The city of Lahore never slept, but tonight, its dreams were restless.
Dark clouds swirled above as Zahra stepped out of the hidden base beneath the old Mughal observatory. The Council's safehouse had become her command center. Armed with the Book of Ancients, the crystal staff, and a growing understanding of her place in this war, she was no longer running from the darkness — she was walking into it.
Beside her, Arif carried a satchel of protective herbs and coded scrolls. His aura had returned — stronger now, though not unchanged. The mark on his chest had begun to glow under the moonlight, as if responding to Zahra's energy. He didn't speak of it, but Zahra knew something ancient had claimed part of him — and not all of it was on their side.
"Where are we headed?" Arif asked as they moved through the narrow alleys of the old city.
Zahra turned, eyes focused. "To the fire."
A merchant near the Shalimar Gardens had collapsed in the morning, muttering in forgotten languages. Another in Johar Town burst into flames from within. And now, the same voice echoed across the reports: The Surgeon must bleed.
They followed the trail of whispers to an abandoned shrine on the outskirts of the city — a place once used by mystics for visions. But tonight, it had become a battlefield of shadows.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and ash. Candles flickered as if afraid of what lurked in the dark.
And then they heard it — a low chant in a language Zahra didn't know, but her soul remembered. A summoning.
A circle of children stood in a trance, their eyes glowing amber, their voices unified.
Arif reached for his talisman, but Zahra stopped him.
"No. They're not the enemy. They're the channel."
She stepped into the circle, staff in hand, and whispered a counter-prayer — one passed to her through visions of the first Guardian. The room pulsed with silver light. The children collapsed, unconscious but safe.
But something else had been released.
From the shadows, a creature crawled — tall, gaunt, its skin blackened with soot, eyes of living flame. It wore a crown of broken teeth and whispered Zahra's name with every step.
"I am the Ember King," it hissed. "I feed on forgotten prayers. You, Mystic Surgeon, are a feast."
Zahra raised her staff, the crystal glowing with a cold blue fire.
"You won't touch them."
The creature snarled and lunged.
Zahra didn't back down. The staff clashed with the creature's claws, sending a shockwave through the shrine. The stone cracked. Fire surged. Arif chanted a protective verse, creating a dome around the children.
The fight was brutal. The Ember King's flames licked at Zahra's skin, but her staff channeled the waters of truth — an element forged by the first Guardians to cleanse corrupted spirits.
She remembered Mufti Rafiq's words: You are the last flame—they will come to extinguish you.
But she also remembered her grandmother's voice: A healer does not only mend wounds. She purifies what others abandon.
With a final strike, Zahra embedded the staff into the shrine's heart, releasing a wave of divine light. The Ember King screamed — not in pain, but in release — before shattering into ash.
The silence that followed was sacred.
The shrine glowed with a soft silver hue.
The children awoke, blinking, confused but unharmed.
Arif helped Zahra up. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, though her limbs trembled. "That was only one of them. The Shadowed Ones are rising faster than we thought."
Just then, her phone vibrated.
A message from an encrypted source:
"They have reached the gates of Jerusalem. The Sealed Flame is next. You must stop the Bone Collector before the sun rises."
Zahra looked east.
Another flight. Another battlefield. Another secret.
But she was ready.
For she was the Mystic Surgeon.
And the fire had only just begun.