Shirin listened to the trickling stream. The night was humid, heavy with indecision. Lamps speckled throughout the garden glowed comfortably in the air. Perhaps they were mocking her, but night after night they came to life and returned to sleep at dawn oblivious to the world below them. Tonight was no different. Shirin conceded their innocence, then felt alone again in her quest for a solution.

Junayid was dead. The vile General had become Regent of Tirin. Jonah, now her avowed enemy, entered his two year term in the Royal Army. She was no closer to home and had lost all protectors in the realm of her captors, the confiscated land of her ancestors. She would live out her days as a mere servant girl if an escape plan eluded her much longer. The only problem: an array of battlewounds, multiple failed attempts, soured relationships and news of never-ending destruction across the border-land left her weak.

For the first time in the five years since she'd arrived in Tirin as Junayid's captive child-bride, ripe for indoctrination into Tirinian society, she lacked the will to fight back. Shirin was tired. Of battles. Of death. Of fanatical elders. Of hissing teachers. Of friendships ultimately ending in betrayal.

She did not care anymore. The trickling stream cleansed her soul with its music. And she could spend and eternity nurturing the garden grounds, gathering wisdom from its infinite leaves and petals, as if she never existed.