"Sire!"
The urgent voice of a guard shattered the stillness of the governor's chamber. Arash's head snapped up, his sharp glare cutting through the dim light of the room.
The guard stumbled through the doors, nearly tripping over his own feet as he prostrated himself on the floor. His intrusion sent a quiet ripple through the somber atmosphere.
Arash's inkbrush had fallen from the ink stone, leaving a dark smear across the document he had been reviewing. His lips pressed into a thin line as he closed the book with deliberate force, the sound echoing through the chamber.
Dressed in flowing black robes, Arash's mourning was evident—a reflection of the anguish that weighed heavily on him. The death of his son had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but a seething anger directed at the girl he held responsible.
"This had better be about her," he growled, his voice low and venomous. "Have you caught the temptress?"
The guard's forehead nearly touched the ground, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Pardon me, my lord, but we've received orders from the Crown Prince… we are not to touch the girl."
The room fell deathly silent.
Arash straightened, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the armrests of his chair. "What did you say?"
"The prince has forbidden us from laying a hand on her," the guard repeated, his words faltering. "It's said that she was seen traveling with him in his carriage yesterday. Furthermore…"
The hesitation in the guard's voice was obvious.
"Speak!" Arash snapped, the word laced with barely restrained fury.
"The prince… documented her side of the story at his residence. Rumor has it…" The guard swallowed hard before continuing. "The girl has enlisted herself into the prince's harem."
For a moment, Arash simply stared at him. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips.
"She is truly a demoness," he said, the words heavy with mockery and disdain. "To think she has bewitched the Crown Prince himself. Her beauty must be nothing short of sorcery, for her to spread her vices so effectively."
His voice turned colder, his expression hardening.
"So, the prince would shield her," Arash continued, his tone thoughtful, yet laced with venom. "If I cannot touch her outright, then I will find another way. The prince may be her protector, but even he cannot defend her from everything."
He paused, his gaze darkening. "If we cannot interrogate her, then her brother will suffice."
The guard's head shot up, his expression uncertain.
Arash's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Find out what they've been up to. Everything—no matter how trivial. Leave no stone unturned. If there is anything incriminating, anything at all, bring it to me."
"Yes, my lord." The first guard bowed deeply once more before retreating toward the door.
"Sire!"
Another guard burst in before the first could fully exit. His breath was ragged, and his face was pale with urgency.
Arash's gaze snapped to him, his irritation barely masked. "What now?" he demanded, straightening in his seat.
"There seems to be… a problem," the second guard stammered, his voice betraying his nervousness.
"What do you mean by 'a problem'?" Arash's tone was sharp as a blade, his patience growing thin.
The guard swallowed hard, then quickly continued. "I bring news that may interest you, my lord."
Arash's eyes narrowed. "Then speak, and do not waste my time."
"So, you went to the coal seller's house last night?" Arash asked, his voice cold and probing.
Paviz, the town's apothecary, knelt before him, trembling slightly as he kept his head bowed low. His hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles white with tension.
"Yes, my lord," Paviz replied, his voice steady but subdued. "I was summoned in great haste by the coal seller. He said a fugitive had sought refuge in his home while being pursued by your guards. During the scuffle, his only son was struck by a sword. The wound was grievous, and though I did all I could to sustain his life…" Paviz hesitated, his voice faltering. "The injuries were too severe. The boy was supposed to succumb to his wounds."
Arash leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto the apothecary. "Are you certain of this?" he asked, his tone laced with suspicion. "What if you misjudged the situation? The coal seller is a poor man. Perhaps he could not afford proper treatment, and you presumed his son's condition to be hopeless."
Paviz's head shook vehemently, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "No, my lord. That is not the case," he refuted firmly. "As an apothecary, my duty is to the people. I swore an oath to prioritize the welfare of the injured above all else."
He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "Furthermore, everyone in the village knows the coal seller's reputation. He has always been generous, often providing free coal for months before requesting payment. Even in his time of need, merchants offered to cover any expense required to save his son. Money was not an obstacle."
Arash's fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of his chair as he mulled over Paviz's words. "So his status was not the problem," he mused aloud, his voice low but contemplative.
"It never was, my lord," Paviz added hastily, his voice trembling slightly as he noticed Arash snap his fingers impatiently. The apothecary's gaze remained fixed on the floor, wary of making direct eye contact. "By the time I arrived, I estimated that the boy would not survive the night. His condition was dire, and there was nothing more I could do. I advised the coal seller to let his son go, to ease his suffering." Paviz paused briefly, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "But the man was stubborn. Even though his son writhed in excruciating pain, he refused to heed my advice."
Arash's fingers stilled, his sharp gaze narrowing. "And then?"
"Everyone left them," Paviz continued. "We had done all we could, and there was no point in prolonging the inevitable. When I returned in the morning to check on them…" Paviz's voice faltered, and he hesitated.
"Speak," Arash commanded, his tone colder than the winter winds.
"The boy was healed," Paviz blurted, his voice laced with disbelief. "Completely healed, as though the wound wasn't even there in the first place. Even the scar from his wound… it was gone."
"What?" Arash straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"What do you mean?"
Paviz licked his dry lips, visibly shaken. "It was as if everything that happened had been nothing but a bad dream. The boy was walking, talking—alive. My assistants and I witnessed it, and so did others in the town. It was… unnatural."
Arash's expression darkened
"It reminded me of the war," Paviz whispered, his voice barely audible. "The miracles we saw back then, my lord. The kind only one person was capable of."
Arash's eyes widened in recognition, his jaw tightening. He knew exactly what Paviz was referring to—an ability so rare it bordered on divine. But it couldn't be. That power was supposed to have died within the wielder. The woman herself hadn't passed it on to her children.
"Are you sure about this?" Arash demanded, his voice sharp.
"Yes, my lord," Paviz replied. "The entire town is in an uproar. What I witnessed is beyond the abilities of any shaman. It was almost as though the goddess herself had descended to heal the boy."
Arash sat in silence, his mind racing. If what Paviz said was true, it could change everything. Such power could not be ignored, especially since the Dragon Emperor of the lairs is threatening to wage war on them.
"Malek," Arash called, his voice firm.
The man stepped forward from the shadows, clad in an all-black. "Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare the carriage," Arash ordered, his tone resolute. "I must see this with my own eyes."
"As you wish, my lord," Malek responded, bowing slightly before disappearing to carry out the command.
"What brings my lord to my humble abode?" Kasra, the coal seller, asked in a trembling voice, bowing low to the ground. He placed a firm hand on his son Akeem's shoulder, urging the boy to do the same.
Arash's gaze swept over the shabby cottage with thinly veiled contempt, taking in the crumbling walls and patched roof. The faint smell of soot and burnt wood lingered in the air, a reminder of the family's dire poverty.
"They're even poorer than I imagined," he muttered under his breath before addressing Kasra directly. "A bird whispered something to me, and I came to confirm it with my own eyes."
He motioned to one of his guards, who promptly brought out a chair for the governor. Another guard hurried forward with a cloth, wiping the seat clean before Arash sat. He settled into the chair, crossing one leg over the other with an air of authority.
"How many sons do you have?" Arash asked, his tone sharp and businesslike.
"Only one, my lord," Kasra replied hastily, his voice barely above a whisper. "His mother passed away when he was but a child. He's the only family I have left."
Arash's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. "I heard he was gravely ill, staggering on the brink of death not long ago," he said, his voice cold and measured. "Tell me, how did he recover so quickly?"
Kasra's hand instinctively tightened on Akeem's shoulder. The boy squirmed but remained silent under his father's firm grip. Kasra licked his lips nervously, his mind racing as he tried to make up a believable response.
"I… I fed him some medicine," he stammered. "An old recipe passed down from my grandmother. She was known for her healing remedies, almost magical in their efficiency. She was a priestess, you see…" His voice faltered, hoping the governor believed him.
Arash leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Kasra. "A priestess, you say?"
"Yes, my lord," Kasra replied quickly, nodding emphatically. "She was blessed by the goddess herself, or so the stories go. Her remedies have saved many lives."
Arash's lips twitched in a faint, humorless smile. "How convenient," he said, his tone dripping with mock suspicion. "An ancient recipe from a long-dead priestess. Quite the miraculous cure, wouldn't you say?"
Kasra swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He had promised the girl—he would take the truth of what happened that night to his grave. The price of his son's life had been his silence, and no matter the consequences, he intended to honor that promise.
Even if it cost him his own life.