Page 135 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"What?" I ask, studying her face for the tells I know as well as my own reflection.
"The birth," she says simply, finally meeting my eyes. "When exactly is your child supposed to arrive, Nesilhan? Have you calculated the precise timing?"
The question sends ice through my veins, though I can't articulate why. "Why would the exact timing matter for research purposes?"
"Because," she continues with that same strange intensity, "the prophecy isn't random. The 'darkest hour' references specific magical conditions that only occur at certain celestial alignments. If someone wanted to influence the birth, to ensure it happened at precisely the right moment for binding rituals—they would need to know exactly when to act."
Understanding crashes over me with devastating clarity. Not just academic curiosity, but the kind of detailed planningthat speaks of conspiracy. "Banu, how long have you been researching binding rituals specifically?"
"Long enough," she replies, and something in her tone makes my blood freeze.
Elcin straightens from her casual lean against the window frame, her warrior instincts clearly triggered by the shift in atmosphere. "Perhaps we should call for tea," she says carefully, her eyes never leaving Banu. "Clear our heads."
The tome before us begins to glow with soft golden light, the pages turning of their own accord as if guided by invisible hands. The text that appears makes my breath catch—not the familiar prophecy we've been studying, but something else entirely. Something about sleep and dreams and souls separated from their vessels.
"Banu," I say carefully, backing away from the table as wrongness floods my senses. "What is this? This isn't the prophecy text we were reading."
"Read it," she says with gentle authority, and her voice carries harmonics that make my eyelids suddenly heavy. "Just read what's written there, Nesilhan. It's very important that you understand."
"Don't," Elcin warns, starting forward, but the words on the page are already drawing my attention with hypnotic force.
Despite every instinct screaming danger, I find myself reading the ancient script that speaks of enchanted sleep and borrowed time.
"When consciousness departs the flesh, when dreams become reality and reality fades to shadow, the soul may wander paths not meant for living feet. In sleep profound and magical deep, the spirit sees what waking eyes cannot perceive, though such visions carry price beyond mortal comprehension."
The library begins to blur around the edges, reality softening like wax near flame. I hear Elcin shouting something, seeher moving toward me with desperate speed, but Banu's voice continues from somewhere very far away.
"Sleep now, dear friend," she whispers with infinite sadness. "Dream of what's real, and wake to what must be."
Darkness claims me like falling into velvet, and the last thing I see is Banu's face twisted with an anguish so profound it looks like dying, and Elcin's hand reaching for me just a heartbeat too late.
The dream feels morereal than waking, more solid than stone.
I'm standing in a place that exists between shadow and light—not the comfortable twilight of the Shadow Court, but something harsher, more desperate. The air tastes of copper and desperation, while sounds echo from somewhere just beyond perception.
"Nesilhan!"
Banu's voice reaches me across an impossible distance, high and desperate with terror that cuts through my chest like a blade. "Please! If you can hear me, please help!"
I run toward the sound, my feet moving across ground that shifts between marble and mist with each step. The voice grows louder, more frantic, accompanied by sounds that make my soul recoil.
"Stop! Please, I can't—the pain—someone help me!"
I find her in a chamber that defies architectural logic, walls stretching into darkness while crystal formations pulse with sickly light. Banu hangs suspended in the center of the space, her gossamer wings spread wide as silver chains bind her wrists and ankles. But it's not the restraints that make me scream—it's what's being done to her.
Figures in hooded robes circle her suspended form, their faces hidden but their purpose clear. They're stealing pieces of her essence, drawing gossamer threads of light from her skin with instruments that gleam like captured starlight. Each extraction makes her convulse with agony, her screams echoing off crystal walls.
"Her memories of friendship," one figure intones with clinical detachment. "Her loyalty, her protective instincts. All must be extracted to ensure perfect compliance."
"No!" I shout, running toward them with desperate fury. "Stop! You're killing her!"
But my feet won't carry me closer, no matter how hard I run. The distance between us remains constant while Banu's agony continues, her essence being systematically harvested by creatures whose faces I cannot see.
"Nesilhan," she gasps, her green eyes finding mine across the impossible space. "They're making me—I can't fight what they're—please, you have to run when you wake up. Don't trust?—"
One of the figures raises a device that looks like crystallized screaming, pressing it against Banu's temple. Her words cut off in a shriek of pure agony, and I watch in horror as more of her essence flows into their instruments.
"The final extraction," the lead figure announces with satisfaction. "Remove her capacity for independent thought. Leave only the mission parameters and basic functionality."
