Chapter 1
Between Centuries (Part One)
The air inside the university library was thick with the dust of forgotten centuries. Shadows lengthened across the wooden tables, but eighteen-year-old Haya remained glued to her seat, long after the other students had left. She had a habit of losing herself so completely in old stories that the real world simply faded away. Absentmindedly pushing back a stray wave of dark hair from her eyes, she traced the edge of a yellowed, leather-bound volume she had pulled from the deepest archive.
She turned a fragile page and read the lead character’s name aloud: “Kasim.”
Fifteen hundred years in the past, a young man froze in a dim, stone room. Kasim was built like a warrior, but his dark eyes carried a weight far too heavy for his youth. Suddenly, a soft, ethereal whisper echoed right in his ear, pronouncing his name with impossible clarity. He whirled around, blade half-drawn, but found only empty shadows.
For days, this haunting phenomenon repeated. Whenever Haya read from the mysterious book, Kasim heard her voice—a soothing breeze amidst his dark existence. But the moment she closed the cover, his world returned to brutal, lonely silence.
Haya became utterly consumed by the manuscript. Yet one horrifying detail kept her awake at night: Why did Kasim, who possessed such noble discipline and intelligence, carry human body parts in clay drums out of his room every single night, delivering them to a shadowed figure named Raza? Was he a cold-blooded monster, or a prisoner to something far worse?
One midnight, as a storm battered the library windows, Haya flipped to a newly unlocked chapter. Written in thick, faded crimson ink was a single word: “HAYA.”
She gasped, her heart skipping a beat. “Haya...?” she whispered.
The moment the sound left her lips, the ink dissolved into swirling black mist. The ambient light died. The floor beneath her vanished into a terrifying void, and a freezing vortex pulled her straight down through time and space.
When she slammed onto hard, sun-baked earth, her lungs seized. The modern library was gone. She was lying in an ancient, crowded bazaar framed by mud-brick architecture and burning oil torches. Her jeans and hoodie had been replaced by coarse, heavy tunic fabrics.
“Look at her!” a rough male voice barked.
Several heavily armed mercenaries surrounded her, their eyes locked on her in suspicion. “She carries no emblem. A northern spy!” one snarled, drawing his curved sword.
Before the blade could fall, a tall figure burst from the alley. With ruthless efficiency, he disarmed the first man, threw the second into a wooden cart, and grabbed Haya’s wrist in one seamless motion.
“Run!” he commanded.
They sprinted through a maze of stone corridors, boots hammering against the pavement. Haya glanced sideways as they ran. His jaw was set, his breathing controlled, but there was an agonizing intensity in his eyes that confused her—he wasn’t just saving a stranger; he was running as if his entire soul depended on her survival.
He dragged her inside a fortified stone house and slammed the heavy iron-bolted door shut, cutting off the noise outside.
Kasim leaned against the door, his chest heaving slightly. He fetched a earthenware bowl of water and bread, placing it silently on the wooden table before her.
“Eat. You are safe from the guards,” his voice was low, carrying the same rich tone she had imagined while reading.
Haya reached for the water, but as her fingers accidentally brushed against his wrist, a violent shockwave of warmth rushed through her blood.
Kasim instantly froze. He didn’t pull away. He slowly looked up, staring into her eyes with an overwhelming expression of shock, disbelief, and terrifying grief. It wasn’t the look of a defender meeting a victim; it was the look of a man staring at a ghost he had buried centuries ago.
“You...” Kasim’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “The parchment said you would return... but I didn’t believe it.”
Haya backed up slightly, her pulse racing. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
Without a word, Kasim walked to a heavy iron chest in the corner, unlocked three heavy padlocks, and unrolled a centuries-old canvas.
Haya’s breath caught in her throat. Painted on the weathered fabric was her exact face—drawn with painful perfection, holding the very same book she had opened in the university archives.
“This manuscript isn’t a story of the past, Haya,” Kasim said softly, his dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “It is a record of our bloody history... and the dark curse we have yet to break.”
