"Then let me see for myself," Arash commanded, his tone brooking no argument as he raised his staff and pointed it toward the boy. Despite the young man's apparent confusion, Arash's sharp eyes were fixed on him, as if trying to pierce through him. The boy had been gravely injured the previous evening, writhing in pain with little hope of survival. And yet, this morning, he had awoken unscathed—his body free of any trace of the injuries that should have left him scarred or even dead.
It was an astonishing and abrupt turn of events, one so surreal that the boy himself began to doubt the reality of what he had experienced. Was it possible that his supposed injuries were nothing more than a dream?
"You've spoken enough since I arrived," Arash declared firmly, his gaze shifting from the others present to the boy. "But I have yet to hear from the boy himself. Speak now, son. Tell me, how badly were you injured yesterday?"
The boy swallowed hard, his nerves betraying his calm demeanor. "I... I have no idea, my lord," he admitted, his voice trembling slightly under the weight of the governor's presence. "My memory of last night is a bit hazy. The only thing I remember clearly is being stabbed... after that, nothing but darkness."
A tense silence settled over the room, thick enough to be cut with a blade. Kasra, who stood nearby, felt a cold sweat trickle down his back. He knew that any inconsistency, any minor flaw in their explanation, would plant seeds of doubt in Arash's mind—doubt that could bloom into dangerous suspicion.
Arash's sharp gaze never wavered as he gave his next command, his voice cold and measured. "Take off your shirt."
The boy hesitated, his hands hovering nervously over the buttons of his shirt. He fumbled for a moment, before finally managing to undo them. Slowly, he slipped the shirt off his shoulders, exposing his chest.
There was no mark, no wound, no scar—nothing to suggest that the boy had ever been injured at all. His skin was flawless, as though the events of the previous night had never occurred.
Arash turned to the guard stationed silently at his left-hand side, his expression unreadable. "You," he said, his voice like steel. "Are you certain you stabbed this boy?"
"Yes, my lord," the guard replied without hesitation. Though his voice was steady, there was a shadow of guilt in his eyes. He vividly recalled the moment when he had struck the boy, the instant regret that had flooded him when he realized his mistake. "I am certain. I was not the only one there, either, my lord. Others witnessed the event. He was gravely injured—on the brink of death."
"So," Arash began, his voice low and measured, though there was a dangerous edge to it, "how is it possible that your son not only recovered from a life-threatening wound but regenerated so completely that not even a scar remains?"
His gaze shifted to Kasra, who stood frozen, his face pale and his mind racing. He was at a loss for words, unsure how to proceed. Any misstep could seal their doom. Arash's penetrating stare didn't waver, as if he could extract the truth with his eyes alone.
"Well?" Arash pressed, his tone biting. "Tell me—what is your secret? Is your son some sort of lizard, capable of healing his own wounds? Or perhaps this miraculous cure you claim to have used if it's as effective as you say, then let me see it for myself."
"My lord," Kasra began, his voice trembling slightly. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, knowing they were walking a razor's edge. "I... I would gladly give you this cure if I could. But alas," he paused, lowering his eyes, "I used the very last of it to save my son's life."
Arash's expression didn't shift for a moment, his cold eyes locked onto Kasra's. Then, abruptly, a laugh burst from his lips, loud and jarring. The sound echoed through the room, his body shaking as he doubled over. But the laughter was short-lived, cutting off as suddenly as it began.
"I must look like a fool to you," he said, his voice grim, his expression darkening as the room grew heavy with tension.
Kasra's heart pounded in his chest, and he swallowed hard. He had known from the beginning that the truth, no matter how earnest, would sound absurd. He had also known that no lie, no fabricated story, would satisfy the governor. But what choice had he had? He couldn't let his only son die. The boy was his pride and hope, with a future brighter than Kasra could have ever dreamed for himself.
"Tell me the truth, coal seller," Arash demanded, his voice soft but dripping with menace. "Only the truth will save you now. You've heard what happened to the courtesans at the Glory House, haven't you?"
Kasra stiffened. The mere mention of the incident sent a chill down his spine.
The weight of fear pressed down on him, and Kasra trembled visibly. He dropped to his knees, bowing low, his forehead touching the cold, unforgiving ground. His voice was raw with desperation as he spoke.
"My lord, I swear upon all that I hold dear, I have told you the truth. It may sound impossible, even insane, but it is the truth. I beg you to believe me."
Arash stared at the groveling man, his expression unreadable. The silence that followed was agonizing, stretching long enough to make Kasra's heart feel as though it would stop. Then, finally, Arash's lips curved into a chilling smile.
"I believe you," he said at last, though his tone suggested otherwise.
Some guards suddenly seized his son…
"Akeem!" Kasra screamed, his voice raw with desperation. He lunged toward his son, but before he could take more than a step, the guards seized him. Their iron grip held him back, forcing him to watch helplessly as Akeem knelt trembling on the ground.
Kasra turned his frantic gaze to the governor. Arash, perched on his throne of power, appeared disturbingly amused, as though the suffering of peasants was nothing more than a game to him.
"My lord, please," Kasra begged, his voice cracking. "I will do anything—anything you ask. Just spare my son!"
"Oh no," Arash murmured, his tone dripping with mock pity. He tapped his staff against the floor, a slow and deliberate rhythm that seemed to echo his thoughts. "Anything, you say? How touching." His eyes glinted with malice as he turned his attention back to Akeem.
Then his voice hardened. "Cut off the boy's hands."
Kasra's heart stopped. The words hung in the air like a death knell.
Malek stepped forward without hesitation, his movements precise and cold. The dagger he drew glinted cruelly in the light, the razor-sharp edge gleaming like a predator's fangs.
"No! Please, my lord, no!" Kasra cried, thrashing against the guards who held him. His struggles were futile—the men restraining him were young and strong, while Kasra's age and desperation sapped his strength. Tears streamed down his face as he begged.
"Please!" Kasra shouted, his voice hoarse. "Cut off my hands instead! Take me, my lord—punish me however you wish—but please, I beg you, spare my son!"
Arash tilted his head, a mockery of curiosity in his expression. "Your son?" he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Your son has no future. His life is no different from yours—a coal seller scraping out an existence in the dirt. What future do you think awaits him? With no education, no skills beyond shoveling coal, his life is already worth nothing."
The governor's tone turned colder, each word striking like a whip. "And if he has no hands? Then what? How will he even make coal? No better than a dog, really. Perhaps less."
Kasra's knees buckled, but the guards held him upright. His mind raced. He knew Arash wasn't bluffing. The man would carry out his cruel order without any hesitation.
"I will tell you the truth," Kasra rasped, his voice breaking under the weight of his defeat. "I will tell you everything you want to know. Just… just spare my son. Please."
Arash leaned forward slightly, the hint of a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "Ah," he said softly, "the truth at last." He waved a hand, signaling Malek to pause, though the dagger remained poised, its edge hovering dangerously close to Akeem.
"Speak," Arash commanded, his tone sharp as steel. "And pray that what you have to say is worth my patience. Otherwise…" He let the threat linger, and it needed no further explanation.
"When I said I used a remedy passed down from my grandmother, I lied," Kasra admitted, his voice trembling yet desperate. He dared not meet the governor's piercing gaze, focusing instead on the floor as though it could somehow provide him comfort. "I lied only to honor a promise I made."
Arash's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. With a subtle gesture, he signaled his men. The dagger poised at Akeem's arm was withdrawn.
"Go on," Arash commanded, his voice calm yet heavy with expectation.
Kasra swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he clasped them together. "A girl came to us last night," he began, the words catching in his throat. "She is the one who healed him."
Arash straightened in his seat, leaning forward with a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
"A girl?" he echoed, his tone sharp, the single word laced with suspicion.
"Yes, my lord," Kasra continued, nodding nervously. "She was the one who saved him. Without her, my son wouldn't be alive."
Arash tilted his head, his interest now fully captured. "Did you see how she did it?"
Kasra hesitated.
He had sworn to protect her secret, to carry it to his grave. But now, with his son's life hanging in the balance, that promise seemed a distant luxury. He glanced at Akeem, who remained kneeling, his face pale with fear. Taking a deep breath, Kasra made his decision.
He closed his eyes briefly, silently pleading for forgiveness before speaking.
"She used her blood, my lord," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "She made him drink her blood. And almost instantly… he was healed."
The room fell silent. Arash's eyes gleamed with a predatory light, as though a puzzle he'd long sought to solve had just presented its missing piece.
"Her blood," Arash repeated, the words rolling off his tongue with fascination. "Interesting."
"Yes, my lord," Kasra affirmed, his voice shaking.
Arash leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. "Who is this girl?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm but underpinned with an unmistakable demand for answers.
"That…" Kasra faltered, choosing his words carefully. "That was the first time I ever saw her, my lord. I do not know her personally."
The governor's expression darkened, and Kasra quickly added, "But my son does! He knows her name. He knows where she lives."
Arash's eyes flicked to Akeem, who had been trembling in silence. "Her name?"
"Leila," Kasra said hurriedly. "Her name is Leila, my lord."