"The world is a garden where only the strongest flowers bloom," he said. "You either grow thorns, or you wither."

The horizon unfurled like a painted miniature, each brushstroke of crimson and gold bleeding into indigo silk as Sima and Farid approached the village. Their borrowed names—merchant and wife—sat upon their shoulders like borrowed prayer shawls, beautiful lies woven with threads of necessity. Yet on this night, when even the stars seemed to dance closer to earth, the villagers were too drunk on joy to notice the careful way these strangers wore their stories.

It was Kaivan's Day, when the veil between earth and sky grew thin, and hope danced on every tongue like honey. Around the bonfire that reached toward heaven like a lover's desperate hands, the villagers gathered in celebration of their ancient survival. They passed platters of saffron-scented rice and offered a pipe-weed that smelled of crushed roses and midnight gardens. The smoke twisted upward in azure ribbons, carrying whispered secrets to the watching moon.

Sima sat beside Farid, their shoulders almost touching—a performance for unseeing eyes. At first, her spine was rigid as a warrior's blade, every glance from the villagers landing like arrows against her skin. But there was magic in the night air, sweet as pomegranate wine, and it worked its way beneath her armor. Women whirled like dervishes, their skirts painting stories in the firelight, feet stamping ancient rhythms into the welcoming earth. Men's voices wove together in songs old as mountains, while children darted between adults like sparrows, their laughter pure as spring water.

Farid's smile bloomed slow, then wild—a desert flower after rain. It transformed him into the boy he'd been before politics and duty carved their paths into his heart, before his mother, the Queen, succumbed to a strange illness. For a heartbeat, grief pierced him like a thorn, but tonight was not for remembering thorns. Tonight was for remembering how to bloom.

Sima felt herself unfolding too, though such softness made her fingers itch for her hidden daggers. She watched these villagers—people who had weathered storms of war and famine—find infinity in small joys: the crack of warm bread shared between neighbors, a child's face painted with firelight and wonder, the way belonging felt like a warm hand pressed against the heart. Such peace was dangerous as quicksand, she knew. It could swallow you whole, make you forget the weight of destiny and vengeance that hung from your shoulders like a mantle of stars.

But tonight, even destiny could wait. Tonight belonged to the fire, to the stars, to the ancient songs that knew how to turn grief into gold.

As night draped its star-studded cloak across the sky, Darian—the vizier's son who had earlier cast honey-sweet words in Sima's direction—rose like a sword unsheathed. His confidence wore the same gleam as the obsidian rings adorning his fingers, and his voice carried on the wind, demanding the attention of all who gathered.

"My people," he proclaimed, arms spread wide as wings, as if he could embrace the whole night. "Tonight we celebrate not merely survival, but the fire that burns eternal in our hearts. They may take our wealth, our comfort, even our homes—but they cannot take the iron in our blood, the steel in our souls."

The crowd's response thundered like summer storm clouds, and Darian's smile grew sharp as a crescent moon. His eyes found his father—the vizier who sat like a statue carved from ancient stone—before his voice dropped to the whisper of a blade being drawn.

"But to survive is to merely exist, and we were meant for more than existence. The time has come to rise like phoenixes from these ashes they've made of our lives."

Sima's fingers tightened around her wine cup, the clay cool against her suddenly burning skin. Beside her, Farid grew still as a hunter spotting prey, his blue eyes—so strange in this land of dark gazes—narrowing to slits.

Darian's voice swelled like a tide pulled by a blood moon, carried higher by the crowd's fervor. "We shall lend our strength to the White Wolf Clan in their sacred battle against Persian tyranny. And we begin with the destruction of their precious cargo—the one they guard even now in the Mines of Darvish!"

His words fell heavy as Persian battle drums, each syllable a declaration of war wrapped in the silk of righteous fury. Sima and Farid's eyes met across the space between them, understanding flowing swift as desert wind: the Shah—was the precious cargo these rebels sought to destroy.

Farid's jaw clenched tight as a fist around a sword hilt, his hands curling into weapons at his sides. The prince in him—the son, despite everything—yearned to rise, to challenge, to defend the crown that sat so uneasily on his father's brow. But before fury could master wisdom, Sima's hand found his in the darkness.

Her touch was gentle as dawn light on desert roses, yet it held him fast as an anchor in stormy seas. He turned to her, expecting to find fear mirrored in her eyes. Instead, he discovered something that stole his breath: a deep sorrow, ancient as the tales of kings and prophets, wise as the stars that watched over them all. Slowly, like a sword being returned to its scabbard, he uncurled his fist.

In that moment, surrounded by the heat of rebellion and the sweet poison of revenge, they were no longer fugitives playing at being merchant and wife. They were two souls bound by destiny's thorned crown, watching as the night spun its dark threads around them all.

The villagers' cheers melted into whispers as Darian unfurled their history. Once, their mountain kingdom soared like an eagle, its people free as the valley winds. But the Persians arrived—gleaming armor, bitter promises—taking tribute and spilling their king's blood. Freedom became a memory, told in whispers by the fire.

Each word struck Farid like an arrow. These were no grand epics of conquest his tutors painted in gold and glory. They were tales written in tears, ash, and broken bones, where grief made its home.

His eyes found Sima, and the sight stole his breath like a thief in the night. Tears traced silver paths down her cheeks, each one catching firelight. In all their time together, through blood and battle and desperate flights, he had never seen her cry. It shook him more than any sword could, this glimpse of softness beneath her warrior's armor.

"Sima," he whispered. "Why do you weep?"

She remained still as a statue in a forgotten temple, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames as if they held answers to questions too heavy for words. When she finally spoke, her voice was fragile, meant only for his ears. "Because it never ends," she breathed. "The Persians take and take, like a hunger that can never be satisfied. They devour kingdoms like wolves devour lambs. When will the feast end? When will enough be enough?"

Her words struck him like lightning splitting an ancient cedar. Farid swallowed hard, tasting ash. "The world is a garden where only the strongest flowers bloom," he said. "You either grow thorns, or you wither."

Sima turned to him then, her tears now flames in her eyes. "Is that the lullaby you sing yourself to sleep at night?" she demanded, each word sharp as a dagger's edge. "Is that the prayer you whisper to make the screams grow quiet?"

Their charged exchange was interrupted by the arrival of the healer, bent from burdens, her eyes bright as desert stars, approached with a cat's grace and a smile of ancient secrets Her presence cut through their tension like moonlight through storm clouds, a reminder that even the darkest night holds seeds of hope.

"I have a gift for you both," the healer murmured, her voice rich as honey dripping from a golden comb. "Such a lovely pair you make. Like the moon and her beloved star." Before they could protest, a flock of young women descended like swooping doves, pulling Sima away into the night's embrace, their laughter trailing behind like scattered pearls.

"Trouble in the garden of love?" the healer asked, her eyes glinting like polished bronze in firelight.

"You could say that," Farid breathed, while his heart tracked Sima's departure.

"From one palace-born to another," she began, and Farid's gaze snapped to her face like steel to lodestone. "Yes, I know you, Prince of Persia. I've wandered through enough seasons of war to recognize the Hero of the Eastern Gates, Bearer of the Sacred Flames, even when he wears a merchant's humble mask."

Farid's eyes darted through shadows like frightened birds, searching for hidden blades, poisoned arrows, betrayal's thousand faces.

"Peace, child," she chuckled, the sound ancient as desert winds. "If I wished you among the dead, you would have joined them eighteen winters past, or even four days ago when fate's tapestry brought you back to my doorstep."

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice sharp as a drawn sword.

"You were the fifth son I nursed at these breasts. A miracle child, seaborn on waves that rocked like a cruel cradle. Your mother brought you into this world on the Persian Sea, fleeing from your father's wrath like a gazelle from a lion's jaws."

"What?"

"Ah," she smiled, teeth gleaming like old ivory. "Palace walls hold secrets darker than midnight, young prince. Your father's appetite for strange flesh brought home a serpent woman from the Far East. A snake charmer whose enchantments wrapped around him like silken chains. This mere concubine, not content with being the shah's sogoli, yearned for your mother's crown. Under her spell, your father raised his hand against your mother, heavy with child. But we spirited her away to the Arabian deserts, where even the shah's hands cannot reach."

"Your father's desire for your mother returned like tide to shore—not for love's sake, but for the political alliances she carried in her blood. The snake woman was cast out like a worn shoe, and your mother returned to Babylon's embrace, though her heart had turned to stone."

"How can I trust these tales you spin?" Farid whispered, doubt coiling in his chest like a restless serpent.

"The birthmark on your right thigh speaks truth enough."

"You could have seen it when tending my wounds," he challenged.

"I put it there, child. You were born sickly as winter's last breath. I cut you to drain the bad blood when you were nothing but a mewling babe. Without that mark, you would be nothing but dust in the wind."

Farid sat silent, feeling the ground beneath him shift like desert sands. All his certainties, carefully built like a house of wet sand, trembled in the night wind. The truth, it seemed, was a blade that cut deeper than any lie.

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