"In the mountains' shadow, pride and fear walk hand in hand, but it is the whispers of the unknown that carve paths in the heart."

Farid woke to the whisper of his own breath, each shallow exhalation like incense rising in a sacred chamber. His body felt heavy as stone, muscles singing with pain. The frost in Farid's veins ebbed as tendrils of warmth seeped into him, slow and deliberate, like a lone ember kindling in winter's heart. It was foreign, yet so achingly necessary that it tethered him to the realm of the living.

Then awareness dawned on him.

Sima lay against him like a seal pressed in heated wax, her arms wound around him, her face nestled in the hollow of his throat. His heart faltered, then surged like a caged bird beating its wings. The closeness was intoxicating, her warmth an unspoken confession—yet shame twisted in his chest, a cruel reminder that this intimacy was not a gift, but a necessity.

He remained still as a statue, caught between shame that burned like embers and gratitude that flowed like honey. She had pulled him back from death's threshold—of this there could be no doubt—but propriety screamed like a priest's call. Every lesson of court etiquette demanded he push her away, yet his gaze caught on her sleeping face, serene as a marble carving yet marked with worry lines deep as scripture in ancient stone. Even in dreams, she bore the weight of every tragedy in the world.

His sigh formed a cloud of mist, delicate as the vapor from a perfumer's bottle. He allowed himself to linger in this moment of peace, fragile as spun sugar. But when she stirred slightly, her fingers twitching against his chest, he knew the spell must break.

He pulled away with all the dignity of his royal blood, though his voice emerged sharp as a blade fresh from the forge, cutting through his own disquiet. "What sorcery is this, in Mithra's sacred name?"

Sima's eyes fluttered open like moth wings, consciousness returning slow as honey dripping from a comb. "What—" she began. Color flooded her cheeks like wine spilling across marble, but her embarrassment quickly hardened into irritation. "I saved your life, my prince," she said. "Your gratitude overwhelms me."

"Saved my life?" Farid's words tumbled out like scattered pearls, as he hastily pulled his discarded tunic over his head. "And what, pray tell, made you think undressing me was the solution? Have the mountains stripped you of reason?"

Her eyes narrowed to crescents, arms crossing over her chest now draped in layers like a fortress wall. "Tell me, Your Highness, in all your princely studies of warfare and statecraft, did none of your tutors deign to mention that shared warmth can chase death's shadow from frozen flesh?"

Farid drew himself up like a peacock ruffling its feathers, though the tips of his ears blazed red as pomegranate seeds. "I am heir to the Lion Throne, not some common foot soldier to be handled like a carpet merchant's wares while I sleep."

"You are a breathing heir," she countered, her words precise as a calligrapher's strokes. "If your dignity mattered more than your life, I should have left you there to freeze—a martyr to pride."

He fixed her with a glare that would have withered palace roses, even as unwanted admiration bloomed in his chest like spring buds. "In the future, Sogoli, seek permission before you strip a prince of his garments like a common thief."

Sima's eyes rolled skyward as if seeking patience from the stars themselves, her whispered words floating like incense. "Indeed, for you would have been so eloquent in your unconscious state, as responsive as a statue in the shah's garden."

Pride stung him like a scorpion's tail, royal authority rising in his throat like smoke. "I am a son of kings! You will address me with the reverence my bloodline commands."

The rebuke froze her tongue, though defiance still danced in her eyes. She bowed her head with false sincerity. "As you command, Your Highness."

Satisfied as a cat with cream, Farid turned toward the cave's mouth, narrow as a sword slash in the mountain's face. He emerged into air sharp as Damascus steel, squinting against the cruel evening light that danced off snow like scattered diamonds. The world stretched before them in pristine silence, the blizzard's fury having ebbed into a stillness cold as a tomb.

He donned his armor and robes with practiced grace, each piece settling into place. Behind him, Sima followed like a shadow at sunset, her footsteps deliberate, her gaze heavy with words that hung between them like winter fog.

"Do you intend to pretend I didn't save your life?" she asked, her voice light as frost on glass, but brittle.

Farid's hands moved over his sword belt, fingers precise as a master weaver at his loom, his eyes fixed anywhere but on her. "I never requested your intervention."

Her jaw clenched. "Just as I never begged for rescue when you threw yourself into nature's fury to save a mere ornament from the shah's collection."

He remained silent as stone, his attention drawn to their surroundings – the mountain peaks that thrust into the sky like ancient spears, and the narrow path etched in snow at the mountain's hem. Understanding dawned in his mind like winter sunrise – the avalanche had swept them down to the mountain's foot, leagues from the sanctuary of the mines of Darvish.

"We must move," he commanded, "These slopes belong to the White Wolf Clan, bound to the mountain by blood oaths. They hunt as spirits do—without mercy, and without rest."

Sima's eyebrow arched like a drawn bow. "Ah yes, because I mistook this for an evening garden stroll among the roses of Isfahan."

Farid's glare cut through the air like a winter wind, but he kept his silence, choosing instead to retrieve his second sword, its blade catching the dying light like water in a desert mirage.

"Keep to my shadow," he commanded, his voice hard as mountain stone. "If they catch us, there won't be a second chance."

"As you wish, Your Highness."

They moved through the snow like ghosts through a palace, their steps hushed beneath winter's thick carpet. Silence hung around them heavy as a silk, broken only by the whispered confession of their boots against snow and the soft lament of the wind through distant peaks.

Farid carved their path forward, his eyes sharp as a hawk's and his hand resting on his sword hilt. Sima followed in his wake, her senses stretched taut as a bowstring.

"Do you even know where we're going?" she asked after time had stretched between them.

"To the mines," he answered, clipped as a winter branch.

"And if the shah isn't there?"

Farid's silence stretched like a shadow at sunset. His jaw tightened, uncertainty settling on his shoulders.

"Then we keep moving." he said at last. "The shah expects us to find him, no matter what."

Sima's gaze rested on him like moonlight on still water, "You place much faith in a man who—"

"Enough," Farid's command cut through the air. "We do not have time for this!"

She swallowed her words like bitter medicine, inclining her head in reluctant acquiescence. Yet as they journeyed onward, her presence lingered at his side like an unfinished verse—their connection as strange and unpredictable as the meeting of fire and ice, a riddle neither had yet learned to read.

As they carved their path through winter's domain, the tension between them waxed and waned like the phases of the moon. Farid's resolve stood firm as a cypress tree, while Sima's sharp observations fell like rare drops of rain, each carefully measured now. The pristine expanse stretched before them like an endless scroll of blank parchment, the mountain's foot hanging in the distance like a promised land just beyond reach.

The shadows deepened, the air heavy with the stillness before a storm. Then, faint and flickering like a dying heartbeat, a light pierced the darkness—a promise or a warning, impossible to tell.

Farid halted, his hand finding his sword hilt like a poet reaching for his pen. "Your eyes see what mine do?"

Sima narrowed her gaze against the wind's bitter kiss. "Firelight. Someone has made camp in this wilderness."

"Or laid a trap," Farid replied.

A smile curved Sima's lips. "Truly, you have the gift of lifting spirits."

Dismissing her words, Farid moved toward the distant flame, his fingers working to strip away the royal sigils that marked him as surely as a peacock's plumage marks its pride. His steps fell in the snow, each placement considered as carefully as a general's strategy. Sima followed in his wake, her awareness stretched wide as a desert sky, ready to catch the first whisper of danger.

The distant glow resolved itself, revealing a small camp nestled in the earth's embrace. A collection of travelers huddled around their flames, their cloaks thin as hope and their faces etched with tales of hardship. Nearby, mules stood patient, their breath rising like incense in the winter air.

Farid and Sima's eyes met like crossing blades.

"Do we see desperate men or desperate thieves?" Sima whispered, her words soft as falling snow.

"Let's find out,"

As they stepped into the firelight's dance, the travelers tensed like drawn bowstrings, hands seeking weapons with the desperation of drowning men grasping at reeds. An elder whose beard bore winter's touch in its strands rose like a guardian at a temple gate, his eyes sharp as a falcon's.

"Name yourselves," he commanded.

Farid lifted his hands like doves of peace. "We are wanderers, as you are. We mean no harm."

The elder's gaze lingered on Farid's twin blades like a merchant appraising jewels. "Wanderers rarely travel with such weapon."

"The road has not been kind," Sima interjected smoothly, stepping forward with a disarming smile. "We just need a place to warm up for a while. Please."

The elder hesitated, then nodded grudgingly. "Fine. But keep your weapons sheathed."

The fire crackled as they joined the circle, every eye watching them like cats in a palace garden. Farid sat with the rigid grace of a young cypress, his hand never straying from his sword despite their host's warning. Sima, however, settled onto a fallen log like a bird coming to roost, extending her hands to the flames as if greeting old friends.

"A rough journey, you said?" asked a young woman, her voice delicate as silk threads in moonlight.

"As rough as the mountains themselves," Sima replied, her smile sharp as a cat's. "We've danced with wolves, wrestled with avalanches, and battled pride tall as the peaks themselves."

Farid shot her a glare, but she ignored him.

The elder's laugh crackled like dry thorns. "Fortune smiles upon you then, for these mountains bear ancient curses in their bones."

"Curses?" Farid asked, his skepticism evident.

The elder nodded, grave as a tomb guardian. "They whisper that the White Wolf Clan sealed their souls to the mountain spirits with blood oaths. Those who dare trespass invite doom's shadow to their path."

"Doom like mountains that swallow travelers whole?" Sima murmured, drawing another strike of Farid's thunderous gaze.

"Worse fates lurk in these peaks," the man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There lies a cave, the Howling Maw they name it. Those who step past its teeth never return to tell their tales."

The group fell silent, the crackling fire the only sound.

Farid leaned forward like a hawk sighting prey. "Where is this cave?"

The elder's hesitation hung like frost before he gestured eastward with fingers gnarled as winter branches. "Near enough to touch, far enough to fear. But seek it not, if wisdom guides your steps."

Farid retreated into thought.

As night drew its dark veil across the sky, the travelers wrapped themselves in blankets like moths in cocoons, pressing close to the fire's dying warmth. Farid and Sima's eyes met across the flames, understanding flowing between them like water in a hidden stream.

"We cannot linger here," Farid said quietly once they were out of earshot.

"Clearly," Sima replied, drawing her cloak tight as armor. "But what of this cave that swallows souls?"

Farid hesitated. "We'll avoid it if we can."

Sima smirked. "You're curious about it, aren't you?"

"I'm cautious," he corrected.

"As you say, my prince."

Their words died like embers as a howl shattered the night's peace, a sound ancient as the mountains themselves. The travelers stirred like leaves in a storm, fear pale as moth wings on their faces.

"They're here," the old man whispered, his voice trembling like dry leaves. "The White Wolves have found us."

Farid's hand shot to his sword, the cold steel steadying him even as the weight of the moment threatened to crush him. "We leave. Now."

Before Sima could speak, another howl pierced the darkness, closer than a shadow. The firelight cowered, and darkness pressed against them like a living thing.

"It seems the Howling Maw beckons after all," Sima said, words bitter as unripe pomegranates.

Farid's jaw set like carved stone, but he nodded once. Together they melted into the night like ink into parchment, the White Wolves' howls pursuing them through the darkness like destiny itself.

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