"The time for showing his teeth would come—but not yet."

The ancient dam rose before the Shah like a forgotten temple, its weathered stone etched with the prayers of long-dead masons who had carved their dreams into the mountain's heart. The empty basin below gaped like the mouth of a sleeping div, those demons of old that mothers still whispered about in tales meant to frighten children into obedience. Above, the sky burned white-hot, a sheet of hammered silver that seemed to mock the memory of the waters that once roared through the dam's mighty throat.

The Shah stood at the precipice, a figure carved from shadow and pride. His cane, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and rubies that caught the merciless sun, pressed into the dust-like prophecy. Each breath of wind carried the scent of wild thyme and woodsmoke from the villages below, where cooking fires burned despite the heat of midday.

Farid approached with measured steps, his boots disturbing small cascades of stones that clattered down the dam's face like scattered prayer beads. The sound drew the Shah's attention, and he turned with the deliberate grace of a prowling lion, his gaze sharp as a blade fresh from the whetstone.

"The victories you've won still echo from every minaret," the Shah said, his words honeyed yet sharp. "They say my fifth son has tamed the mountain kingdoms as a falconer tames his birds. You have exceeded my hopes."

The endearment felt like a collar of gold—beautiful and suffocating. Farid inclined his head, careful to hold his father's gaze even as he showed deference. "The army moved with the strength of your name, father. I merely pointed them toward glory as you taught me."

The Shah's laugh cracked across the empty air like pottery shattering on stone. He swept his arm toward the barren basin, where heat shimmered. "Do you see this, Farid? The wonder of our ancestors. They believed they had captured the very veins of the earth, turned wild rivers into obedient servants. Now their mighty work stands as empty as a tomb, their names lost to all but the wind and dust, their glory forgotten. Tell me, do you think they were proud as they stood here, watching the water rise, knowing their creation would outlast them?"

Farid's tongue felt heavy as lead, weighted with words that could either save or condemn him. "Perhaps they were proud," he said, choosing each word carefully. "Or perhaps they trembled at the knowledge that even the mightiest works of man must one day return to dust."

The Shah's laughter transformed into a cough that bent him like a reed in a storm, the sound rattling in his chest like pebbles in a copper bowl. His knuckles whitened against the cane's jeweled head. Farid stepped forward instinctively, but the Shah waved him off, straightening with effort. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with a sharp, unrelenting light.

"You are wise," the Shah said, his voice steady once more. "Wiser than Navid, at least."

Farid kept his face as impassive as the mention of the second prince, his elder brother, was unexpected—and dangerous.

"You witnessed his general's fate, did you not?" the Shah continued, his tone light as desert air, as if discussing the price of saffron in the bazaar. "The one who thought a prince's favor could shield him from a king's justice. Such a shame, to waste such a fine sword on such a foolish neck."

The memory rose unbidden: the general kneeling in the palace courtyard, where the marble still bore the stains of countless similar lessons. The executioner's blade had caught the morning light like a falling star. Navid had stood as still as the dam's ancient stones, his eyes as empty as its dried basin, forced to watch as loyalty earned its reward.

"Tell me, Farid," the Shah murmured, his voice now soft as a lover's whisper, "do you think your brother's heart bled for his fallen friend? Do you think the taste of consequences has sweetened his understanding?"

Farid did not answer. He knew the question was not meant for him.

The Shah pivoted to face him fully, each movement precise despite his illness. "Loyalty, Farid, is the backbone of an empire. Without it, kingdoms crumble faster than these ancient stones."

Meeting his father's gaze was like staring into the eyes of a desert viper—beautiful, deadly, unblinking. "My loyalty has never wavered, father. Every victory I've won has been in your name."

A smile ghosted across the Shah's face, sharp as a crescent moon. "Then you will embrace the gift I offer. Princess Zabel awaits a husband worthy of her station. Her family's allegiance will bind the mountain kingdoms to our throne more surely than a thousand swords." He paused. "After all, a victory is not truly ours until it is cemented in blood." ."

Farid's heart sank. Zabel. He recalled her eyes, sharp as knives, glinting with hatred when they had met across the courtyard. She was no gift; she was a shackle.

"Father," Farid began, his voice as carefully modulated as a musician tuning an ancient tar, "I live to serve the Lion Throne, but—"

"There are no 'buts' in loyalty," the Shah cut through his words. He stepped closer, and despite the tremor in his strong hands, his presence filled the space like smoke, choking and inescapable. "You will wed the princess. Do not make me question your heart, Farid. I have no more patience for wayward sons." The shadow of Navid's name hung unspoken between them, heavy as an executioner's blade.

The warning was clear as desert stars. Farid's fingers curled into fists beneath his robes, pressed against the rich fabric his victories had earned him. Each thread now felt like a chain. He bowed his head, submission a bitter draught in his throat. "Your will is my command."

The Shah's face softened like wax near flame, though the steel in his gaze remained unchanged. "You have always been clever, my son." His words dripped sweet as date honey, poisonous as nightshade. "Remember—you may be the fifth prince by birth, but destiny favors those who understand the true meaning of loyalty. The Lion Throne could yet be yours, should you prove yourself worthy of its burden."

Farid's breath caught. The words were bait, laced with poison. He knew better than to bite.

Above them, a lone falcon wheeled against the molten sky, its cry echoing off the ancient stones like mocking laughter.

Another coughing fit seized the Shah, the sound echoing off the ancient stones like the death rattle of some great beast. Farid watched his father's retreating form, noting how the illness seemed to hollow him from within. The cough was too deep, too persistent—and in the treacherous waters of court politics, even sickness could be a weapon wielded by careful hands.

As the Shah's silhouette melted into the dam's shadowed passages, Farid remained at the precipice, his gaze drawn to the vast emptiness below. The dried basin gaped like the mouth of a hungry grave, as if waiting to swallow all their secrets, all their sins.

Loyalty. His father had wielded the word like a blade, but Farid heard only the clinking of chains. Every victory celebrated, every word of praise bestowed—they were nothing but golden fetters, beautiful and binding.

His mother's face rose in his memory, clear as spring water. Anahita, the rose of the palace, who had seen in her fifth son what others had overlooked. Even as the mysterious illness had withered her like autumn leaves, she had kept him close, teaching him the delicate art of survival. "The cobra," she had whispered to him once, her fingers tracing the air like dancing smoke, "does not announce its presence with a rattle. It waits, it watches, and only strikes when the moment is perfect."

He had inherited more than her eyes, more than the curve of her smile. From her, he had learned that true power lay not in the sword, but in the shadow—in knowing when to bare your fangs and when to hide them behind a courtier's smile. Even now, years after her passing, he could feel her wisdom flowing through his veins like cool water.

Farid turned from the precipice, his robes whispering against the stone. Ahead lay the spectacle of a royal wedding, all the pomp and ceremony that befitted a prince of Persia. There would be music and dancing, poetry and wine, a thousand guests bearing tribute and whispered plots. And at the center of it all would be Princess Zabel, wearing her chains in the form of a bridal veil.

But beneath the celebrations, beneath the glittering surface of court life, something else was taking root. Like his mother before him, Farid would wait, would watch, would endure. The time for showing his teeth would come—but not yet.

Not yet.

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