Joremir.

The garden was now bathed in daylight, yet the long shadow of the old Roham Palace still stretched across, playing between the leaves.
In the sun, the wide garden seemed even more alive—the shrubs greener, roses mixing their fragrance with the sweet scent of jasmine.
The earth carried the warmth of the day, and the air floated with the faint perfume of flowers.

It felt as if this place itself was resting in a quiet corner of daylight.
There was no hidden murmur, and yet a soft sound seemed to linger—silent, but every leaf felt alive.
A calm breeze flowed, birds chirped, and the trees swayed gently, as though welcoming the day.

And within this swirl of light, shade, and scent—something unusual gathered in one corner of the garden.

Beside an old marble bench lay colours, brushes, canvases, and small jars.
A wooden box held crushed marigold petals, spice mixtures, and in a stone bowl lay handmade paints.
The whole arrangement seemed less like the tools of a painter, more like those of a transformer of forms—someone who poured colour not on canvas, but on living bodies.

And those four?

Four “tigers” sat in the corner of the garden.
Yes, tigers.

Usuf knelt on the ground, surrounded by paints and brushes—at the very centre of a strange, perfect picture.

Was he sitting before real “tigers”?

Their bodies were smaller, jaws strong, fur golden-brown, eyes calm but sharp. They sat still, unmoving in place.

No. Not tigers. Four dogs.

And yet, in this moment, they seemed something else entirely.
With the touch of his colours, dark stripes now ran along their coats, a reddish glow brushed across their paws, black lines circled their eyes, and from neck to back stretched a bold tiger’s mark.
So perfect that at first glance one would think—
A tiger. A true tiger.

And in this transformation, Usuf was lost.

Kneeling on the earth, a brush in one hand, a bowl of paint in the other.
Sweat glistened on his forehead, his messy hair shining under daylight. His eyes carried deep focus, fixed on his work.
At the corner of his lips lingered a faint smile—the satisfaction of an artist, but with it, the playful mischief of a boy.

On the dogs’ bodies his art was clear—each stroke kept their individuality alive while turning them into something else.
The dogs themselves seemed confused, as if unsure who they were anymore—caught in a small crisis of identity.

Usuf’s face now bore a dreamy look, as though he were not just an artist, but a magician—something a little mysterious.
Every soft stroke of his brush seemed like an ancient charm, while sweat trickled down his neck.
In the daylight, his hair gleamed like burnished copper.

Around him, a silent world was taking shape—where transformation unfolded, where an ordinary moment turned extraordinary.
A lone artist, who knew he was not just painting, but creating something entirely new.

And then—

Into that perfect picture, a shadow fell.
From beyond the garden, slowly.

A beam of light broke, cut by a human presence.
A soft cough. Gentle footsteps pressing the ground.

A familiar figure slowly entered the garden.

Salih.

His face carried a plain, almost innocent look—as though he had come here simply searching for a friend.
His hair was slightly unkempt, his face showed the weariness of the day, and in his eyes flickered an unconscious curiosity.

He stepped forward, one step at a time. Quietly.

Suddenly, from the far end of the garden, he froze.
His gaze had fallen on those four “creatures.”

For a second, his breath stopped.
The light around seemed to go still. His eyes hardened.

Four… tigers?

No… no… surely not…

He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
His heart leapt straight to his throat, a cold stream running down his spine.

He blinked hard. No—this was no trick of the eyes.
The teeth. The build. The burning gleam in their eyes. The wild shiver in their bodies.

These were… tigers. Real tigers. All of them.

One of the dogs shook its body slowly, and when it opened its mouth, sunlight caught on its teeth—shining in a sharp, deadly glint.
The faint rustle of falling leaves turned into a growl in Salih’s ears.

His face turned white. His lips dried. His chest pounded so loud he could hear his own heartbeat.

And then—

It was as if fire burst out from beneath his ribs.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

A scream tore through the sky, the cry of a heart splitting open.

In that instant, the entire garden shook.
All the birds shot up into the sky at once.
Something like a deer bolted from the thicket.

A clay vase clattered to the ground and shattered—its flowers scattering into the shadows.

Salih spun round, panic etched across his face.
His lips were parched, his skin pale. His body seemed no longer under his own control—as if he himself had turned into a wild creature that knew only one thing: to flee.

His purple tunic whipped in the air, his hair flying loose and messy.
He ran with all his strength, blurting out:

“Tigers in the garden! Oh Ar-Raouf! I was almost gone!”

It seemed even the garden’s air parted to make way for his flight.
His sleeves flapped, his hair streamed in the wind, and the pounding of his feet blended with the pounding of his heart.

Destination?
Unknown.
Thought?
Only one—“I must survive. Now.”

His body was no longer his own, his path without direction, his mouth repeating the same words over and over:

“Tigers! Four tigers!”

Startled, Usuf stood up. He froze, staring.
The brush in his hand stopped mid-air. Even his eyelids forgot to blink.

He tilted his head, whispered under his breath—

“Foolish Salih…”

There was pride hidden in his voice, a smile of indulgence on his lips. In his eyes shone a bright spark.

Unexpected, yes. But exactly what he had wanted.

That familiar curve of mischief appeared on his mouth, his gaze alive with both wonder and satisfaction—like a man who had known this would happen, yet still found joy in seeing it unfold.

He looked at the dogs—his tiger-dogs—sitting calmly.
Unmoved.
As though they had just finished a grand performance and were now bowing before their terrified audience.

Their eyes showed no unease, no guilt. Only composure.