Navir sat on a wooden chair behind the low wall, eyes fixed on the courtyard.
Lost in thought.
The evening breeze howls followed the rustling of leaves.
Navir's eyes wandered to his neighbor and her son at the other end of the courtyard.
The boy's voice wavered.
"Mother… why do the elders punish smart children?"
"That is… respect," her mother said, her voice tight, clipped.
"But it doesn't look like respect," the boy pressed.
"Your eyes are too young," she replied, sharp.
"And… why do they always disappear?" he asked, whispering, leaning forward.
"Because this land is heavy," she said, her jaw tightening.
"And… what if someone keeps asking?"
She paused, gaze hardening, fingers tightening around the cup she held. "You want to end up like Mehrak?"
The words hung between them.
The boy's small frame stiffened, his breath hitched, his shoulders folding inward as if the question alone pressed him down. His hands fidgeted at his lap.
Navir's chest tightened as a cold shiver ran down his spine.
The crescent under his left bicep darkened.
He had witnessed punishments before, blows and slaps that left marks—but this… this quiet, methodical crushing of a child's spirit was worse.
And it was deliberate.
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Jahmir sat hunched over his desk in the dim light, notebook open before him. Each name, every question, every punishment was recorded with precise, careful strokes. His red eyes flicked occasionally toward the window, tracking the fleeting shadows of children moving through the courtyard.
He noted a girl who had dared to ask about the rivers, the boy punished for speaking, breaking the first tongue last tongue rule, the twins who vanished after a single misstep. Each page became a quiet ledger of fear.
"Curiosity," he whispered to himself, voice barely above a breath.
"They teach children to kill it themselves."
"The pattern… it isn't random," a cold shiver ran down his spine.
"The system," he whispered in realization, "it was designed to break the brightest from the very first day."
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A female figure appeared from the narrow passage without warning, her steps soundless, her presence cutting into the night so abruptly that Navir's heart kicked hard against his ribs.
He turned on instinct, breath catching mid-inhale.
"Who's there?" he asked, muscles stretched taut as if bracing for a blow.
Moonlight slid over the pale planes of her face, picking out the sharp line of her cheek and the loose fall of her silver-black hair around her shoulders. Her red eyes glimmered, too bright, unsettled, carrying something raw that made Navir's chest constrict.
"Nayira?" he said, a mix of grief, fear and pity etched in his eyes.
The air between them felt drawn tight.
"You survived," she said, stopping an arm's length away.
Navir frowned. "Nayira… "
"You were stronger," she cut in, her voice trembling despite the steadiness of her posture. "My brother, he wasn't."
The words landed hard. Navir's jaw tightened, words crowding his throat.
"You carry what he should have had," she went on, fingers curling at her sides. "The questions. The future. Everything they took from him."
Navir's breath hitched.
"I never chose that," he said quietly.
Her lips pressed together. For a heartbeat, it looked like she might break. Instead, she stepped back.
"Then don't waste it," she whispered.
She turned and walked away, her silhouette thinning into the dark.
From the far edge of the courtyard, a shape shifted, unseen by either of them, eyes fixed on Nayira's retreating form.