “He won’t leave me alone.”

Tristan’s eyes darkened as he stepped forward, his presence alone enough to make most people back down. “Let go of my sister.”

The boy scoffed, his grip tightening. “Stay out of this. She’s the one who needs to learn respect.”

“Izzy, are you okay?” Kira’s small voice piped up, full of worry.

Izzy barely had time to respond before Kira ran forward, her tiny hand reaching up and grabbing the boy’s arm.

The moment her fingers made contact, the air around them shifted.

The boy’s body went rigid. His breath hitched.

The color drained from his face as his body wilted, his skin turning sallow, his eyes hollowing as if the very essence of life was being pulled from him.

A stunned silence fell over the train car as the passengers watched in horror.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, Kira’s hand lifted from him.

The boy gasped, his knees buckling as he collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as life rushed back into him.

Izzy stood frozen in terror, her breath catching in her throat. Her sister—her little sister—had just… done something.

Something unnatural.

Something terrifying.

Eyes turned to them. Whispers rippled through the car.

Not waiting for anyone to react further, Izzy scooped Kira up into her arms and ran.

Tristan was already moving with her, shoving past stunned passengers, following his sisters as they rushed back toward their family’s private room.

The train’s wheels screeched against the tracks as it came to a halt in the grand station of Mecca. The once-familiar rhythm of the train’s journey—one that had lulled Izzy into restless contemplation for the past eight days—was now gone, replaced by the chaotic sounds of the bustling city.

Nathaniel and his family stepped onto the platform, their luggage in hand. The warm desert air wrapped around them, carrying the scent of spice, dust, and distant incense.

A horse-drawn carriage awaited them, its driver already prepared for their journey. As they settled inside, Izzy stared out the window, her fingers tracing absentmindedly along the wood paneling. The weight of her fate was pressing down on her chest. This was it. Her new reality.

The carriage rolled through the city, passing towering minarets and sprawling markets, until at last, they arrived at a grand stone building surrounded by lush gardens and towering date palms. The boarding school loomed before them, imposing yet strangely beautiful, its architecture a testament to the empire’s wealth and prestige.

At the entrance, they were met by a distinguished-looking man in fine robes—the Medres, the head of the school. He greeted them warmly, his sharp eyes taking in the family before he offered a welcoming smile.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “I trust your journey was pleasant. Please, let me show you around.”

The tour of the campus was impressive, the hallways adorned with intricate calligraphy, the courtyards alive with the murmurs of students deep in study or friendly conversation. Despite her sadness, Izzy couldn’t deny the beauty of the place.

Then, as they reached the student dormitories, two older students stepped forward—a tall, confident-looking girl and a reserved, but kind-eyed boy.

The Medres gestured to them. “These two will show you to your rooms.”

Izzy reached for her luggage, expecting to be led away alone—until she heard the Medres say ‘rooms’.

She blinked in confusion before slowly turning to her brother.

“Tris?” she whispered, her voice a mix of shock and relief.

Tristan smirked slightly.

Before she could ask, Nathaniel spoke, his voice firm but carrying an unusual softness.

“We hope this school helps you, Izzy,” he said. “But we didn’t want you to be here alone. Neither did Tris.”

Izzy felt her chest tighten as an unexpected wave of emotion washed over her.

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around Tristan, hugging him tightly.

Then, she turned and hugged her father too.

Even Kira, who had been watching silently, received a tight embrace.

“I’ll see you soon,” Izzy whispered, placing a gentle hand on Kira’s head.

Kira nodded, eyes wide, as if she understood more than she let on.

With one last glance at her family, Izzy picked up her luggage and followed the female student down the hall, while Tristan walked in the opposite direction with the male student.

For the first time in days, Izzy felt a small flicker of hope.

2025: Cairo, Egypt

The heavy silence in Andrew Ensharra’s dimly lit office was only broken by the steady ticking of an antique clock. The weight of history clung to the room—the scent of aged leather, old paper, and a faint trace of the man who once occupied this space.

Izzy remained seated in the grand leather chair, her expression calm, yet unreadable. Across from her, Detectives Daniel and Alena sat, both watching her carefully.

Daniel leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied Izzy.

“So you’re telling me that you getting sent to boarding school is linked to Andrew getting murdered?”

His tone was skeptical, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe even concern.

Izzy smirked.

Slowly, she leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as if settling into a throne.

“Oh?” she mused, her voice dripping with amusement. “You never figured out what that boarding school really was for?”

Alena exchanged a glance with Daniel.

Izzy’s smirk widened as she looked at them knowingly.

“I’m surprised great-grandpapa never told you.”

The detectives said nothing, but their expressions gave them away. They didn’t know.

Izzy tilted her head slightly, watching their reactions like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

“Then again,” she added smoothly, “he always did love his secrets.”

1620s: Ottoman Empire Mecca

The boarding school in Mecca, with its grand Ottoman-style courtyards and towering stone archways, had long been a place of discipline, prestige, and power.

But in just eight months, Izzy had transformed it into her kingdom.

She moved through the hallways like a monarch, her presence commanding the attention of everyone she passed. Four girls trailed behind her, devoted companions who had quickly aligned themselves with the rising queen.

Izzy had mastered the art of control—not with brute force, but with the allure of love and seduction. A touch here, a glance there, a whispered promise—her love and sex aura was unparalleled. Even teachers found themselves pausing mid-sentence when she entered a room.

As she and her entourage stepped onto the fútbol field, the shift was instantaneous.

Every pair of male eyes turned toward her.

Some of the players barely noticed the ball flying past them. Others were tugged away from their own girlfriends, momentarily spellbound.

Izzy smirked. She barely had to try.

Standing at the edge of the field, she and her friends cheered for Tristan.

On the field, Tristan dribbled the ball past a defender, but he couldn’t help but laugh as he caught sight of his sister and her group. With a quick wave, he turned his focus back to the game.

One of the girls beside Izzy sighed dreamily.

“Your brother is so hot.”

Izzy made a face.

“Ew, that’s my brother.”

The girls burst into laughter.

“You know what we mean.” One of them nudged her playfully.

Izzy rolled her eyes but smirked.

Tristan was winning on the field. Izzy was winning in the school.

And soon enough, she would have everything.

The warm afternoon sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the classroom, casting soft golden hues onto the polished wooden desks.

Students sat in neat rows, all dressed in the school’s uniforms of crisp white shirts and navy blue vests, some listening attentively while others—like Izzy—drifted in and out of focus.

The teacher droned on about the pillars of rulership and the subtleties of global influence, but Izzy was only half-heartedly listening, idly twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.

Then, the door creaked open.

The classroom stilled as the Medres stepped inside, his presence alone demanding attention. But it wasn’t just him—a boy stood at his side.

A new student.

Sixteen years old. Tall. Confident. With strikingly intense eyes and an aura that exuded effortless charm and mystery.

Izzy’s breath hitched.

Her fingers stilled in her hair. Her heart gave an unfamiliar, almost painful thump in her chest.

“Oh Medres,” the teacher acknowledged, momentarily pausing his lecture.

“Asalamu alaykum,” the Medres greeted. “I have a new student who will be joining your class.”

Izzy swallowed, leaning forward just slightly.

“Who is he?” she murmured under her breath, eyes locked onto him like a predator sizing up its prey.

The Medres turned to the class. “Everyone, this is Damian Shepherd.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Please, show him the hospitality of our community.”

Damian met the room’s collective gaze with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes scanning the students before briefly landing on Izzy.

She felt a shiver.

The Medres gave a final nod and exited, leaving Damian in the hands of the teacher, who guided him toward an empty seat near the middle of the room.

The lesson resumed.

The students turned back to their notes.

But Izzy?

She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

The golden light of sunset filtered through the arched windows, casting long shadows across the tiled hallway as students filed out of classrooms, chattering amongst themselves. The faint hum of conversation filled the air, mingling with the sounds of footsteps against polished floors.

Izzy spotted Damian at the edge of the crowd, adjusting the strap of his satchel as he prepared to leave the classroom.

Perfect.

She strode up to him, her presence commanding attention. “Do you have anyone to eat dinner with?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “You could join me and my friends.”

Damian turned, meeting her gaze with a slight smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Thank you, but someone is waiting for me.”

Izzy raised an eyebrow, feigning casual curiosity. “Oh? Someone... like a... girlfriend?”

That smirk widened as he let out a soft chuckle. “No, my twin sister. I want to make sure she’s okay. We had to leave our old school and come here because she was bullied for being different.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, his brows furrowed in confusion. He shook his head slightly, almost as if trying to understand why he had just revealed something so personal.

“I don’t know why I just told you that,” he admitted, glancing at her with curiosity.

Izzy’s lips curled into a knowing smile. She reached out, lightly touching his arm with just enough pressure to send a small shiver through him.

“I tend to have that effect on people,” she said, her voice laced with both amusement and something almost hypnotic.

A newfound confidence surged through her as she closed the distance between them.

“Let’s walk together,” she suggested smoothly. “Maybe I can meet your sister.”

Damian glanced toward her desk, then back at her. “Aren’t you going to grab your books?”

Izzy barely spared them a glance before shrugging. “They tend to make their way where they need to be.”

That piqued Damian’s interest, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he gave a small nod, and the two of them fell into step together, their movements easy, natural—magnetic.

As they walked side by side through the grand hallways, the world around them seemed to fade, if only for a moment.

The dining hall was alive with the hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the occasional burst of laughter as students settled in for their evening meal. The vaulted ceiling carried the noise, blending it into a warm, familiar chaos. The scent of spiced meats, fresh bread, and stewed vegetables filled the air, wrapping the room in a comforting aroma.

Izzy and Damian had barely stepped inside when a commotion near the center of the hall drew their attention. A large crowd had gathered, students standing on benches or craning their necks, all focused on one person hidden within the throng. Gasps of wonder and bursts of applause rippled through the assembly.

Izzy narrowed her eyes at the scene. “I wonder what’s going on over there.”

Damian frowned, scanning the faces. “I’m not sure... but I don’t see my sister anywhere.”

Before either of them could move, Tristan appeared, striding up with his hands on his hips, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

“Ah, I see she caught your attention too,” he said, his gaze flickering toward the crowd.

Izzy turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You know who that is?”

Tristan shrugged. “Not really, but the boys on the fútbol team say she goes by Ginny.” He folded his arms, nodding toward the performance. “Peculiar, but talented. She reminds me of Kira.”

“Ginny?” Damian’s head snapped toward Tristan. “Is she quirky and eccentric?”

Tristan shifted his weight, crossing his arms as his gaze flicked toward Damian, sizing him up. “Who’s he?”

Izzy rolled her eyes, placing a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “His name is Damian,” she said casually. “Damian, this is my brother, Tris.”

Tristan exhaled through his nose, sucking his teeth as he reached out to shake Damian’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” His grip was firm, just enough to test Damian’s resolve before releasing. “But yeah, she’s quirky and eccentric. Seems sweet too.”

Damian’s lips curled into a small smile. “That sounds like my sister, all right.”

Without another word, he turned toward the crowd of captivated students, weaving through them as he made his way forward.

Izzy and Tristan exchanged a glance before following close behind.

As they approached, the voice at the center of the gathering grew clearer—a smooth, almost hypnotic cadence, each word weaving a spell over its listeners.

“A thousand years ago, on the edge of a kingdom forgotten by time...”

The voice was warm, rich, and full of life, carrying an almost mystical quality.

Izzy finally caught a glimpse of the girl standing at the heart of the crowd—Genevieve Shepherd.

She had curls like wildfire, cascading over her shoulders, her hands moving gracefully as she spoke. Dressed in the school’s navy and gold uniform, she stood with an effortless elegance, like a queen addressing her court.

Her audience was completely enthralled, hanging onto every syllable as she told tales of ancient love, betrayal, and destiny. The flickering candlelight overhead made her emerald-green eyes gleam, adding to her almost otherworldly presence.

Damian’s lips quirked into an affectionate smirk as he stepped closer. “Ginny,” he called softly.

Genevieve’s flow of words stilled as her gaze lifted toward the sound of her brother’s voice.

For a moment, surprise flashed across her face—then it melted into pure delight.

“Damian!” she gasped, her entire demeanor shifting from ethereal storyteller to excited little sister in an instant.

The crowd, sensing the shift, slowly began to disperse, murmuring their appreciation for her performance as they went to find their seats.

Izzy folded her arms, watching the exchange with genuine curiosity. This girl was... intriguing.

Genevieve practically threw herself at Damian, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. “You’re late!” she chided playfully. “I was starting to think you got lost!”

Damian chuckled, hugging her back. “I got held up.” He pulled away slightly, glancing at Izzy and Tristan before adding, “But I made a new friend.”

Genevieve turned her gaze to Izzy, studying her for a moment before flashing a mischievous grin.

“Ohhh,” she purred, looking between the two of them. “I see. Damian, you didn’t tell me you made such interesting friends.”

Izzy smirked. “And you didn’t tell me your sister was a weaver of poetry and forgotten legends.”

Genevieve laughed, a sound like wind chimes in the breeze.

“Well, I do like to leave a lasting impression,” she said with a wink.

Izzy chuckled, already liking this girl.

Tristan, arms still crossed, leaned toward Damian. “You weren’t kidding about the eccentric part.”

Damian only smiled, shaking his head. “No, I wasn’t.”

And with that, the four of them headed toward the dining tables together, an unspoken energy buzzing between them—one that felt like the start of something important.

The boarding school was a place of prestige, tradition, and discipline. But for Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny, it had become their personal kingdom of mischief and rebellion.

In the past three months, Damian and Izzy had become the school’s most talked-about couple.

Whispers followed them wherever they went— jealous boys cursing Damian’s luck, girls eyeing Izzy with thinly veiled envy, yet no one dared challenge either of them. Izzy had already cemented herself as the queen of the school, and Damian, with his charm and quiet confidence, was her king.

They were unstoppable together.

One afternoon, by the fountain in the main courtyard, the four of them gathered as usual.

Izzy sat on the fountain’s edge, legs crossed elegantly, while Damian stood beside her, one hand resting on the cool stone near her thigh. Tristan leaned against the fountain with his arms crossed, while Ginny sat atop the edge, her feet swinging playfully.

Across the courtyard, a group of boys stood watching.

“Ugh,” one of them muttered, “I still don’t get how Shepherd managed to score her.”

Another rolled his eyes. “Right? She could have had anyone—but him?”

Damian, always perceptive, noticed the glares but chose to ignore them. He wasn’t one to care about what others thought. Besides, he had Izzy, and that was all that mattered.

“Honestly,” Izzy sighed dramatically, stretching her arms, “the way people keep staring at us, you’d think we were celebrities.”

“Well,” Ginny teased, “we kind of are.” She leaned forward, smirking. “You’re Izzy—our reigning monarch of seduction—and Damian’s the brooding prince every girl secretly wishes would notice her.”

Tristan snorted. “And where does that leave us?”

Ginny grinned. “We’re the charming sidekicks, obviously.”

Izzy chuckled. “More like mischief-makers.”

And mischief, indeed, had become their specialty.

One evening, the four of them snuck into the school’s grand library after hours. The library was massive, lined with towering bookshelves and ornate chandeliers, casting long shadows in the dim candlelight.

Ginny, always the storyteller, had insisted there were hidden passages behind some of the shelves.

“Legend says,” she whispered dramatically, “this place was built atop an ancient monastery, and there are secret tunnels beneath the school.”

“That sounds like nonsense,” Tristan scoffed.

“Only one way to find out,” Izzy said with a smirk.

Damian crossed his arms. “And if we get caught?”

Ginny waved a hand dismissively. “Then we run.”

So they searched, pressing against bookshelves, tapping bricks, checking behind old scrolls—until Tristan accidentally leaned against a shelf, and it shifted.

All four of them froze.

The shelf creaked open, revealing a dark stone passageway leading downward.

Ginny gasped. “I told you!”

Damian exhaled. “We are not going down there.”

Izzy, ever fearless, grabbed a candle from a nearby table. “Why not?” she grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure, love?”

Damian rubbed his temple. “Fine, but if we die, I’m haunting you in the afterlife.”

With a shared sense of thrill, they descended into the hidden tunnel, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling up despite the eerie surroundings.

One night, after an especially dull lecture on international politics, Ginny had the brilliant idea to raid the kitchen.

“Who decided that stale bread and mystery stew count as dinner?” she had groaned. “We deserve better.”

And so, at midnight, the four of them snuck into the cafeteria, slipping past the monitors’ watchful gaze with practiced ease.

Izzy, using her natural charisma, convinced one of the kitchen staff—a kind old woman—to look the other way while they raided the pantry.

Tristan and Damian filled their arms with fresh pastries and fruit, while Ginny dramatically narrated their heist like it was a grand adventure.

“And here we see the fearless rebels, risking it all in pursuit of justice—”

“Shut up and grab the honey cakes,” Tristan muttered.

They returned to their dorms victorious, feasting on sweetbread, figs, and stolen wine, feeling like royalty defying the establishment.

It didn’t take long for the entire school to know their names.

The four of them were inseparable, always laughing, scheming, challenging authority. They found hidden spots on campus to make their own—a secret alcove behind the art building, a rooftop hideout, a forgotten garden behind the dormitories.

But beyond the mischief, their friendship was real.

Izzy had never met anyone like Damian—someone who wasn’t afraid of her power, who matched her wit and strength. And Damian, who had always been more protective than reckless, found himself drawn into Izzy’s world, where rules were merely suggestions.

Ginny and Tristan, despite their constant bickering, had a natural chemistry—Tristan grounding Ginny’s wild imagination, and Ginny pulling Tristan into adventures he never would have taken alone.

One evening, as they sat on the rooftop, looking out at the stars, Ginny sighed contentedly.

“I hope this never ends.”

Izzy, leaning against Damian’s shoulder, smiled. “It won’t.”

“Not if we don’t let it,” Damian added.

Tristan smirked. “As long as we don’t get expelled first.”

They all laughed, the night air crisp around them, their world feeling infinite.

In that moment, they were unstoppable.

And nothing could break them.

The grand estate was quieter than usual.

Without Izzy and Tristan filling the halls with their presence, an emptiness had settled over the grand home of Nathaniel and Natalia. The once vibrant and chaotic energy had dulled, leaving behind a silence that even the luxurious decor couldn’t mask.

But six-year-old Kira had no intention of accepting this quiet.

In the center of the parlor, the little girl stood, dressed in her finest gothic attire—a ruffled black dress with lace sleeves, striped stockings, and a velvet choker with a tiny silver owl charm.

And she was furious.

Her arms were crossed, tiny black-painted lips pursed, and her deep brown eyes burned with frustration.

“I WANT TO SEE TRISTAN AND IZZY!!” she shrieked, stomping her foot hard against the expensive marble floor.

Nathaniel, seated in his oversized leather armchair, lowered his newspaper just enough to glance at her. He exhaled through his nose but wisely chose to say nothing.

Natalia, however, had been enduring this tantrum for the past thirty minutes, and her patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Kira,” she said sharply, rubbing her temples, “we have discussed this. They are at school. They cannot just come home whenever you want them to.”

Kira, undeterred, let out a dramatic wail and flopped onto the floor. “But I MISS THEM!” she cried, kicking her tiny boots in frustration. “It’s not FAIR!”

Nathaniel turned a page of his newspaper. “Life rarely is,” he muttered dryly.

Natalia shot him a look. Not. Helping.

She took a deep breath, kneeling beside her youngest child. “Alright,” she finally relented. “I will take you to see them during Family Day in four months.”

Kira immediately stopped thrashing.

Her eyes widened, lips parting as she sniffled. “You promise?”

Natalia sighed, brushing a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. “Yes. Four months from now, we will go visit them.”

Kira blinked, processing the information. Then, in a small, hopeful voice, she asked, “How many days is that?”

Natalia tapped her chin. “One hundred and twenty-two days.”

Kira gasped, horrified by the sheer number. “That’s so long!”

“It’s four months, Kira,” Natalia said flatly. “It will pass before you know it.”

But Kira was not convinced.

She pushed herself up from the floor, dusting off her dress with dramatic flair, and marched off with purpose.

“Where are you going?” Natalia called after her.

“To make tally marks so I can count the days!” Kira declared.

Nathaniel smirked behind his newspaper. “She’s dedicated. I’ll give her that.”

Natalia sighed, rubbing her forehead. “She’s something, alright.”

As the tiny gothic whirlwind disappeared down the hall, they both knew one thing for certain—

Those tally marks would be counted down with obsessive precision.

The months passed at the boarding school in a whirlwind of excitement, secrets, and trials.

Izzy had cemented her place as the queen of the school, commanding attention and admiration with her confidence, power, and undeniable charm.

But power came with consequences.

One reckless use of her aura abilities—an impulsive decision to sway a few students for fun—had landed her in confinement for three long, agonizing days.

The punishment wasn’t just isolation—it was humiliation.

Locked away, Izzy had no way to defend her territory. And in her absence, the other girls seized the opportunity.

Damian—her Damian—was suddenly the center of attention.

Whispered love letters slipped into his books. Sickeningly sweet gifts left in his dorm. Shameless flirting in the halls.

Tristan, ever the observant brother, warned Damian. “Shut it down fast. You know how Izzy is.”

And Damian did.

He rejected them all, loyal to Izzy, but the optics were not in his favor.

The moment Izzy was released from confinement, the boys pounced, eager to stir the pot.

“You wouldn’t believe how many girls were all over Damian,” one smirked.

“They were leaving him love letters,” another added.

“And you should’ve seen him with Esme. She was all over him—”

That was all it took.

Izzy clenched her fists, her face a storm of emotions—rage, jealousy, and betrayal.

She wanted to believe Damian. Wanted to trust him.

But then, she saw it with her own eyes.

Across the courtyard, Esme—the very girl the boys had mentioned—was laughing, twirling her hair as she leaned into Damian, her fingers brushing his arm.

And Damian—her Damian—was smiling.

It didn’t matter what he was saying. Didn’t matter if he was rejecting her. Didn’t matter that it was just a moment.

To Izzy, it was war.

With deadly precision, she strode forward, her presence impossible to ignore.

Esme turned just in time to see Izzy’s fist flying toward her face.

The sickening crack of impact echoed through the courtyard.

Gasps rang out. Esme stumbled back, clutching her cheek, eyes wide in shock.

Before Damian could react, Izzy turned on him, eyes burning with betrayal and fury.

“IZZY—”

But he never finished his sentence.

Her knee shot up before he could dodge, slamming into his groin with brutal force.

Damian doubled over, gasping, as the surrounding students recoiled in a mixture of horror and amusement.

Izzy, breathing hard, glared down at him. “Enjoy your fan club, Shepherd.”

Then she spun on her heel and stormed off, her rage unwavering.

She had only one destination in mind—

Tristan.

If there was anyone who would understand, it was him.

The boy’s locker room was filled with the usual post-practice chaos—steam rising from the bathing room, towels snapping, and the low rumble of conversation as the fútbol team unwound from another grueling session.

That chaos came to a screeching halt when Izzy barged in.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her face flushed with a mixture of anger and heartbreak.

“Tris!“ she called out, her voice raw with emotion.

The room froze.

Some of the boys, caught in varying states of undress, yelped in surprise and scrambled for cover. Others—the more shameless ones—stood taller, flexing or smirking, unbothered by her presence.

From within the bathing room, Tristan emerged, a towel slung low around his waist. His face morphed from annoyance to alarm the moment he saw Izzy’s tears.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, ignoring the confused murmurs from his teammates.

“Izzy,” he grabbed her shoulders, his grip firm but steady. “What the hell happened? Who made you cry?”

His jaw tightened. “Did the school do something to you in confinement?”

Izzy shook her head violently, struggling to catch her breath.

“It’s Damian,“ she managed between shaky inhales. “He’s been cheating on me!“

A beat of silence.

Then, Tristan blinked—his expression shifting from concern to bewilderment.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “No, he hasn’t.”

“I saw him!“ Izzy insisted, voice rising. “With Esme! He—he was laughing with her, and the boys told me—“

But Tristan cut her off, shaking his head.

“The boys,” he scoffed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Izzy, they all want to sleep with you. Of course, they’d spin you some twisted tale to break you two up.”

Izzy’s breathing slowed, the weight of her brother’s words sinking in.

The other boys—the whispers, the smirks, the teasing jabs at Damian…

Had they been egging her on, pushing her buttons?

She swallowed hard, doubt creeping in.

Tristan, seeing her shoulders start to relax, guided her toward a bench, sitting down beside her.

He wrapped an arm around her, his warmth anchoring her in place.

“Listen,” he began, voice calm but firm. “Yeah, the girls at this school have been throwing themselves at Damian. That’s not a lie. But he’s been turning them down, Izzy.”

Her fingers curled into her lap, guilt beginning to creep in.

“He’s a fool, though,“ Tristan added, shaking his head. “Too damn nice for his own good. The girls take that as encouragement instead of rejection.”

Izzy’s chest tightened.

Had she—had she overreacted?

Had she let her jealousy blind her?

Her mind flashed back to the look on Damian’s face right before she kicked him—the confusion, the shock, the pain.

Oh, hell.

What had she done?

A week had passed.

A week of avoiding eye contact, of passing by each other in silence, of longing stares when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Izzy wanted to apologize. She needed to. But the weight of her own pride and shame kept her from facing Damian.

And Damian—he wasn’t the same.

He walked through the halls like a man who had lost something precious. His usual easygoing smile was gone, replaced by a faraway look and shoulders that sagged with unspoken hurt.

Ginny, ever the tragic poet, had taken to immortalizing his heartbreak in a poem, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

But Tristan had had enough.

“Are you gonna let this thing fester forever?” he had said to Izzy one afternoon. “He’s not gonna wait around forever, you know.”

“I know,” Izzy had muttered, arms crossed, teeth sinking into her lip.

“Then fix it,” Tristan had said simply.

And so, she did.

With Tristan’s help, Izzy planned something special—a dinner, just for the two of them. A way to show Damian how truly sorry she was.

And maybe… a way to win him back.

The dining hall was dimly lit, a single table set with candles flickering softly between two plates. The scent of rich, warm spices filled the air from the carefully prepared meal, and soft music hummed in the background.

Izzy stood by the table, heart pounding in her chest, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

Any moment now.

Her brother had done his part, telling Damian to meet him for a casual hangout.

And now—

The door opened.

Damian stepped inside, dressed in simple but well-fitted clothes, his expression shifting from expectation to confusion the moment he saw her.

“Izzy?” His brows furrowed. “Where’s Tristan?”

She swallowed, her fingers tightening against her dress.

“He’s… not coming,” she admitted. “He was just helping me set this up.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his guard immediately up. “Izzy, if this is some game—”

“It’s not,” she rushed out, stepping forward, voice softer now. “It’s—it’s me trying to make things right.”

A beat of silence.

Damian’s jaw tensed, his emotions warring on his face. He had every right to be angry, every right to walk away.

But instead, he exhaled through his nose and reluctantly pulled out the chair.

“Alright,” he said, sitting down. “Let’s talk.”

Izzy’s heart leapt.

She still had a chance.

And she wasn’t going to waste it.

Family Day

The boarding school was alive with excitement, the once-quiet campus now bustling with the presence of wealthy families from across the Ottoman Empire who had traveled to see their children. Laughter echoed through the courtyards, joyous reunions taking place under the grand archways and sprawling gardens.

Among the arriving families, a black carriage with silver trim came to a stop at the front gates. The door opened, and out stepped Nathaniel, Natalia, and a very eager Kira, who all but leapt from the carriage the moment her feet touched the ground.

“Tristan! Izzy!” Kira’s voice rang out in pure joy as she spotted her older siblings waiting near the entrance.

Before anyone could react, the six-year-old whirlwind dashed forward, her dark gothic dress billowing as she tackled both Izzy and Tristan’s legs, wrapping herself around them in a fierce hug.

Tristan let out a surprised laugh, while Izzy nearly toppled over from the sheer force of the hug.

“Kira!” Izzy exclaimed, crouching down as Tristan followed suit, the two of them wrapping their arms around their baby sister.

“We missed you, little owl,” Tristan murmured, ruffling her dark curls.

Kira, her cheeks flushed with excitement, clung to them as if she’d never let go.

Natalia, watching the scene unfold, smirked knowingly. “You should have seen her,” she said, shaking her head. “Counting down the days, throwing tantrums, and refusing to wear anything but black until she could see you both again.”

Izzy and Tristan burst into laughter, while Kira, still latched onto them, huffed dramatically.

“It was only one tantrum,” Kira mumbled against Izzy’s dress.

“One?” Natalia arched an eyebrow. “You threw one every week.”

Tristan chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

Ginny, who had been watching the scene unfold with sparkling amusement, took a step forward. “Okay, officially—she’s the most adorable child I’ve ever seen.”

Kira turned her wide, curious eyes up at Ginny, scanning her like a tiny detective assessing a suspect.

“You love my style?” Kira asked, tilting her head.

“Absolutely,” Ginny grinned. “Gothic queen in the making. The black? The attitude? The tantrums? It’s a vibe.”

Kira seemed to consider this before nodding, satisfied with the assessment.

Natalia, taking in the unfamiliar faces, turned her attention to Ginny and Damian. “And who are these friends of yours?” she asked, her gaze warm but expectant.

Izzy, unable to resist the moment, cleared her throat dramatically.

“This is Ginny,” she gestured to her friend, who curtsied playfully.

“And this—” Izzy said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “is my boyfriend, Damian.”

The word boyfriend landed like a match in dry grass.

Nathaniel’s entire demeanor shifted, his spine straightening, his expression darkening as his gaze snapped to Damian.

There was a pause, the air thick with tension, before—

“A boyfriend,” Nathaniel repeated, voice dangerously neutral.

Damian, to his credit, stood his ground, offering a polite nod.

“Sir,” he greeted, measured and respectful.

Before the storm could break, Natalia casually tapped her husband’s chest with the back of her hand, snapping him out of his brewing paternal fury.

“She’s old enough, Nathaniel,” Natalia said, amusement laced in her tone.

Nathaniel let out a slow breath through his nose, clearly not thrilled but reining himself in.

“We’ll see,” was all he muttered.

Ginny leaned toward Damian, whispering, “Well, that went well.”

Damian chuckled under his breath, but his eyes remained locked on Nathaniel’s.

Izzy, meanwhile, smirked at her father.

This was going to be a very interesting family day.

Izzy and Tristan led their family through the grand entrance hall of the boarding school, their parents and little Kira following close behind. Damian and Ginny flanked them, exchanging jokes about the school’s extravagant architecture and the privileges of the elite students who attended.

The grand marble columns and ornate chandeliers cast a regal glow, but a sudden shift in the air made Izzy pause.

A low murmur spread through the crowd. The once lively chatter fell into hushed whispers.

Then, like a wave sweeping across the hall, everyone began to bow.

Izzy turned, eyes widening as a grand carriage rolled up to the entrance. The black lacquered wood gleamed under the light, the doors adorned with gold inlays of an unfamiliar crest—a serpent entwined with crashing waves, its fanged maw open as if devouring the ocean itself.

Kira, her small hand gripping the fabric of her mother’s dress, looked up in confusion.

“Mama, why is everyone bowing?” she asked, her voice breaking the eerie silence.

Natalia’s eyes narrowed, her gaze fixated on the insignia decorating the carriage. A chill settled over her expression, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Those are the Ki-Ensharra symbols,” Natalia murmured. “One of the most powerful families in the Ottoman Empire.”

A moment later, the carriage doors swung open.

Emerging first was Elias Ensharra, his long black coat trimmed with sapphire embroidery, his presence commanding yet effortless. His sharp features carried the cool arrogance of nobility, his piercing gaze scanning the crowd as if the school and its students were beneath his notice.

Beside him, stepping out with calculated grace, was Nadine Ensharra. She was strikingly beautiful, with flowing raven hair and piercing emerald eyes, dressed in a gown of deep ocean blue, the fabric shimmering like the waves under moonlight.

The attendants straightened, their voices ringing out in formal proclamation.

“Presenting the Bey of the Seas, Provincial Governor of the Waters, Elias Ensharra!”

At the announcement, the crowd lowered their heads even further, many with reverence, others with fear.

Nathaniel and Natalia, however, remained rigid, their expressions darkening with something close to contempt

Izzy and Tristan exchanged a knowing look. They were Ensharras too but never had they met one that was a governor of the Seas. They knew their family was one with vast influence over trade, politics, and military power across the Ottoman-controlled lands, but the seas too?

Elias and Nadine strode forward, moving towards Nathaniel, Natalia, Kira, Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny.

Despite the sea of bowed heads, Nathaniel and Natalia stood firm and unyielding.

Damian tensed beside Izzy, his instincts screaming that something about this encounter carried a deep and bitter history.

Ginny, ever the observer, muttered under her breath.

“Well… this just got a lot more interesting.”

The air grew thick and heavy as Elias and Nadine Ensharra stood before Nathaniel’s family, their presence immediately dominating the grand hall. The whispers of nearby students faded, curiosity overtaking reverence as they strained to overhear the exchange.

Elias, with practiced ease, stepped forward and warmly embraced Nathaniel and Natalia. A small, almost mischievous smile crossed his lips as he spoke. “It’s been far too long.”

Natalia’s response was cool, but polite. “Indeed it has, Elias. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Elias chuckled softly, his gaze shifting toward the young faces beside them—Damian and Ginny. With deliberate steps, he moved toward the siblings and placed a firm, affectionate hand on each of their shoulders.

“I came to see my children,” Elias announced casually, his voice resonating through the now quiet hall. “It is family day, after all.”

Izzy’s heart stopped. Damian’s eyes widened, flickering between Elias and Natalia. Tristan stood frozen, mouth parted, confusion etched clearly on his features.

Natalia sighed deeply, clearly accustomed to her father’s flair for dramatics. She glanced at Elias with mild annoyance. “Well, you should say hello to your grandchildren too, while you’re here.”

There was a stunned pause.

Damian slowly turned to Izzy, horror dawning on both their faces. Tristan’s brow knitted together in confusion as he looked around, searching desperately for someone to clarify.

Ginny, however, caught on almost immediately, covering her mouth as a startled laugh escaped. “Oh, my gods,” she muttered, eyes twinkling with wicked delight. “Oh, this is good.”

Natalia folded her arms, sighing with slight irritation. “Honestly, Elias. You might as well say hello to your grandchildren, since you’ve come all this way.”

Elias looked surprised for a moment before letting out a loud laugh. “Ah, yes. The next generation! Time really does pass quickly when you’re not paying attention.”

Izzy’s fists tightened at her sides, her face twisting in disbelief. “Wait…so…what does this mean?” she asked, her voice shaking.

Natalia, with an almost regretful sigh, looked directly at Izzy. “It means that Damian, your boyfriend, is technically my brother—your uncle.”

Izzy felt nauseous, the room spinning. Damian swallowed visibly, his gaze fixed in stunned silence as he processed the revelation.

Elias let out a hearty chuckle, slapping Damian firmly on the back. “Don’t look so horrified, boy! These sorts of things are more common in our family than you think.”

Damian grimaced deeply, stepping away from his father’s grasp. “Common? That’s supposed to make this better?”

Natalia shot Elias an irritated look. “Maybe try being sensitive for once?”

Elias waved off her concern with his usual casual arrogance. “Please. It’s not as though they grew up together. Besides, they’re distant enough in relation that it hardly matters.”

Izzy recoiled visibly. “It matters to me!”

Damian, equally horrified, spoke in a tight voice. “And me. I had no idea—”

Elias chuckled softly, patting Damian hard on the back, making him stumble forward slightly. “Don’t worry, my boy. Natalia and you barely share blood anyway. Well…not that much, only half.” He flashed an easy grin toward Natalia and Nathaniel. “But it does seem amusing that our children found each other nonetheless.”

Nathaniel finally broke his silence, his voice firm and cold. “Amusing isn’t quite the word I’d choose, Elias.”

Ginny, still laughing quietly behind her hand, leaned closer to Tristan. “You realize this means Izzy and Damian are technically aunt and nephew, right?”

Tristan visibly cringed. “Ginny, please don’t help.”

Izzy shot Ginny a deadly glare. “This isn’t funny.”

Ginny quickly straightened her face, suppressing her giggles. “Right, right, sorry.”

Kira, blissfully unaware of the complicated implications, tugged at Natalia’s sleeve. “Does this mean Damian is like another brother?”

Natalia rubbed her forehead. “Something like that, sweetheart.”

Elias cleared his throat, breaking the awkward tension. “Look, it’s not that bad, we’re gods among man, we don’t have to adhere to their social norms.” He winked at Damian. “That would make us weak.”

“Weak?” Damian repeated incredulously.

Nathaniel finally spoke up, voice authoritative. “Enough. We’ll sort all this out later. Right now, we should settle into our rooms.”

Elias nodded, his smile still lingering. “Of course. We have plenty of time to discuss our… unusual family dynamic.”

Damian looked at Izzy, eyes wide with disbelief and embarrassment. Izzy, torn between disgust and the lingering ache of her feelings, quickly turned away.

“Let’s just…go,” Tristan said, stepping forward to put an arm protectively around Izzy’s shoulders, guiding her away from the hall.

Ginny nudged Damian gently. “Come on, brother. Family drama calls.”

Damian reluctantly followed, casting one last wary glance at Elias.

As the group left the grand hall, Elias leaned over to Natalia and whispered with amusement, “You do know this is going to make one hell of a story someday.”

Natalia rolled her eyes, responding flatly, “You are the absolute worst.”

Elias just chuckled again, adjusting the cuffs of his robe as if none of this mattered in the slightest. “Indeed. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Natalia exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “Unfortunately, no, I wouldn’t.”

The hall returned to normal, students whispering eagerly, the latest scandalous news already spreading like wildfire.

Just another family day at the boarding school, where nothing was ever simple—especially when your last name was Ensharra.

A Year Later: The Bathing Room Incident

The moon hung high over the grand boarding school, its pale glow casting silver reflections over the stone courtyard. The school halls were silent at this hour, but not empty—because in the bathing room, four rebellious students were up to their usual mischief.

Steam curled around the ornate, domed ceiling, the glow of bronze lanterns reflecting off the marble floors. The warm waters of the school’s grand bathhouse rippled as Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny splashed, laughed, and played in the luxurious pools.

“Tell me again,” Tristan smirked, floating lazily on his back, “why are we doing this tonight instead of waiting for the festival?”

“Because,” Izzy replied, her arms wrapped around Damian’s shoulders as they drifted in the water together, “for once, I wanted to do something fun before someone ruins it.”

“And we’re best when we’re unsupervised,” Ginny added, grinning, flicking water at Tristan.

Damian chuckled, leaning in and pressing a playful kiss against Izzy’s lips.

Just as their lips met, a wave of water hit them both in the face.

Izzy gasped, pulling away and whipping her head toward Ginny, who was laughing hysterically. “Ugh, you menace! Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Ginny snickered, not sorry at all, “but you two were getting disgustingly cute again.”

Damian shook his head, running a hand through his wet hair. “So, this is how we treat royalty now?”

Ginny grinned. “Hey, I’d splash the Sultan himself if he started making heart eyes in my bathhouse.”

Just as Izzy was about to retaliate—

A piercing scream split the air.

The laughter died instantly.

The four of them froze, eyes snapping toward the bathing room entrance.

“Did you hear that?” Tristan muttered, already pushing himself out of the water.

“No, I imagined the bloodcurdling scream,” Ginny deadpanned, quickly moving to follow.

Izzy and Damian exchanged a glance before wading out of the water, grabbing their towels as they moved toward the corridor leading out of the bathhouse.

They followed the damp stone hallway, the faint flicker of torches lining the walls their only source of light. Another scream—softer now—echoed somewhere further ahead.

And then, they saw it.

A body.

A student, sprawled across the cold floor, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath them, stark and vivid against the pale stone.

Izzy gasped, hand covering her mouth.

Ginny took a sharp step back, her eyes widening. “Oh, shit—”

Damian, jaw tight, took a slow breath. “Who—?”

Before they could react further, the sound of rushing footsteps came from behind them.

The night staff.

Several school enforcers burst into the corridor, lanterns in hand, their expressions morphing into horror as they took in the sight before them—

Four mischievous students standing over a dead body.

A beat of silence.

Then—

One of the enforcers grabbed a small brass whistle from their belt and blew it sharply. The sound was shrill and piercing, bouncing off the stone walls like an alarm.

Izzy’s stomach plummeted.

More staff members arrived, drawn by the signal, their expressions growing graver by the second.

One of them—a high-ranking enforcer—stepped forward, face stern.

“You four,” he said, voice like iron, “are coming with us.”

Before anyone could argue, strong hands grabbed their arms, restraining them.

Tristan tensed beside Izzy, muscles flexing, but he didn’t resist.

“This is a mistake,” Damian protested, his voice eerily calm despite the situation.

Ginny, ever the cynic, let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you think?”

They were marched through the darkened corridors, water still dripping from their clothes, their feet bare against the cold stone.

When they reached the school’s detention quarters, they were locked in separate holding rooms, awaiting the arrival of the Ottoman Gendarmerie.

Izzy sat against the damp walls, heart pounding in her chest.

This wasn’t just a prank gone wrong.

This was serious.

And if they didn’t find a way to prove their innocence soon—

They were going to pay for a crime they didn’t commit.

Back in 2025: The Truth Begins to Unravel

Detective Daniel Caldwell exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as he leaned back in his chair. His gaze remained sharp, skeptical, but undeniably engaged as he studied Izzy Ensharra from across the dimly lit office of the deceased Andrew Ensharra.

Detective Alena Cross, on the other hand, looked more bewildered than ever. Her pen tapped against her notepad as she tried to mentally connect all the pieces Izzy had thrown at them.

There were too many inconsistencies—talk of gods walking among humans, references to the Ottoman Empire, and the casual way Daniel seemed to be accepting it all.

None of it made sense.

Alena’s brows furrowed. “So… let me get this straight.” She gestured toward Izzy. “You’re telling me that you and your friends got arrested at your school in the Ottoman Empire… centuries ago?”

Izzy rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, keep up.”

Alena’s lips parted slightly, her mind working overtime to rationalize what she was hearing. “But that’s impossible. If that were true, you’d be…” she hesitated, the word feeling too ridiculous to say out loud.

“Immortal,” Daniel supplied flatly, arms crossed.

Alena turned to him with an incredulous look. “And you’re just accepting that?”

Daniel let out a tired sigh. “Alena, I’ve been dealing with the Ensharras for a long time. You either accept the madness, or you go insane trying to deny it.”

Alena opened her mouth to argue, but the sharpness in Daniel’s tone made her pause. There was something there—a weight in his voice that suggested he had already seen more than he should have.

Izzy, growing impatient, ran a hand through her silky dark hair, sighing dramatically.

“Look, if you two are done debating the logistics of my existence, let me finish my story.”

Alena hesitated but nodded, her grip tightening around her pen.

Daniel leaned forward slightly. “Alright, Izzy. Let’s hear it.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, a darker, heavier expression settled over her face.

She steepled her fingers, her nails clicking together softly as she finally continued.

“Now, let me tell you how my great-grandpapa, the mighty Andrew Ensharra, tried to cover up the murder of one of the Sultan’s children.”

Silence fell over the room.

Alena’s stomach dropped at the weight of those words.

Daniel’s face remained unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly, betraying his intrigue.

Because now—now they were finally getting to the part where it all made sense.

1620s: The Grand Vizier’s Arrival

The Medres’ office was dimly lit by a few flickering oil lamps, the scent of parchment and ink heavy in the air. The walls, lined with intricate Ottoman calligraphy and shelves of ancient tomes, bore witness to the weight of knowledge and power that resided within this room.

Then, without warning—

A flash of golden light burst through the chamber, illuminating the space with an almost divine radiance.

The air crackled with energy, the very fabric of reality shifting as the light coalesced into a figure cloaked in resplendent silks, adorned with gold embroidery fit for a ruler.

As the light dimmed, the man who emerged stood tall and regal, his piercing golden eyes glinting beneath the folds of his elaborate turban.

Ali Pasha, the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire.

Or, as the Ensharra family knew him—Andrew Ensharra.

His presence alone seemed to command the very air in the room, bending the will of those who stood before him without so much as a whisper.

The Medres, a man accustomed to dealing with powerful figures, still found himself instinctively standing from his desk, a bead of sweat forming at his brow.

Ali’s voice was silk and steel, deep and deliberate.

“I have been informed that the Gendarmerie has been summoned to this school.”

He took a slow step forward, his gold-embroidered robe shifting like a shadow behind him.

“I was also told that my descendants are being held like criminals in confinement.”

The Medres stiffened, his grip on the desk tightening.

“It is true, Grand Vizier,” he admitted cautiously. “Four students—Ishtar, Tristan, Damian, and Genevieve—stand accused of a grave crime. We believe one of the Sultan’s own children has been murdered, and they were found at the scene.”

Ali Pasha paused.

Then—he laughed.

It was a sound that carried no warmth, only the mockery of amusement.

“Far-fetched,” he mused, shaking his head. “You truly believe my bloodline would be so sloppy? So... incapable of hiding a body?”

The Medres’ mouth twitched. “With all due respect, my Lord, I cannot simply ignore this matter. Until we determine their innocence, they will remain locked away. Even if they are of your blood.”

A chill swept through the room.

Ali Pasha took another slow step forward, his movements calculated and precise. His golden eyes, once merely striking, now glowed faintly, radiating something beyond human comprehension.

“Tell me, Medres,” Ali murmured, his voice low and intoxicating, “Who do you believe places men upon thrones?”

The Medres gulped, instinctively averting his gaze.

“Who do you think determines the rise and fall of empires?” Ali continued, tilting his head slightly. “Is it the will of mere mortals? Of bureaucrats? Of soldiers?”

Another step.

The Medres felt a crushing weight in the air, as if invisible hands were pressing down on his shoulders.

“Or do you believe it is the gods who decide such things?” Ali Pasha asked, his tone now laced with something far more dangerous.

The Medres’ knees nearly buckled.

He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.

Ali Pasha’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he placed a single, gloved hand on the Medres’ desk.

“I would hate to have to find a new Medres for this school.”

A long, heavy silence followed.

The Medres licked his lips, his face ashen.

Then, with a reluctant bow of his head, he spoke. “The children… will be released immediately.”

Ali’s expression remained unreadable for a moment longer.

Then, he smiled.

“Wise decision.”

With that, the Grand Vizier turned, his golden aura fading, as he left the Medres’ office, leaving behind only a man who now understood true power.

The courtyard of the boarding school was unusually tense, the air thick with unspoken worry. The usual laughter and chatter of students had been replaced by whispers, their eyes darting toward the six uniformed men standing in the center of the stone-paved grounds.

Grand Vizier Ali Pasha stood before them, his elaborate silk robes flowing like liquid gold under the torchlight. His face, stern and unreadable, cast a heavy weight over the six soldiers of the Ottoman Gendarmerie who had been summoned for this delicate matter.

Each of them stood at attention, their hands resting on the hilts of their sabers or gripping their rifles slung across their backs.

One day, centuries later, he would be known as Detective Daniel Caldwell.

But for now, he was just a soldier standing before one of the most powerful men in the empire.

Ali Pasha’s gaze swept across them, his voice calm but edged with authority.

“This case must be handled delicately.”

The soldiers remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I do not want a single word of this incident leaving the borders of this school.” Ali’s hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly before them. “Until we know what happened, we must control the narrative.”

The men exchanged glances, understanding the weight of this order.

“I am entrusting this to the six of you,” Ali continued, his voice unwavering. “You are to ensure that the Sultan does not hear of this matter until we have answers. Do I make myself clear?”

The soldiers bowed their heads in unison, fists over their chests.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Ali studied them for a long moment, his golden eyes glinting in the dim courtyard light. He had chosen them for a reason—each one capable, each one loyal.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the opposite end of the courtyard, where a different kind of tension filled the air.

A pair of heavy wooden doors creaked open.

Four figures emerged, escorted by armed guards.

Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny.

Their wrists were no longer bound, but the weight of a hundred stares clung to them as they were led through the courtyard. Muffled whispers rippled through the crowd of students who had gathered to watch.

Some looked on with curiosity, others with fear, and some with outright suspicion.

Behind the guards, more members of the Gendarmerie held the students at bay, ensuring no one approached or disrupted the scene. In the distance, the bathing house remained active, people coming and going, the investigation still unfolding.

Izzy could feel the stares burning into her skin.

Murderers.

Troublemakers.

Dangerous.

The words weren’t spoken aloud, but she could hear them in their eyes, could feel them in the suffocating silence.

Her fingers curled into fists, her jaw tightening. She wasn’t sure if it was humiliation or rage twisting in her gut, but she hated this feeling.

Beside her, Damian’s shoulders were rigid, his usual air of cool indifference nowhere to be found.

Ginny, always one for dramatics, let out a small scoff, muttering under her breath, “You’d think we beheaded someone in the dining hall with the way they’re gawking.”

Tristan didn’t say a word, but the way his muscles tensed suggested that he was one wrong look away from throwing a punch.

Then—

Izzy’s gaze flicked toward the six men standing with Ali Pasha.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Andrew.

No—Ali Pasha.

Their ancestor, the man who had built their dynasty, the one who had set all of this into motion.

He stood proud and untouchable, his face unreadable as he spoke with the soldiers.

“What is he doing here?” Damian whispered, his voice laced with unease.

Izzy shook her head. “No idea.”

They wanted to speak to him, to ask him what the hell was going on.

But before they could even attempt to step forward, one of the guards gave them a sharp nudge, urging them toward the student dormitories.

“Move along,” the guard instructed. “Girls’ wing to the left, boys’ to the right.”

Izzy’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she complied, casting one last look at Ali Pasha—Andrew Ensharra—before disappearing into the night.

Ali Pasha watched them go, his expression never changing.

One of the soldiers, Bahtiyar, turned to him. “Should we have let them return to their rooms so soon?”

Ali smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “Let them stew in their own thoughts. Fear is an effective motivator. If they are guilty, we will know soon enough.”

Batuhan—future Detective Daniel Caldwell—watched the students disappear into the dormitories, something in his gut telling him that this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The girls’ wing of the dormitories was unusually quiet, the usual giggles and whispered conversations absent. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating even, as Izzy and Ginny were led down the hall by one of the school’s caretakers.

Izzy’s brows furrowed as they neared a familiar door, her confusion growing.

She grabbed Ginny’s wrist, stopping in her tracks. “Why are we being taken to the same room?”

Before Ginny could answer, the caretaker, a severe-looking woman with thin lips and sharp eyes, turned toward them. Her expression was cold, void of sympathy.

“Because your former roommate no longer wishes to share a room with a murderer.”

The words were flat, cutting, the accusation embedded in them stinging more than Izzy wanted to admit.

Her hands clenched into fists.

“We didn’t do it,” she snapped, anger flashing in her golden eyes.

The caretaker merely tilted her head, unimpressed.

Izzy opened her mouth to argue further—but then, halfway through the fight building in her chest, she stopped.

What was the point?

The entire school had already decided. No amount of words would change their minds.

So, instead, Izzy just let out a frustrated sigh and stormed into the room she now had to share with Ginny.

Ginny followed her inside, closing the door gently behind them. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just watching Izzy pace the room like a caged animal.

“You know we didn’t do it,” Izzy muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Ginny, sitting on her bed, leaned back against the headboard and stretched her arms over her head. “Of course we didn’t. But when has the truth ever mattered more than a good story?”

Izzy sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, burying her face in her hands.

“Let them talk,” Ginny continued, her tone lighter. “In a few weeks, they’ll find something else to gossip about. Until then, we just survive.”

Izzy exhaled sharply, not answering.

Survival.

That was all they could do now.

Meanwhile, in the boys’ wing, Tristan and Damian were taken to their separate rooms without much resistance.

Tristan stepped inside his dorm, tossing his satchel onto the wooden chair by his desk before running a hand through his hair. His mind was still racing, turning over the night’s events again and again.

He barely noticed the way his roommate was watching him until the boy spoke up.

“I get it.”

Tristan turned, brows furrowing. “Get what?”

His roommate—a stocky, dark-haired boy named Tamer—leaned back against his headboard, arms crossed, a knowing look on his face.

“You four had to do it, right? Feriha was stepping on Izzy’s territory, messing with Damian. So you all decided to get rid of her.”

Tristan felt his stomach twist, his jaw tightening.

Tamer smirked. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

A slow exhale left Tristan’s lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to punch something—but instead, he just flopped onto his bed, arm thrown over his eyes.

“Shut up, Tamer.”

Tamer chuckled, clearly amused, but didn’t press further.

The damage had already been done.

They were guilty—whether or not they had actually done the crime.

Morning came, but the chill in the air had nothing to do with the weather.

The dining hall was alive with chatter, the clinking of utensils, and the laughter of students—but not for everyone.

At a table tucked away in the farthest corner, Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny sat in forced isolation. No one wanted to sit with the accused murderers. No one even wanted to look at them unless it was with suspicion or disgust.

The four of them ate quietly, murmuring amongst themselves about how they were going to find the real killer.

“This isn’t going away on its own,” Damian muttered, cutting into his bread with more force than necessary.

“We need to get ahead of it,” Ginny agreed, flicking a piece of fruit with her fork. “Find out who actually—”

Then it happened.

A wet, squelching impact.

Something smacked against the side of Izzy’s head, exploding on impact.

The sharp smell of yogurt and fruit filled her nose as thick globs of food slid down her uniform, staining the pristine fabric.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—laughter.

Izzy’s stomach twisted in revulsion, her expression shifting from disgust to fury as she wiped the mess from her face.

Across the hall, a group of boys erupted into laughter, high-fiving each other, their gazes fixed on her.

Izzy’s fingers tightened around the edges of the table, but before she could even react—

Tristan stood up.

Fury radiated off of him, his muscles tensing like a spring about to snap.

His voice boomed across the dining hall. “Who threw it?!”

The hall fell into an uneasy hush as Tristan’s sharp gaze locked onto the group of laughing boys.

They didn’t admit to it—but they didn’t deny it either.

That was enough for Tristan.

Without warning, he marched forward, closing the distance in seconds.

Then, he swung.

CRACK.

The first boy barely had time to react before Tristan’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Then another.

Then another.

By the time the fourth one collapsed, the entire dining hall was in chaos.

Gasps. Screams. Students scrambling to get out of the way.

Tristan wasn’t done.

He mounted the first boy, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white, and he started pummeling.

One punch. Two. Three.

The boy beneath him groaned, barely able to block the blows, his face already bruising.

Then—teachers swarmed the scene.

“Tristan!”

“Enough!”

Hands grabbed him, yanked him back, but it took three of them to physically drag him away.

Izzy, heart racing, ran forward, panic creeping into her voice.

“He was just protecting me! Someone threw food at me—Tristan was just standing up for me!”

The teachers, still restraining Tristan, barely spared her a glance.

“There is no excuse for this level of violence,” one of them said firmly.

Izzy’s protest died in her throat.

She had no power here.

Without another word, both she and Tristan were seized by the arms and led out of the dining hall—toward the Medres’ office.

And this time, it was Tristan’s turn to face the consequences.

The bathing house was eerily silent, the air thick with lingering moisture and the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine. It had been sealed off since the night of the murder, yet the ghost of that violent moment still clung to the air, unshaken, undisturbed.

In the dim lantern light, Batuhan crouched near the scene of the crime, his sharp eyes scanning the wet marble floors and the entry points surrounding the area. The water in the nearest pool was still tinged faintly red, a ghastly reminder of the student they had lost.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

Bahtiyar, the eldest of the six, approached, his boots clicking against the polished stone. He stopped beside Batuhan, crossing his arms.

“What do you see?” Bahtiyar asked, his voice low but firm.

Batuhan didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, standing from his crouch, his gaze sweeping over the enclosed space.

“It’s what I don’t see.”

He walked toward the main entrance of the chamber where Feriha’s body had been discovered, tracing his fingers along the cool stone walls as if feeling for something unseen.

He turned back to Bahtiyar, eyes sharp. “There’s only one way to get into this part of the bathing house—the same way the four children ran in.”

Bahtiyar’s brows furrowed, his expression hardening.

Batuhan continued, gesturing around them. “Which means the children either were the murderers… or they saw both Feriha and whoever killed her come into the bathing house.”

Bahtiyar exhaled slowly, his hands moving to his hips. “And what if neither of those are true?”

Batuhan turned to face him fully, his stance firm. “Then the killer is still inside these walls, hiding among us.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Finally, Batuhan spoke again, his tone measured but insistent.

“Let me interrogate the children, sir, and I’ll answer that for you.”

Bahtiyar’s expression darkened.

“The Grand Vizier didn’t want us speaking to those four.”

Batuhan met his gaze, unwavering. “But if this could clear their names, he may be appreciative.”

Bahtiyar let out a low, tired sigh, shaking his head before waving Batuhan off dismissively.

“Fine. Do what you want.”

Batuhan nodded, a small glint of determination in his eyes.

If the Grand Vizier had his own agenda, Batuhan had one of his own—the truth.

And he was going to find it, no matter the cost.

Izzy and Tristan stood in silence before the Medres, their bodies tense, their expressions unreadable.

The old man sat behind his grand wooden desk, quill in hand, carefully scribbling notes onto a scroll as though they weren’t even there.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the scratch of ink against parchment.

Then, without looking up, the Medres set his quill aside and exhaled.

“I may have been forced to release you from confinement,” he said finally, his tone even but firm, “but I cannot ignore this level of violence on our school grounds.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, but it was Izzy who spoke first.

“Can’t we defend ourselves?” she demanded, her golden eyes flashing.

The Medres’ gaze snapped to her, sharp as a blade.

He stood, slowly, his presence somehow filling the room as he stepped out from behind his desk. His robes shifted around him like storm clouds.

“That,” he said coolly, stopping just before her, “was not defense, Ishtar. That was assault.”

Izzy’s fingers curled into fists, but she held her ground.

The Medres then turned his attention to Tristan, studying him as if he were a disappointment carved in stone.

“You were one of the best athletes in the school,” he said, shaking his head. “A shining example of discipline and skill. But sadly, you can no longer serve on the fútbol team.”

Tristan’s eyes darkened, his breath slow and controlled, but his rage was barely contained beneath the surface.

The Medres walked back to his desk and sat down, as if he had already washed his hands of them.

Tristan clenched his fists. “You don’t even care that we’re being harassed, do you?”

The Medres said nothing.

Izzy’s patience snapped.

She stepped forward, voice dripping with venom.

“I will find who is behind this,” she promised, her voice low, dangerous. “And when I do, you will grovel for our forgiveness.”

With that, she spun on her heel, storming toward the door.

The Medres’ face reddened with outrage, and he slammed his palm onto his desk.

“How dare you?!” he thundered.

But Tristan didn’t flinch.

Instead, he lifted his hand, and for a moment, it glowed like the sun, golden heat radiating from his fingers in warning.

The Medres froze, eyes widening slightly.

“I can only show restraint so many times,” Tristan said coldly.

Then, as the light faded, he lowered his hand and turned to leave, his presence like a storm on the horizon.

The Medres watched them go, his heart pounding, the room suddenly feeling much colder than before.

Batuhan walked through the dimly lit halls of the girls’ wing, his boots echoing against the polished floors. He carried himself with calm confidence, but his mind was already piecing together the fragments of the crime.

His first stop? The caretaker’s office.

If he was going to make sense of Feriha’s murder, he needed to start with her habits, her routine, and her connections.

Knocking twice on the heavy wooden door, he heard a sharp “Enter.”

Batuhan stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of burning incense and the stale air of authority. The caretaker of the girls’ housing sat behind her cluttered desk, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she sorted through a pile of student records.

She barely looked up. “What do you need, soldier?”

Batuhan didn’t waste time.

“I need to ask a few questions about Feriha.”

The caretaker’s face softened for a brief second, before her usual strict demeanor returned. “Ask, then.”

Batuhan folded his arms. “Was it normal for her to be out at that time of night?”

The caretaker scoffed, shaking her head firmly. “Not at all. Feriha was a good girl. She would never break curfew.”

That was his first red flag.

Batuhan hummed in thought. “Yet she was out there.”

The caretaker sighed. “Yes… which is why this is so strange.”

He took a step closer. “What about her connection to Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny? Were they close?”

The caretaker let out a snort, finally looking up at him. “Feriha? With those four? Unlikely.” She adjusted her glasses, narrowing her eyes at him. “Feriha was well-liked, but she was not the type to associate with mischief-makers.”

Batuhan nodded slightly.

So Feriha wasn’t normally around them.

That meant her presence in the bathing house that night was intentional.

Batuhan leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to press her. “Who was she close to?”

The caretaker paused for a moment, tapping her fingers against the desk before speaking.

“Esme.”

Batuhan felt his stomach tighten. Esme.

He knew that name.

The girl who had been seen flirting with Damian—the one who had sparked Izzy’s jealousy, leading to the infamous fight.

And now, she had ties to the murder victim.

The caretaker continued. “Feriha also spent time with two other girls—Seyla and Hira. The three of them were close.”

Batuhan memorized the names instantly.

Esme. Seyla. Hira.

His next course of action was clear.

He nodded at the caretaker. “Thank you for your time.”

As he left the office, his mind was already set.

Before speaking to the suspects, he needed to talk to Feriha’s three closest friends.

And something told him—one of them knew more than they were saying.

Batuhan watched Seyla from across the courtyard after lunch, his sharp gaze analyzing her movements, her expressions, the way she avoided eye contact with others.

She had been distracted, that much was clear. Grief? Fear? Guilt? He wasn’t sure yet.

Taking a breath, he stepped forward, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel path as he approached her.

“Seyla.”

She stiffened slightly before turning to face him. Her dark eyes flickered with hesitation, uncertainty etched across her face.

“What do you want?” she asked, folding her arms, her defensive posture unmistakable.

Batuhan didn’t flinch. He kept his voice even, calm, yet firm. “I need to speak with you about Feriha.”

Seyla’s expression darkened, her arms tightening across her chest. “I don’t know anything.”

Batuhan exhaled through his nose. He had expected resistance.

He softened his tone, careful not to spook her further.

“This could help bring her murderer to justice.”

Seyla’s breath hitched, and for a brief second, something flashed in her expression.

Then, she nodded.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But not here.”

Batuhan gave a small nod of approval. “Follow me.”

The classroom was dimly lit, only a few shafts of golden light filtering through the high arched windows. The desks sat empty, dust motes floating in the still air.

Batuhan pulled out a chair for Seyla, who sat down hesitantly, wringing her hands together in her lap.

He leaned against the teacher’s desk, crossing his arms.

“How long did you know Feriha?”

Seyla exhaled, her gaze dropping. “Since we were twelve.”

“And how would you describe your friendship?”

A ghost of a sad smile touched her lips. “She was… kind. Always willing to listen. She hated conflict. But she wasn’t weak. She had principles.”

Batuhan nodded slowly, taking mental notes.

“Did she have any recent changes in behavior?”

Seyla blinked, surprised by the question. “No… not really. I mean, she was distracted a lot lately, but I thought that was just exams.”

Batuhan’s eyes narrowed. “Distracted how?”

Seyla hesitated. “She’d… disappear sometimes. She’d make excuses about needing fresh air, but she never said why.”

Interesting.

“Did she have any male suitors? Anyone courting her? Or anyone she wanted to court her?”

Seyla tilted her head slightly. “Why does that matter?”

“Because love makes people do dangerous things.”

Seyla exhaled, shaking her head. “She wasn’t seeing anyone officially, but… she did have a crush on someone.”

Batuhan’s brows lifted slightly. “Who?”

Seyla hesitated. “I—”

She clamped her mouth shut, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

Batuhan studied her reaction before leaning forward slightly. “You were about to say something.”

Seyla’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s dead.”

“It does matter,” Batuhan said, his voice gentle but insistent. “If she liked someone… maybe someone else didn’t like that.”

Seyla hesitated, then muttered, “It was a boy from the boys’ wing. But I don’t think he ever noticed her.”

Batuhan nodded slowly. He made a mental note to look into that later.

Then, he asked the question that changed everything.

“How was Feriha’s mental state the last time you saw her?”

Seyla’s entire body stiffened.

A flash of outrage filled her eyes.

“You think she killed herself?”

Batuhan stayed calm, but he had hit a nerve.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he assured her. “I just need to know if she was acting off before she—”

“Feriha would never do that!” Seyla snapped, her voice trembling. “She was happy. She had plans, she was going to visit her family in the summer, she—”

Her voice broke slightly.

Batuhan waited, letting the silence settle before speaking again.

“I apologize if my question offended you,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Seyla exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

Batuhan’s gaze darkened slightly. He knew that sometimes, anger hid truth—and guilt.

“Is there anyone you can think of,” he pressed, “who would be capable of killing Feriha?”

Seyla’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.

For a moment, it looked like she wanted to say something—but then, her jaw tightened.

“No,” she muttered. “No one.”

She was lying.

Batuhan could see it in her face.

But he let it slide—for now.

He stood up, offering her a nod. “Thank you for your time, Seyla.”

She gave a stiff nod and quickly left the room, her shoulders tense, her movements hurried.

Batuhan watched her go, his expression unreadable.

He had his next lead.

Esme.

And something told him that name would lead him straight to the truth.

Batuhan stepped into the Medres’ office as the warm glow of sunset spilled through the tall arched windows. The room smelled of aged parchment and ink, its heavy wooden furniture giving it an imposing air.

Waiting for him inside was Esme, sitting stiffly in one of the chairs across from the Medres, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Her expression was composed, but Batuhan had spent enough time studying people to notice the small tells—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingertips pressed together a little too tightly.

The Medres, as always, sat sternly behind his desk, his fingers interlaced.

Batuhan offered a polite nod as he approached. “Thank you for meeting with me, Esme. This shouldn’t take long—I only have a few questions.”

Esme gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

Batuhan took his seat across from her and immediately began.

“How did you know Feriha?”

Esme shifted slightly. “We were friends,” she said, her voice controlled.

Batuhan noted how carefully she chose her words.

“And what was your friendship like?”

Esme blinked, tilting her head slightly. “It was normal. We had classes together. We spent time in the girls’ wing. We talked about… usual things.”

Batuhan waited, but she offered nothing more.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push—not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly. “Did Feriha have any unusual habits?”

Before Esme could answer, the Medres interrupted, his deep voice cutting through the conversation like a blade.

“Feriha was a respectable girl, soldier. She adhered to all school rules and held herself to high moral standards.”

Batuhan didn’t even look at him.

Instead, he folded his hands on the desk and exhaled calmly before turning his gaze to the Medres. “This would be much more productive if you stepped outside.”

The Medres’ expression darkened, as though the very suggestion was an insult. “I will not be dismissed from my own—”

Esme, who had remained silent, finally spoke. “It’s alright. I can speak with him.”

The Medres stared at her for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he begrudgingly stood.

He gave Batuhan a look that bordered on contempt, but Batuhan remained unmoved.

With a huff, the Medres stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

A beat of silence passed before Batuhan turned back to Esme.

“I’ll ask again. Did Feriha have any unusual habits?”

Esme hesitated for a split second, but then sighed, relaxing slightly now that the Medres was gone.

“Not really, but… she was distracted lately. She would go off by herself sometimes. I asked her about it, but she always brushed it off.”

Batuhan filed that away for later.

Then, he decided to test her reaction. “I heard she had a crush on someone.”

Esme visibly tensed, her lips parting in mild shock. “...Who told you that?”

Batuhan tilted his head. “Is it true?”

Esme sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. “Yes. It was Damian.”

Batuhan’s expression remained neutral. “They were close?”

Esme gave a short laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “No, but Feriha thought they were. They exchanged love notes.”

Batuhan’s brow arched slightly. “Damian reciprocated?”

Esme shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he was… just being kind. But Feriha took it seriously. And Izzy…”

Batuhan leaned in slightly. “What about Izzy?”

Esme bit her lip, choosing her words carefully. “Izzy was furious when she found out.”

Batuhan studied her closely.

“Would Izzy kill her over it?”

Esme stiffened. “I… I don’t think so.”

That wasn’t a no.

Batuhan took a breath and moved to his next question. “Was it normal for Feriha to be out so late?”

Esme shook her head immediately. “Not at all. She never broke curfew. That’s why I don’t understand why she was there that night.”

Batuhan nodded. That made two people who had said the same thing now.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk. “Did she seem nervous recently?”

Esme paused, her brows knitting together.

“...Maybe a little. She started looking over her shoulder a lot. I thought she was being paranoid.”

Batuhan leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Did she tell you if she was meeting someone the night she was murdered?”

Esme froze.

And in that instant, Batuhan knew she was hiding something.

Her eyes darted to the side before she quickly shook her head. “No. I don’t know.”

Liar.

Batuhan kept his expression neutral, but he let the silence linger just a second too long, watching her wriggle under his gaze.

Then, he simply said, “Alright. That will be all, Esme.”

She blinked, caught off guard by how quickly he dismissed her.

“That’s it?” she asked, uncertain.

“For now.”

She hesitated, then quickly stood, nodding before making her way toward the door.

As she left, Batuhan’s mind raced.

Esme had lied about something.

And the next time they spoke, he would find out what it was.

As the sky shifted to dusk, the fútbol field buzzed with movement. Young men raced across the grass, their voices sharp with calls of strategy, the rhythmic thud of the ball echoing into the air.

Batuhan, however, wasn’t focused on the players.

His gaze was locked on Hira, who stood near the edge of the field, watching her peers practice.

She had an athlete’s posture, strong but poised, her hands resting on her hips as if she had been deep in thought before he arrived.

Batuhan approached calmly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Hira,” he greeted.

She turned, studying him with cautious curiosity. “You’re the soldier investigating Feriha’s murder,” she stated, rather than asked.

Batuhan nodded. “I wanted to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long.”

Hira hesitated, but then gave a short nod. “Alright.”

They stood just far enough from the fútbol field to be alone, but the distant sound of cheering and running feet gave their conversation an oddly normal backdrop.

Batuhan got straight to the point.

“How did you know Feriha?”

Hira sighed, looking at the field before answering. “She was my best friend.”

Batuhan tilted his head slightly. “And what was your relationship like?”

Hira’s brows furrowed. “We told each other everything.” A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Or at least, I thought we did.”

Batuhan took note of that but didn’t interrupt.

“Did her behavior change recently?”

Hira’s expression darkened, her fingers tightening against her arms. “Yes… a little. She started sneaking off alone more often. She was… distracted. Jumpy.”

Batuhan pressed further. “Did she have any upcoming plans or major changes in her life?”

Hira frowned in thought before nodding. “She was supposed to visit her family soon. She was nervous about it.”

Batuhan’s interest piqued. “Nervous how?”

Hira hesitated. “She never told me why… but she wasn’t excited. If anything, she seemed like she was dreading it.”

Batuhan hummed thoughtfully.

Then, he shifted tactics.

“Tell me about the love notes between Feriha and Damian.”

Hira’s head snapped toward him, her face contorted in confusion and disbelief.

“What? What love notes?”

Batuhan’s brow furrowed. “She and Damian exchanged letters, didn’t they?”

Hira scoffed, shaking her head fiercely. “No. Feriha had a crush, yes, but it wasn’t on Damian. It was on…”

She hesitated.

Batuhan’s eyes narrowed. “On who?”

Hira exhaled deeply, as if reluctant to say it aloud.

“Tristan.”

Batuhan’s mind reeled.

Tristan. Not Damian.

“But she never had the courage to tell him,” Hira continued, crossing her arms. “She was the Sultan’s daughter. Even liking a boy here was dangerous. She barely even spoke to Tristan, let alone sent him love letters. ‘If my father knew,’ she told me once, ‘it would have been the end of me.’”

Batuhan absorbed this new piece of the puzzle.

If Feriha never wrote letters to Damian, then who had?

Or rather—who wanted others to believe she had?

He took a slow breath and continued.

“Was Feriha stressed or anxious? Did she ever mention feeling unsafe?”

Hira’s lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Yes.”

Batuhan waited.

“She was scared,” Hira admitted after a pause. “She wouldn’t tell me who or why, but… I could tell. She wasn’t sleeping well. And she started avoiding someone.”

Batuhan’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Hira hesitated.

Then, she sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. But there was… a boy.”

Batuhan’s jaw tightened. “A boy?”

Hira nodded, shifting her weight. “He liked Feriha. He had feelings for her, but she turned him down—multiple times.”

Batuhan’s gaze darkened.

“Do you know his name?”

Hira chewed her lip, hesitant. “I don’t want to accuse someone without proof.”

Batuhan lowered his voice, making his tone gentler.

“Hira, I just want the truth. Feriha deserves that, doesn’t she?”

Hira’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but eventually, she nodded slowly.

She whispered a name.

Batuhan’s expression hardened.

He had his next lead.

And now, it was time to confront the boy who had wanted Feriha’s love—only to be rejected.

Batuhan moved swiftly through the stone corridors of the school, his mind set on one name—Raif, son of one of the Islamic Caliphate religious leaders of the Ottoman Empire.

The same Raif who had found himself on the floor of the dining hall, pummeled by Tristan only a day prior.

If anyone had a reason to hate Feriha, it was him.

As Batuhan stepped outside into the courtyard, he spotted Raif near the fountain, sitting stiffly on the stone edge, his hands bandaged from the fight.

The moment Raif saw Batuhan, he visibly tensed, his gaze darting toward the exit, as if contemplating an escape.

Batuhan didn’t give him the chance.

“Raif. I need to speak with you.“

The boy’s jaw tightened, but he remained seated. “I have nothing to say.”

Batuhan exhaled, his patience thin.

“If you actually loved Feriha,” he said evenly, “then you’d help me get to the bottom of her murder.“

Raif froze.

The tension in his shoulders shifted—not out of anger, but something closer to shame.

Slowly, he let out a breath, then nodded once.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But keep your voice down. I don’t want anyone else hearing this.“

Batuhan simply gestured for him to follow, leading him to a quieter section of the courtyard, where the shadows stretched long, and the distant murmurs of students faded into the background.

“How did you know Feriha?” Batuhan began.

Raif swallowed, his fingers flexing against his knees. “We met in our studies. We both came from important families. She was kind to me, even when others weren’t.”

Batuhan nodded. “And what were your interactions like?”

Raif let out a small, bitter laugh. “I admired her. I thought… maybe, because of our families, because of our shared values, we could be something more.”

Batuhan’s gaze hardened. “When did you confess your feelings to her?”

Raif shifted. “A few weeks before she died. I told her I wanted to court her.”

“And how did she react?”

Raif hesitated, then sighed. “She… turned me down. Politely. But still—she said she couldn’t.”

Batuhan tilted his head. “How did that make you feel?”

Raif’s expression darkened slightly. “Humiliated.”

Batuhan didn’t look away. “Did your interactions change after she rejected you?”

Raif’s fingers dug into his knees. “We barely spoke after that. I tried once, but she seemed distant.”

“Did Feriha ever do anything that embarrassed or hurt you?” Batuhan pressed.

Raif’s lips parted, then closed again. He hesitated.

“I don’t know if she meant to hurt me,” he admitted, looking away. “But she started avoiding me. She acted like I never existed.”

Batuhan’s instincts flared.

Avoiding him.

Not long before she was murdered.

That wasn’t a coincidence.

Batuhan kept his voice steady. “When was the last time you saw Feriha?”

Raif’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. “The day before she died.”

“Did you speak?”

Raif shook his head. “No… but she saw me, and she walked the other way.”

Batuhan let the silence stretch between them before asking the most important question.

“Where were you on the night of Feriha’s murder?”

Raif’s body stiffened.

His fingers twitched against his knees.

“I was in my dormitory,” he said after a moment. “I never left my room.”

Batuhan stared at him.

Raif held the gaze, but there was something off.

A flicker of something unsaid.

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Raif’s throat bobbed. “No. I was alone.”

Batuhan let that sit for a moment. Then, he leaned forward slightly.

“Are you aware of any rumors about what happened to her?”

Raif hesitated.

Then, he sighed heavily, rubbing his temples.

“I’ve heard people say… she met someone that night. Someone she trusted.”

Batuhan’s eyes sharpened. “Do you know who?”

Raif looked like he was debating something in his head.

Then, he muttered under his breath, “I have my suspicions.”

Batuhan’s voice lowered. “Who, Raif?”

Raif finally looked up at him.

And the name he whispered changed everything.

The morning air was crisp as members of the Gendarmerie moved through the halls of the school with silent authority, their presence drawing whispers from the students.

They stopped outside the classrooms of Izzy, Damian, Tristan, and Ginny, quietly relaying their orders before escorting them away.

Students stared, their gazes filled with curiosity and thinly veiled judgment.

One by one, the four were led into separate rooms, seated in cold chairs with nothing but a single desk and the presence of a lone lantern for light.

Batuhan, determined to approach this strategically, chose Izzy first.

As Batuhan stepped into the private questioning room, Izzy was already leaning back in her chair, arms draped casually over the backrest, her legs crossed elegantly.

Despite the circumstances, she looked completely at ease—if not slightly amused.

She smirked. “So, you’re my interrogator? Well, aren’t I lucky?”

Batuhan ignored her tone, moving to the seat across from her.

Izzy’s golden eyes gleamed with mischief. “You know, you’re much cuter than the other soldiers I’ve met so far.”

Batuhan exhaled slowly, folding his hands on the table. “I’m not here to entertain you, Ishtar. I’m here to clear your name and solve a murder.”

Izzy blinked, caught off guard.

Her posture shifted slightly, the playfulness in her expression fading just enough for Batuhan to notice her surprise.

“You actually believe we didn’t do it?” she asked.

Batuhan gave her a firm look. “If I thought you were guilty, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now, let’s focus.”

Izzy studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, propping her elbow on the desk, suddenly more engaged. “Alright, soldier boy. Ask away.”

“Why were you at the bathing house?” Batuhan asked.

Izzy shrugged, a smirk returning. “For a night swim. We like to break the rules every once in a while. It keeps things exciting.”

“So you snuck in?”

“Obviously.”

Batuhan tilted his head slightly. “What did you do immediately after finding Feriha?”

Izzy’s playful demeanor vanished completely.

She leaned back, arms crossing over her chest, her eyes suddenly distant.

“We panicked.” She let out a breath. “Damian swore. Tristan wanted to check if she was breathing, but… she wasn’t. Ginny wanted to leave immediately, but none of us knew what to do. And before we could figure it out—”

“The staff arrived,” Batuhan finished.

Izzy nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Batuhan observed her closely, then moved to his next question.

“Did you hear anything suspicious before finding the body?”

Izzy furrowed her brows, thinking. “No… not really. Just the sounds of the water and our own voices.”

“What about footsteps? Doors creaking? Voices?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Batuhan tapped his fingers against the desk.

“Did anyone pass through the pool area while you were inside?”

Izzy frowned. “No. We had to sneak in ourselves.”

That was an important detail.

“Were the doors already open when you arrived?” Batuhan pressed. “Or did you notice any forced entry?”

Izzy thought for a moment before shaking her head. “No… the doors were closed, but they weren’t locked. We didn’t have to force our way in.”

Batuhan’s gaze sharpened. “Meaning whoever killed Feriha either left before you got there… or they were still inside, hiding.”

A shiver ran down Izzy’s spine, but she didn’t let it show.

Batuhan leaned forward slightly. “Did you notice anything at the scene that seemed out of place?”

Izzy bit her lip, her fingers tapping against the table. “Her shoes.”

Batuhan’s brows furrowed. “Her shoes?”

Izzy nodded. “They weren’t wet. If she had walked in before us, they should’ve been soaked like ours. But they weren’t. They were dry.”

Batuhan’s mind immediately started working through the implications.

That meant Feriha had not walked into the pool area herself.

Either she was carried… or she was killed somewhere else and moved.

This changed everything.

Batuhan decided to change directions.

His voice lowered slightly, his gaze unshifting. “How did you feel about Damian and Feriha exchanging love notes?”

Izzy froze.

The light in her golden eyes dimmed, her fingers tightening on the table’s edge.

For the first time since the conversation started, she looked genuinely uncomfortable.

“I…” she started, but stopped.

Batuhan remained silent, waiting.

Izzy exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t like it.”

“Why?”

Izzy glared at him, her defensive walls going up. “What do you think, soldier boy? I loved him.”

Batuhan let that settle in the air for a moment.

Then, he said, “What if I told you Feriha never wrote those notes?”

Izzy’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “What?”

Batuhan watched her reaction carefully. “Feriha’s closest friend swore she never exchanged notes with Damian. She had a crush, yes—but not on him.”

Izzy’s breath caught in her throat.

Batuhan leaned in slightly. “That means someone else sent those letters. Someone wanted you to believe she was trying to take Damian away from you.”

Izzy’s fingers dug into her dress, her face going pale.

“...You’re saying someone set me up?”

Batuhan simply held her gaze. “I’m saying that whoever killed Feriha wanted you to be angry enough to be a suspect.”

Izzy’s mind raced, connecting pieces she hadn’t before.

She suddenly felt sick.

Someone had manipulated her emotions.

Someone had wanted to frame her.

And someone had killed Feriha to do it.

Batuhan stood. “Thank you for your time, Ishtar. We’ll speak again soon.”

As he left, Izzy sat frozen, her heart pounding in her chest.

For the first time since this nightmare began—

She realized she might not just be a suspect.

She might have been the target all along.

Batuhan entered the next room, closing the door behind him with calculated ease.

Tristan sat waiting, his arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes locked onto Batuhan with quiet intensity. Unlike Izzy, he wasn’t smirking or playing games.

There was no defensiveness, no arrogance—just a quiet storm waiting to be unleashed.

Batuhan took a seat across from him and didn’t hesitate.

“Would you do anything to protect your sister, even break the law?”

Tristan stiffened, his fingers twitching slightly, but he didn’t look away.

“What kind of question is that?” he muttered.

Batuhan leaned forward, his voice steady. “A real one.”

Tristan’s jaw clenched, his muscles tensing beneath his uniform.

After a moment, he let out a slow breath, then said, “I’d protect Izzy with my life. No matter what.”

Batuhan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Even if it meant covering for a crime?”

Tristan’s eyes flashed dangerously, but his voice was controlled. “No. Izzy didn’t do this. If she had, I wouldn’t need to cover for her—she would have already admitted it herself.”

Batuhan studied him for a moment before switching tactics.

“What do you think happened that night?”

Tristan exhaled sharply, leaning back. “I think someone wanted us to take the fall. Someone who knew we’d be there. Someone who knew Izzy would be the easiest target.”

Batuhan nodded slightly. He was getting somewhere.

“Did anything seem off to you about the bathing house or the murder scene?”

Tristan furrowed his brows, thinking. “The body.”

Batuhan’s interest piqued. “What about it?”

Tristan sighed. “The way she was positioned. It looked too… precise. Like someone placed her there instead of her falling naturally.”

That was consistent with Izzy’s statement about Feriha’s shoes being dry.

Feriha had been moved.

Batuhan pressed further. “Did anyone come into the bathing house after you?”

Tristan shook his head firmly. “No. We were the only ones there until the staff arrived.”

Which meant the killer had left before they arrived—or had been hiding inside.

Batuhan let a beat of silence pass before asking, “Since the investigation started, has anyone acted suspiciously toward you?”

Tristan considered this carefully before answering. “No one’s been suspicious, but I can tell people want me to be guilty. That’s different.”

Batuhan tapped his fingers lightly against the desk, taking in the details.

Now, it was time to see how Tristan would react to the next question.

“How did you feel about Feriha having feelings for you?”

Tristan blinked. “What?”

Batuhan watched him carefully. “Feriha had a crush on you.”

Tristan stared at him, confusion written all over his face.

“...I didn’t know that.”

Batuhan studied him closely. “You’re sure?”

Tristan scoffed, shaking his head. “Trust me, I would have noticed if the Sultan’s daughter had a crush on me.”

Batuhan believed him.

Which meant someone else had noticed—and had used it against her.

Batuhan stood, smoothing his coat. “That’s all for now. Thank you for your time, Tristan.”

He turned toward the door—

But before he could reach it, Tristan spoke again.

“Wait.”

Batuhan stopped but didn’t turn yet.

Tristan took a deep breath. “Let me help.”

Batuhan turned slightly, one brow raised. “Help?”

Tristan nodded, his expression resolute. “I want to help with the investigation. My family is different. I can be valuable.”

Batuhan’s gaze sharpened. “Different how?”

Tristan’s expression didn’t waver.

“My family are gods.”

Silence.

Batuhan stared at him for a long moment, then let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

“Tristan, this isn’t some fantasy story.”

Tristan didn’t flinch, his eyes burning with conviction. “I’m not lying. I have powers. I can use them to help you.”

Batuhan sighed, rubbing his temple. “No, what you can do is stay out of this. I’m not endangering a child in my investigation.”

Tristan opened his mouth to argue, but Batuhan had already turned away, stepping through the door and shutting it behind him.

As Tristan sat alone in the dim room, his hands curled into fists.

He wasn’t going to let this go.

Whether Batuhan wanted his help or not, he was going to find out the truth.

Batuhan stepped into the next room, closing the door behind him as his eyes immediately locked onto Damian Shepherd.

Unlike Izzy or Tristan, Damian sat with an air of effortless composure, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, a half-smirk already playing at his lips—as if he expected this to be nothing more than an inconvenience.

Batuhan knew his type.

The charming ones. The ones who knew how to manipulate emotions just enough to get away with things.

Batuhan took his seat, folding his hands neatly on the table before delivering his first move.

“I’ve heard you have a reputation, Damian. A ladies’ man. Playing the field behind Izzy’s back.”

Damian let out a low chuckle, tilting his head. “Did Izzy tell you that?”

Batuhan didn’t answer the question. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his voice even.

“How many times have you and Izzy broken up?”

Damian raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in topic. “I don’t know. Three? Four?”

Batuhan leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. “What if I said five?”

Damian blinked, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Batuhan to see the gears turning in his head.

Batuhan knew then—he had been bluffing, and Damian had taken the bait.

Damian sighed, rubbing his jaw. “Fine. Five. But you have to understand, Izzy and I have always been… intense.”

Batuhan didn’t react. “Was it your idea to go to the bathing house that night?”

Damian shook his head. “No. It was Izzy’s idea. She said we needed some fun. Ginny agreed immediately. Tristan didn’t argue either.”

Batuhan nodded, processing that.

“Did anything seem off when you got there?”

Damian hesitated, thinking. “Not really. The place was quiet, locked up like always. But… I don’t know. I had this weird feeling. Like we weren’t supposed to be there.”

“You weren’t,” Batuhan pointed out.

Damian huffed a short laugh. “Fair.”

“What about while you were in the water? Did you notice anything strange?”

Damian’s expression darkened slightly, his posture stiffening.

“...I felt like we were being watched.”

Batuhan’s eyes narrowed. “By who?”

Damian exhaled sharply. “That’s the thing—I don’t know. I thought I saw movement in the corner, but when I looked, nothing was there.”

That was important.

Someone else had been in the bathing house.

Batuhan let that thought settle before changing direction.

“How do you feel about the girl you were writing love notes to being dead?”

Damian’s eyes snapped up, his entire body tensing.

“...What?”

Batuhan studied him closely.

“Feriha. The girl you exchanged love notes with.”

Damian frowned deeply, shaking his head. “I didn’t write love notes to Feriha. She wrote them to me.”

Batuhan stayed silent, letting Damian fill in the blanks.

Damian sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I sent letters back. But they weren’t love notes.”

Batuhan arched a brow. “Then what were they?”

Damian leaned forward, his voice quieter now. “Rejections. I told her I wasn’t interested. That I was with Izzy. I never led her on, I never entertained it. I was trying to let her down gently.”

That changed everything.

If Damian had rejected Feriha, then why had Esme—her own friend—told Batuhan they exchanged love notes?

Batuhan’s mind raced, putting pieces together.

Someone had lied.

Someone had wanted Izzy to believe Feriha was after Damian.

Someone had wanted Damian to look like a liar.

Someone had been manipulating this situation before the murder even happened.

Batuhan took a slow breath, then asked his next question.

“Do you still have the love notes Feriha sent you?”

Damian’s lips parted slightly, like the thought had never occurred to him.

Then, he nodded. “Yes. I kept them in my room.”

Batuhan stood immediately.

“I need them.”

Damian blinked, then scoffed. “Just like that?”

Batuhan’s expression was unreadable. “Yes. Just like that.”

Damian studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. But if I find out you’re just using this to drag my name through the dirt, I’ll be—”

“I don’t care about your reputation, Damian,” Batuhan interrupted. “I care about the truth.”

And right now, he was getting closer to it.

He just needed to read those letters.

Batuhan stepped out of the interrogation room, signaling one of the Gendarmerie soldiers standing by.

“Escort Damian to his room,” he ordered. “Have him retrieve the love notes Feriha sent him and bring them back here.”

The soldier nodded and moved to follow the command, leading Damian away.

With that handled, Batuhan turned toward the last room—the one holding Genevieve Shepherd.

When Batuhan stepped inside, he was greeted by a sight far different from the other interrogations.

Ginny sat cross-legged on her chair, humming to herself, arms draped over the backrest as if she were lounging in a lavish parlor rather than sitting in an interrogation room.

Her violet eyes gleamed with curiosity, and the moment she spotted Batuhan, she grinned.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this.“

Batuhan arched a brow, taking a seat across from her. “Waiting for what?”

Ginny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “For my grand interrogation, of course. I love a good mystery.”

Batuhan exhaled through his nose, already anticipating that this conversation would require far more patience than the previous ones.

He wasted no time.

“What’s your relationship like with Izzy?”

Ginny’s brows lifted, as if the question amused her. “Izzy? Oh, she’s my dearest, most frustrating, and most unpredictable friend. She’s a hurricane, and I just happen to love storms.”

Batuhan nodded slightly. “Would you say you’re jealous of her?”

Ginny tilted her head, smiling slyly. “Oh? Now that’s an interesting question. And why would I be jealous of dear Izzy?”

Batuhan studied her expression. “Because she’s with Damian instead of you?”

Ginny let out a sharp laugh, covering her mouth dramatically. “Oh, that is rich! You think I wanted Damian?” She leaned back, kicking one leg over the other. “No, no, no, darling. I adore my brother, but not like that. He and Izzy are an amusing mess, but he’s not my type.”

Batuhan took that in without reaction. Then, he asked the next question.

“Are you in love with Tristan?”

For the first time, Ginny’s smirk faltered—just slightly.

She let out a breath and sat up straighter. “Well, aren’t you a bold one?”

Silence.

Then, with no more playful banter in her voice, she responded. “I think Tristan is… wonderful.”

Batuhan watched her carefully. “But you’ve never told him?”

Ginny smiled sadly. “What’s the fun in that?”

He let that sit for a moment before moving forward.

“Did you notice anything strange the night of the murder?”

Ginny shrugged, then tilted her head in thought. “The body being there when we checked.”

Batuhan’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Ginny twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “We didn’t see her when we first got there. We swam. We played. We heard a scream—and then we found her.”

Batuhan’s jaw tightened. That meant…

“She was killed somewhere else and moved,” he muttered under his breath.

Ginny nodded dramatically. “That does seem to be the obvious conclusion, doesn’t it?”

Batuhan took a breath. “Did you see anyone enter after you?”

Ginny shook her head. “Nope. But that’s not exactly strange.”

Batuhan frowned. “Why not?”

Ginny grinned. “Because there are passageways all over this school that let you go through the walls for different adventures.”

That caught Batuhan off guard.

“...Passageways?”

Ginny tapped her temple. “This campus is ancient. It’s been remodeled dozens of times over the years, but the bones of it remain. And the bones include hidden tunnels.”

Batuhan’s fingers curled slightly against the table.

If there were hidden passageways—that meant someone could have left the scene without using the main doors.

That changed everything.

Batuhan’s voice was carefully measured as he asked, “Do you know where the adventure passageway is for the bathing house?”

Ginny’s grin widened.

And then she whispered, “I do.”

Batuhan’s pulse quickened with excitement as he turned to Ginny.

“Show me.“

Ginny’s grin widened, her violet eyes sparkling. “Oh, we’re going on an adventure? How thrilling!”

Without thinking, Batuhan grabbed her hand, leading her swiftly toward the door.

Just as they stepped out, they were met by one of the Gendarmerie soldiers—the same one who had escorted Damian to retrieve the love letters. Damian stood beside him, arms crossed, looking slightly annoyed.

The soldier gave a respectful nod. “We have the letters, sir.”

Batuhan nodded sharply, glancing briefly at Damian. “Good. Stay here with him. Don’t let anyone in or out of that room besides me.”

The soldier acknowledged the order, and with that, Batuhan continued moving, Ginny giggling as she tried to keep pace with his long strides.

“You’re quite eager, aren’t you?“ she teased.

Batuhan didn’t dignify that with a response. His mind was whirring, connecting pieces together.

A hidden passageway meant that someone could have moved Feriha’s body without ever walking through the main entrance.

Which meant Ginny, Izzy, Tristan, and Damian truly never had a chance to see the killer.

They weren’t guilty.

They reached the bathing house, where Bahtiyar and Korkmaz were standing guard near the entrance, their expressions shifting to confusion at Batuhan’s determined stride.

Bahtiyar, the eldest among them, folded his arms. “What’s going on?”

Batuhan turned to him without breaking pace. “A secret passageway.”

Bahtiyar’s brows furrowed deeply. “A what?”

Without answering, Batuhan led Ginny inside the bathing house, Bahtiyar and Korkmaz following close behind, exchanging skeptical looks.

The air was still thick with the lingering heaviness of death, the room eerily quiet despite the daylight spilling in.

Ginny, however, hummed as she stepped forward, her heels clicking lightly against the stone floor.

She moved toward the walls, her fingers trailing along the intricate carvings, her body rocking playfully on the balls and heels of her feet.

Batuhan and the other men watched her carefully, their skepticism growing by the second.

Then—

Ginny paused, tilted her head, and then stepped slightly outside of the room into an adjacent section of the bathing house.

She raised her hand and pressed against a specific section of the stone wall—a seam barely visible to the naked eye.

With a soft groan of shifting stone, the wall suddenly moved, sliding open to reveal a long, dark tunnel.

Batuhan’s eyes widened.

Bahtiyar and Korkmaz stepped forward, staring at the hidden passage in absolute shock.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bahtiyar muttered.

Batuhan’s mind raced with realization.

“It wasn’t the children who found Feriha that killed her,” he said, his voice steady but filled with certainty.

He turned to face them, his thoughts aligning into a terrifying truth.

“Someone killed her and brought her through this passageway to place the body—or they brought her in alive, murdered her here, and then left the same way they came. Either way, it wasn’t Ginny, Izzy, Tristan, or Damian.”

Ginny let out a cheer, doing a small curtsy. “Oh, bravo! Look at you, piecing things together!”

Bahtiyar sighed, rubbing his temple. “This means the real killer was never seen entering or leaving the bathing house. They used this tunnel to avoid detection.”

Batuhan nodded sharply. “Which means our suspect list has just changed.”

He then turned to Ginny, his sharp gaze locking onto her.

“Do you know who would want to kill Feriha?”

Ginny tapped a finger against her lips, genuinely pondering the question.

Then, she shrugged dramatically.

“No idea! I wasn’t close with her. So your mystery is still very much alive!“

Batuhan exhaled slowly, but there was no frustration in his expression—only determination.

They were closer than ever to the truth.

And now, he had a new trail to follow.

Batuhan strode back toward the interrogation room, his mind still turning over what he had just discovered.

Behind him, Bahtiyar and Korkmaz—along with the other three soldiers selected by Grand Vizier Ali—remained at the bathing house, beginning their thorough investigation of the hidden tunnel.

But Batuhan had his own pressing matter.

Inside the room, Damian sat waiting, his arms crossed, looking bored rather than anxious.

Batuhan stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Let me see the letters.“

Damian wordlessly reached into his coat, pulling out a bundle of neatly folded parchment before sliding them across the wooden table.

Batuhan carefully unfolded them, scanning the words.

And immediately—something felt off.

The letters were… too contrived. The wording was oddly formal, the structure too calculated for a young girl’s confession of love.

And the handwriting…

It was too perfect. Too uniform.

Feriha’s friend Hira had said she was afraid of expressing her feelings—yet this letter was written with confidence.

Something wasn’t right.

Batuhan tapped the parchment, his brows furrowing. “I need to hold on to these for a while.”

Damian gave a small shrug. “Fine. I don’t need them.”

Batuhan folded the letters carefully, tucking them into the inside of his coat.

Then, with a nod of thanks, he stood. “You’re free to go.”

As he stepped out of the room, he addressed the guard standing nearby.

“You can let Damian go. He’s no longer needed here.”

The guard nodded, stepping aside to allow Damian to leave.

But Batuhan?

He had one more person to speak to.

Batuhan found Hira near the courtyard, where a handful of students were lingering after their lessons.

She looked exhausted, still weighed down by grief and frustration over her friend’s death.

She barely looked surprised when Batuhan approached her.

“Hira.“

She turned, pushing strands of dark hair from her face. “What is it?”

Batuhan pulled out the folded letters, holding them up.

“I need you to take a look at these.“

Hira gave him a quizzical look but took the letters, unfolding them carefully.

As she scanned the words, her brows slowly knitted together, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Batuhan studied her closely.

“What do you see?“ he asked.

Hira hesitated for a brief moment before looking up.

“Where did you get these?“

Batuhan’s expression didn’t change. “They are the supposed love notes of Feriha to Damian.”

Hira’s face hardened instantly.

She shoved the letters back into his hands.

“That’s not Feriha’s handwriting.”

Batuhan felt a sudden rush of cold clarity.

“How do you know?“

Hira’s jaw tightened, her shoulders rigid.

She looked down, as if debating whether or not to speak.

Then, she finally exhaled sharply, her voice filled with quiet anger.

“Because it’s Esme’s handwriting.”

Batuhan stilled.

Esme.

That name kept circling back into this investigation.

“You’re certain?“

Hira’s hands clenched at her sides, her voice low and filled with bitterness.

“I would recognize it anywhere. It’s the same handwriting as the notes Esme used to write to Feriha—except those weren’t love notes. They were meant to bully her.”

A slow, deadly realization crept into Batuhan’s mind.

Esme had forged the letters.

Esme had planted the idea that Feriha loved Damian.

Esme had been tormenting Feriha long before she died.

Batuhan’s expression darkened as he tucked the letters back into his coat.

Hira’s voice was flat as she handed them back. “She’s the one you should be questioning, not me.”

Batuhan didn’t need to be told twice.

His next stop?

Esme.

And this time—he wasn’t leaving without the truth.

2025: The Weight of Secrets

The dim glow of the desk lamp cast shadows along the walls of the lavish study, creating a stark contrast between the modern furnishings and the ancient weight of the conversation.

Ishtar “Izzy” Ensharra sat comfortably, yet there was a subtle tension in her posture, as if she were balancing on the edge of something—memories, truth, or perhaps danger itself.

She let out a long, drawn-out sigh, running a hand through her dark curls before tilting her head toward Detective Daniel Caldwell.

“What happens next?“ she said, her voice edged with something bitter and knowing. “You probably know more about that part than I do. Great-grandpapa Andrew made sure to keep me in the dark.“

Daniel rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the weight of years of secrecy pressing on him.

His silence stretched just a moment too long.

Then, he spoke. “Do you truly think Esme is tied to the murder of Andrew Ensharra?”

Izzy smirked. A slow, wicked smirk, one that hinted at both amusement and calculation.

“I was thinking the Sultan’s family,“ she admitted, reclining slightly in her chair. “But Esme could be a good option too… if there’s something you know that I don’t.“

Daniel’s jaw tightened, his face unreadable.

Something flickered in his eyes, something buried deep, but his oath of secrecy prevented him from saying a word.

Izzy had struck a nerve, and she knew it.

But Daniel was a man of honor, bound by an unbreakable promise.

After a moment, he exhaled, pushing his chair back. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Alena Cross, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, quickly stood as well, casting a curious glance between Izzy and Daniel.

Izzy raised an eyebrow, watching them with mild amusement.

“That’s it? No final words of wisdom, detective?“

Daniel ignored the jab, stepping toward the door.

Alena followed, though her curiosity burned like fire beneath her skin.

As Daniel reached the threshold, he paused for a brief moment.

His thoughts, his memories, his deepest secrets, churned violently inside him.

Then, as he stepped through the doorway, one single thought surfaced—clear, undeniable.

“Izzy wasn’t wrong.

What happened next is a secret we tried to keep for a long time…

But if what Izzy says is true… we may not be able to keep it anymore.”

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the weight of history, fate, and a truth that refused to stay buried.