"To feel this pull toward him was to spit on the graves of her people, yet here she stood, caught between duty and desire like a leaf between earth and sky."

The world emerged like a painting touched by morning dew, where shadows danced with light like lovers in a courtyard. Farid's consciousness returned in waves, each breath bringing pain that bloomed across his ribs like the thorns of desert roses. His body lay beneath bandages that wrapped and scratched his shoulder and ribs.

The room slowly took shape around him, its walls of packed earth and straw standing sentinel like the ancient city walls of Isfahan. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, their fragrance mingling with medicinal oils that carried hints of saffron and bitter herbs.

When Farid tried to rise, his muscles trembled. The coarse bedroll beneath his fingers felt like sand, bringing memories of nights spent beneath vast desert skies.

"Sogoli," he breathed.

The door's hinges sang their copper song as an ancient figure entered—a woman curved like a crescent moon, her eyes sharp as a falcon's. Her hands, mapped with the wisdom of years, cradled fresh herbs that perfumed the air with promises of healing.

"You return to us," she murmured. "Four times the sun has risen and set while you wandered the gardens of dreams."

"Four days?" His voice rasped.

When she approached to tend his wounds, he recoiled like a startled gazelle, earning a laugh that chimed like silver bells in the quiet room.

"Your pride is stronger than your wounds, it seems. I only mean to check your ribs." 

Farid stiffened, unsure how to respond. The old woman's laugh was light, almost teasing, but her gaze was sharp with knowing.

Before another word could pass between them, the door opened, breaking silence, and Sima entered as gracefully as moonlight spilling across marble. For a moment, Farid forgot the pain in his ribs. Draped over her head was a shawl of muted gray, patterned like ancient whispers etched into stone. The fabric clung to her with a comforting familiarity. The healer greeted her with familiarity.

"Behnaz," the woman said, smiling warmly at Sima.

Farid blinked, surprised. He glanced at Sima, who gave a small, apologetic smile but said nothing. He understood immediately—Behnaz was a name meant to shield her.

The old woman, blind to the currents of truth swirling around her like desert winds, continued with the innocence of a morning dove. "Your husband is awake, but he trusts no one. Not even an old woman trying to help."

Farid rolled his eyes, his lips curving into a dry smirk. Sima shot him a glance, mouthing a quick apology.

"Yes," she replied, her voice smooth. "He entrusts his care to none but me."

The healer's laughter sparkled. "Ah, the bond of marriage is a strange thing. Very well, I'll leave him to you. I'll fetch more herbs." She departed like a pleasant memory fading into dawn.

Farid leaned back against the cool wall, his breath escaping. "Your husband?" The words carried a hint of amusement.

Sima knelt before him with the grace of a gazelle, her fingers dancing across his bandages like a weaver at her loom. Her smirk bloomed like a desert flower. "Would you prefer I revealed our true nature?"

He winced as her fingers grazed his ribs. "You didn't have to sound so convincing," he murmured, his words caught between accusation and admiration.

"Be still," she whispered. "You're lucky to be alive."

Farid watched her work, drinking in the subtle changes in her expression like a man studying clouds for signs of rain. The warmth in her eyes flickered like distant hearth-fire, precious and rare as desert roses.

"Where are we?" he asked, his words carried on shallow breath.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But this is a mountain tribe. Their ways are old, and their loyalties lie with the White Wolf clan."

Farid frowned. "A village like this... I've never seen it on any map in the palace."

Sima's eyes drifted to the walls where wooden wolves prowled in eternal vigilance, their carved eyes burning with ancestral fire. "Perhaps some places are meant to remain hidden."

He watched her quietly, noting how her gaze softened as she took in the rhythms of this place. It was clear she had grown attached, drawn to the simplicity and the solace it offered. Yet, as much as it unsettled him to shatter that fragile sense of belonging, their purpose loomed large, pressing against the edges of their time. The world outside would not wait for them.

The mountain air whispered through the room as Farid spoke again. "We cannot stay here."

She met his gaze. "Your body speaks truths your pride denies. You must let your wounds heal."

"I can manage," he insisted with all the stubborn pride of a mountain peak refusing to bow to wind. Yet pain betrayed him like a false friend, stealing his breath when her fingers found tender flesh.

"Liar," she said, amusement dancing in her voice like sunlight on water. "In all my years among courtiers and lords, never have I met a man whose pride burns brighter than his wisdom."

                                               १  

When Farid finally emerged into daylight, leaning on Sima like a broken minaret against the sky, the mountain village unfolded before him like an illuminated manuscript.

Sunlight pierced his vision sharp as truth, yet the sight before him stole his breath like a thief in the night. Here dwelt people who wore their Persian heritage like well-loved poetry—their clothing rough as mountain stone yet adorned with fur and beads that sang stories of wild places. Children darted through dust-laden streets quick as sparrows, while village elders sat in circles like human constellations, their fingers dancing across wood and wool, weaving tales into being.

Their peace shattered like glass when a young man approached, tall as a cedar of Lebanon, his shoulders broad as temple doors. His presence filled the space like incense smoke in a sanctuary, and when his eyes found Sima, they lit up like oil lamps at dusk.

"Behnaz!" The name rang out warm as summer wine.

Something twisted in Farid's chest like a serpent coiling around his heart, though its name eluded him.

The stranger drew near with the confidence of a lion approaching its pride, his voice rich with honey-sweet familiarity. "My thoughts have circled you like worried birds. Has health blessed your days?"

Sima's smile bloomed careful as spring's first flower, her eyes flitting to Farid like nervous doves seeking shelter. "I am well, thank you. I've been... occupied."

Farid's throat cleared like thunder before rain. He stepped forward, each movement a declaration of intent. "Behnaz, my wife," he said, his tone sweet as poisoned dates. "Shall we walk among the mountains' treasures?"

Sima's laugh caught behind her teeth, even as she turned to offer the young man apologies. She turned to guide Farid away.

Silence stretched between them like shadow-silk as they walked, broken only by the whisper of wind through mountain grass. Sima's glances fell upon Farid like dewdrops, quick and fleeting, until his voice cut through the quiet like a blade through velvet.

"Who was he?" The question hung in the air like incense.

"A friend," she answered, simple as morning prayer.

His sidelong glance carried daggers wrapped in silk. "His eyes speak differently."

She smiled to herself but didn't respond. For a moment, there was only the sound of their footsteps and the distant hum of the village.

"Jealousy becomes you," she teased finally.

"Caution," he corrected, sharp as mint. "It keeps us alive."

Her laughter danced like wind chimes in a summer breeze. "So it does."

The noonday sun caught his half-hidden smile, and for a moment, her heart softened like wax near flame. She allowed herself to imagine—just for a breath—what life might be if she could nurture this tender feeling, let it grow like a sapling in spring soil. But then the dream crashed over her like a wave of midnight ink: the Shah must die. Four nights the dreams had come, each time clearer than the last.

"Sogoli?" Farid's voice drew her back like a ship to shore. "Where did you go just now?"

Her smile unfurled fragile as moth wings in moonlight. "Nowhere of consequence."

"Fine. Keep your secrets,"

"My secrets are my armor,"

"Or your demise."

Laughter spilled from her lips, bitter as unripe pomegranates. The impossibility of their situation stretched before her vast as desert nights. She was the Shah's sogoli—his favored concubine—bound to his bed like a nightingale in a golden cage. To move from father to son would be to dance with dishonor, and possibly death, though the Shah's thread in life's tapestry was nearly cut. Ten years she had waited, patient as winter frost, weaving her vengeance with threads fine as silk.

How strange that her heart should betray her now, reaching toward the son of the man who had painted her homeland in flames and blood. The Shah had turned Golemut into a graveyard, her family's ashes scattered by his war. To feel drawn to Farid now was to betray her people's memory, yet here she was, caught between vengeance and the stirrings of her heart.

Time stretched between them like an uncrossable river—she, with her ten extra winters, weighted with memories sharp as broken glass; he, young as spring, with a future bright as polished brass. His marriage to the mountain princess burned like destiny, while her fate after the Shah's death would be to fade like evening shadows in the harem, either claimed anew or cast aside like yesterday's roses.

Yet standing here with the fifth prince of her most hated empire, something inside her chest fluttered like a caged bird seeking freedom. The walls she had built over a decade threatened to crumble like ancient ruins before his gentle gaze. How could completion feel so much like breaking?

Her hands, stained with a decade of careful plotting, trembled like leaves in autumn wind. The breeze carried hints of mountain herbs and wild roses, so different from the cloying perfumes of the palace harem. For a moment—brief as a shooting star's arc across night sky—she allowed herself to imagine a different life, one where love could bloom in soil not soaked with blood.

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