"Leila..." Arash murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as his fingers absently stroked his jawline. His brows furrowed in contemplation, his mind racing to connect pieces of the puzzle. The name, though foreign to his immediate recollection, stirred his memory.
"Leila..." he repeated, his tone more deliberate this time. His narrowed eyes shifted toward Malek, his most trusted aide, who stood rigid, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, recognition flashed across Arash's face, his features tightening in realization. "That name—doesn't it sound strangely familiar to you?"
"Yes, my lord," Malek replied, his posture stiffened. "If I may remind you, my lord, a woman by that same name—Leila was the one who deceived Lord Shapour hereby luring him to his death."
Arash's jaw clenched as his thoughts deepened. "And what are the chances," he mused aloud, his voice laden with suspicion, "that this Leila and the one we speak of now are the same person?"
"My lord, it is difficult to say," Malek admitted cautiously, his eyes lowering to the floor. "I have a feeling they are the same person."
Before the conversation could continue, another voice broke through the tension. "My lord," Kasra interjected, his forehead still pressed to the ground in a posture of submission. His voice trembled, a mixture of fear and desperation. "I beg for the girl's life. She meant no harm. All she did was save my son."
Arash's gaze sharpened, locking onto the man. His tone was calm but edged with authority as he repeated the man's earlier words. "You said, and I quote, she healed your son using her blood. Is that correct?"
Kasra lifted his head slightly, his face pale and nervous, but he nodded earnestly. "Yes, my lord. That is what I saw."
"I want you to explain what she did in details." Arash commanded
Kasra swallowed hard, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "The girl... she took a dagger," he began, his voice wavering. "She slit her wrist carefully, then she approached my son, who lay on the bed, barely hanging on to life. She held her wrist over his lips and allowed her blood to flow into his mouth. Almost immediately, her own wound began healing itself"
The room fell silent as Kasra continued, "And my son—his wounds healed even faster. Within moments, his breathing steadied."
The weight of the revelation hung heavy in the air, but it was the sudden, unexpected sound of laughter that shattered the tension. Heads turned toward Arash, their eyes wide in disbelief. For the first time since the tragic loss of his son, the governor's lips curled into a grin that seemed almost foreign to his hardened face.
Gasps rippled through the room. Malek, standing closest to his master, stiffened at the sight, unsure of what this rare display might signify. Arash turned to him.
"Malek," he began, his tone uncharacteristically light yet still laced with purpose, "this girl... she may be more valuable than we thought."
"Not even the prince can save her now," Arash declared, his voice cold and final as he straightened to his full height. "We go to the palace. I must speak with the Shah."
"And what about them, my lord?" Malek inquired, gesturing subtly toward Kasra and his son, who remained on their knees, their heads bowed low in silent terror.
Arash turned his sharp, unforgiving gaze on them, his lips pursed in thought. The weight of his silence alone was enough to tighten the air around them. Finally, he began counting on his fingers, his voice dripping with mock deliberation.
"Let me see... First, they committed a crime by harboring a traitor under their roof. Second, they withheld crucial information—information that could be of great use to the empire." His eyes narrowed further as he tilted his head slightly, as if weighing their worth.
Kasra lifted his tear-streaked face, his voice cracking with desperation. "Have mercy on us, my lord! Please, I beg of you—"
Arash's smile was cruel and without humor. "Mercy?" he echoed, savoring the word as though it were foreign to him. "No. People like you do not deserve mercy." He paused, then waved a hand with chilling indifference. "However, I am not without practicality. You and your son will serve as a warning—an example to the others."
Kasra flinched visibly as Arash turned back to him. "Break their legs," he ordered, his voice devoid of pity. "They'll live. And who knows? Perhaps they'll still manage to make coal... if they can find someone to carry them."
The room descended into horrified silence as Kasra's choked cries filled the air, mingling with the soft rustling of fabric as guards stepped forward to carry out the command. Arash, unaffected by the scene unfolding behind him, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and turned toward Malek. "Let's go."
The Shah's palace emerged as an embodiment of power and wealth, it was built in the finest materials, be it iron, silver and even gold. Guards clad in armor stood at attention, their blades and spears gleaming in the evening sun. Around them, palace maidens in silken garments moved in small groups, carrying trays and fabric, their soft chatter a faint hum beneath their surroundings.
As Arash and Malek approached, the head searcher stepped forward, his expression stoic and unyielding. "State your identity," he instructed, his voice clear and formal.
Malek stiffened, his brows drawing together in offense. "Do you not know who stands before you?" he snapped, his tone sharp as a blade.
The guard remained unfazed, though his voice remained polite. "With respect, sir, I follow the command of the crowned prince, Shahin. All visitors to the palace are required to introduce themselves and submit an invitation—regardless of their rank or status."
Malek opened his mouth to argue further, but Arash intervened with a calm, steadying hand. "Let it be," he said coolly, stepping forward with measured confidence. Reaching into his robe, he revealed the governor's crest—a symbol of his rank and his authority.
Recognition was immediate. The guard's stoicism faltered, his eyes widening briefly before he quickly bowed his head.
"Your Highness," he murmured with respect, his voice low and apologetic. From the grandeur of the carriage to the subtle but unmistakable air of power that surrounded him, it had been clear this was no ordinary nobleman. However, the sight of the crest confirmed his identity—this was Arash Al-Shirazi, the formidable governor of the southern provinces. The elder brother to the empress and uncle to the crowned prince, Arash was a man who was both respected and feared across the empire.
"Forgive my hesitation, my lord," the guard added, his posture stiff with nervousness. "It is merely the prince's will—"
Malek leaned in slightly, his voice low. "It seems the prince has taken a keen interest in palace security."
Arash's lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. "Let him," he replied simply. "A man who builds walls must fear something—or someone—on the other side."
"I am in a good mood today, so I will pardon you," Arash said, nodding his head with a faint, almost benevolent smile. The subtle curve of his lips didn't quite reach his eyes, but the guard still exhaled in visible relief.
"I need to see the Shah," Arash continued,
"Yes, yes, Your Highness," the guard stammered quickly, bowing in haste. "The Shah is presently in the courtroom. I will inform him of your arrival immediately—"
Arash's hand shot up, a single, deliberate gesture that silenced the guard before he could turn to leave. "There is no need for that," he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The matters I bring are of urgency. I will speak to him myself."
The guard hesitated for a heartbeat but then stepped aside, bowing low once more. "As you wish, Your Highness."
As they proceeded to the Shah's courtroom….The massive chamber was a statement of polished marble floors gleamed beneath the sunlight pouring in from arched windows, mosaics adorned the towering walls. The scent of incense lingered in the air, a heavy, almost suffocating sweetness.
At the far end of the room, the Shah sat atop his golden throne, its ornate backrest rising high like the sun's rays. Yet the ruler's attention was fixed elsewhere. Seated and standing around him were generals and advisors, their faces grim and expressions hardened by the weight of their discussions.
The general of the battlefront stood closest to the Shah, a towering figure clad in rugged armor, his scarred face testament to decades spent defending the kingdom's borders. Scrolls lay spread across a table beside them, marked with tactical diagrams and maps stained with ink.
The northern kingdom had begun to advance—an alliance of envious neighbors and rebellious territories united under one cause: the overthrow of the Shah. Word of his tyranny had spread, and now the threat had grown too dangerous to ignore. There was no mistaking the gravity of this meeting; every gaze in the room was hard and contemplative, as if the kingdom's future hung by the edge of a sword.
The Shah himself was a commanding figure. He wore an elegant white robe of the finest silk, its wide sleeves and flowing fabric embroidered with intricate golden detailing along the cuffs, edges, and hem. Around his waist, a golden sash cinched the robe, perfectly tailored to enhance the imposing stature of a king. Upon his head rested a crown of pure gold, its solid weight adorned with flawless emeralds—each stone cut to perfection, glimmering like the envy of nations.
Beside him, the nobles and advisors wore simpler kaftans in muted tones, their garments an intentional contrast to the magnificence of their ruler.
The moment Arash and Malek stepped into the room, the murmured discussions fell to a hush. The generals turned, their gazes curious yet cautious, while the Shah's sharp eyes narrowed with mild irritation at the intrusion. But as his gaze settled on Arash, recognition softened the hard lines of his face.
The Shah rose from his golden throne, a gesture that did not go unnoticed. The generals and advisors exchanged glances; for the king to stand was a mark of respect seldom granted. With measured steps, he descended from the dais, his pristine robe flowing behind him like a river of silk.
"Arash," the Shah greeted, his voice deep and commanding but laced with a hint of curiosity. "This is unexpected."
The room remained silent, all eyes fixed on the governor as he approached the throne.
"Brother," the Shah greeted warmly as he stepped forward, pulling Arash into a rare, familial embrace.
"Please forgive me," the Shah muttered, his voice low with remorse.
"For what, Your Majesty?" Arash asked gently, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, though a small, placid smile remained on his face.
The Shah stepped back, his expression clouded with guilt as he regarded his brother-in-law. "I heard about your loss," he said, his voice heavy with sincerity. "I should have come to visit, to offer my condolences properly, but..." He turned, motioning toward the table where his generals stood clustered, surrounded by scattered scrolls and maps. "These men have been here for three days now. The armies of the northern kingdom continue to advance, and I've had no time for anything else."
Arash inclined his head in understanding, his face impassive. "There is no need to apologize. I completely understand, Your Majesty. Duty waits for no man."
The Shah's gaze softened briefly before shifting back to concern. "But according to the customs of our lands, you should not be walking in the sun after the loss of your child," he reminded him, his tone tinged with worry. "You are in mourning, Arash."
"My duty is to my nation," Arash replied, his voice firm yet calm. "As governor, I could not simply sit idle and wait while chaos brews. The empire is at war, and I have come to devise a solution—one that may help Your Majesty win this war."
The Shah's brows lifted in surprise. The generals, who had been quietly muttering amongst themselves, fell completely silent, their attention shifting toward the governor.
"How is that possible?" the Shah asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
he continued. "The northern kingdom is a force to be reckoned with," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "We are short on manpower, and no matter how many strategies are drawn, none will work without divine intervention. The casualties will be countless, and in the end, the empire will fall."
A grim hush fell over the room.
"But there is a way," Arash added after a long pause, his tone deliberate. "A way that has worked before."
The Shah's eyes narrowed slightly, though intrigue sparked in their depths. "What do you mean?"
"There was once a woman," Arash said slowly, his gaze steady and unrelenting, "whose help ensured our victory in the war sixteen years ago."
The room collectively inhaled at the mention of her—the enchantress. The Shah stiffened, his expression as memory resurfaced. Of course, he remembered her. She had been a beauty unlike any other, a woman of extraordinary power—an member of the Norae people, a reclusive tribe whose existence was called a myth.
"You speak of her," the Shah muttered, his voice low and cautious.
"Yes," Arash confirmed with a slight nod. "It was her abilities that turned the tide of that war. If we had someone like her now, we could achieve the same victory."
The Shah's jaw tightened as his gaze dropped to the marble floor. "She would never reveal the location of her kind," he murmured, almost to himself. "We tried. We tortured her, interrogated her, and still, she chose death over betraying her people." His voice carried a mix of respect and bitterness. "Sixteen years, Arash, and we gained nothing what makes you so sure she would say anything now."
Arash took a step closer, his voice lowering. "No, Your Majesty," he said with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. "We may not need her people—only her bloodline, there is a strong possibility that her powers were passed down. Her child could possess the same abilities. Bringing that child to the palace and using her will ensure our victory."