"One sip. That was all the gods required for her justice."

The palace rose like a serpent's crown against the midnight sky, each dome and minaret adorned with tiles that caught the moonlight like scattered stars.

In the harem's courtyard, where jasmine and Damascus roses perfumed the air with sweet poison, Sima stood beneath the shadow of an ancient cypress. Her gown, the color of crushed pomegranate seeds, whispered treacherous promises against the intricate geometric patterns of the marble floor as she watched the Shah drink from his chalice.

One sip. That was all the gods required for her justice.

Her heart beat steady as a temple drum, each pulse a prayer to the ancient desert spirits her grandmother once invoked. Fear had long since hardened into purpose, like sand transformed to glass in the fire of her hatred. The Shah's death would not be swift—such mercy belonged to better men, not to the monster who had turned her village to ash and traded her family's lives for his ambition's coin.

No, Sima had become an architect of patience, crafting vengeance with the same delicate precision with which she now arranged roses and stirred sherbet tea.

The Shah sprawled on his cushions like a well-fed lion, his massive frame draped in robes of midnight blue embroidered with golden falcons. His beard, meticulously oiled and perfumed, couldn't hide the cruel set of his mouth, nor could the finest kohl conceal the hunger in his eyes. When he laughed, the sound scraped against the night like steel on stone, and his courtiers—wrapped in silks dyed with indigo and saffron—giggled in practiced harmony.

Sima's painted lips curved in the smile she had perfected over ten years of captivity. Around her, the other women of the harem watched with eyes sharp as curved daggers, their jealousy barely veiled behind painted faces and jeweled headdresses. They wore their beauty like armor, but their whispers carried poison.

They called her sogoli behind cupped hands—the favored one, the chosen. Every gift adorned her: carnelian rings that dripped from her ears, ankle chains of pure gold, silks from distant lands, and a private pavilion where fountains sang day and night.

Each luxury was another arrow in their hearts, another reason to wish for her fall. But they didn't see how she scrubbed her skin with sand until it bled after each night in his chambers, trying to scrub away the memory of his touch like a curse.

"More wine!" The Shah's voice boomed across the courtyard as he slammed his chalice down, the clink of gold against marble echoing through the pavilion. 

Sima glided forward before the servants could stir, each step a dance she had rehearsed in the privacy of her chambers until her feet bled. She kept her head bowed, her eyelashes casting shadows like butterfly wings against her cheeks as she filled his cup. The strong scent of fermented pomegranates rose between them, sweet enough to mask the bitter notes of nightshade and oleander that lurked beneath. Her hands, adorned with intricate henna patterns that spiraled like ancient prophecies, remained steady as temple pillars. She had enacted this moment a thousand times in her dreams.

The Shah's fingers brushed hers as he reached for the cup, a touch that once would have made her skin crawl. His eyes were like dying embers in a war-camp fire, dark with the kind of power that had razed cities and toppled dynasties. For ten years, she had played her role—the devoted sogoli, the nightingale in his golden cage—wearing submission like a second skin. But tonight, she allowed herself one heartbeat of defiance, one breath of triumph as the chalice touched his lips.

Then a voice cut through the perfumed air like a blade through silk.

"His Royal Highness, Prince Farid, Hero of the Eastern Gates, Bearer of the Sacred Flame!" The herald's voice rang with practiced grandeur, each title a note in an ancient song.

The prince entered the harem courtyard with the grace of a desert-bred stallion, his war helmet cradled in arms that bore the scars of battle and victory alike. He dropped to one knee before the Shah's dais, head bowed in the perfect angle of filial piety, though Sima caught the slight tension in his shoulders that spoke of pride barely contained.

"Rise, my son," the Shah's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You grace us with your presence." The words dripped with honey, but beneath them lay the bite of steel.

"Sogoli," Farid's voice caressed the title like a poem, "forgive my intrusion."

Sima turned, and for the first time since she had begun plotting vengeance, genuine surprise fluttered in her chest like a startled bird. Prince Farid stood at the pavilion's edge, moonlight catching in his dark curls as though the night itself had crowned him with stars. Unlike his brothers, who wore their royal blood like heavy armor, Farid carried himself with the kind of grace that made even warfare seem like a dance. His eyes, the color of the sky, met hers with an intensity that threatened to unravel ten years of careful planning.

The Shah's voice cut through their silent exchange. "You have returned from the mountain kingdoms after four months." Not a question, but a demand wrapped in ceremony. "Tell us what gifts you bring to the Eternal Empire."

Farid's lips curved into a smile that held secrets like a desert holds water. "Padshah, yet another kingdom falls to the glory of Persia." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or memory. "The mountain kings knelt in their halls of marble and ice, their crowns melting in the fire of your glory."

The Shah's laughter boomed across the courtyard, but Sima heard the whisper of steel beneath the mirth. "The gods favor us indeed," he declared, raising his chalice in triumph.

"Indeed, padshah." Farid murmured.

The Shah reclined deeper into his cushions as skilled hands worked tension from his shoulders. Wine-warmed satisfaction colored his voice. "You left these halls a sapling, and return a cedar of Lebanon." His eyes, heavy-lidded but sharp as ever, fixed on his son. "When does your eighteenth year dawn, boy?"

Farid's throat tightened, though his face remained smooth as polished marble. Seven sons, one daughter, and an empire that stretched from sea to mountain—surely a father could be forgiven for losing track of the days his children came into the world. Still, the question stung like salt in an old wound.

"Today, padshah," he replied, voice steady as a temple prayer.

"Today?" The Shah's eyebrows rose. "The gods smile upon us indeed! You bring victory from the mountain kingdoms on the very day of your birth?" His laughter rolled through the courtyard. "Name your heart's desire, my son. What gift would honor both your victory and your coming of age?"

"Your love and guidance are gifts beyond measure, father." Each word was chosen with the care of a jeweler selecting precious stones.

The Shah waved away such diplomatic modesty with a bejeweled hand. "Tomorrow, I shall send you something worthy of a prince of Persia. But tonight—" his gaze slid to where Sima stood, still as a statue carved from moonlight, "—my sogoli shall accompany you to your estate. Let her serenade you with a voice blessed by angels and serve you wine sweet enough to make the gods weep."

"Father, I couldn't possibly—"

"I insist." Two words, soft as silk but unyielding as iron.

Farid's shoulders tensed beneath his embroidered robes, but his bow was perfect. "Then I must do whatever pleases the Shah of Persia."

His eyes met Sima's once more before he departed, and in that glance lay something she could not—dared not—decipher. She watched him go, her carefully laid plans threatening to unravel like a tapestry caught on a thorn. Everything she knew of Prince Farid marked him as dangerous—not with his father's brutal strength or his elder brothers' naked ambition, but with something far more lethal: a fox's cunning wrapped in a poet's soul, a warrior's skill tempered by mercy. In a court where power moved like serpents beneath silk, such complexity made him unpredictable.

And unpredictable, Sima thought as she gathered her veils around her like armor, could destroy everything she had sacrificed years to achieve.

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