"The Shah's gifts come with golden chains, and refusal is not among the moves we're permitted to play."

The barracks erupted with sounds that echoed ancient tales - the thunder of fists against obsidian-studded shields, the primal roars of men, and the wet percussion of bodies striking earth blessed by the morning's rain. Farid stepped into the courtyard, his boots sinking into ground that seemed to breathe with the legacy of a thousand fights before. The air was thick with the scent of combat—sweat-soaked leather, rain-kissed soil, and the copper-sweet whisper of blood.

Warriors formed a circle as perfect as a full moon, their bodies creating living walls around two fighters in the pit. Their chants rose and fell like waves against the shore, ancient words of encouragement passed down through generations of soldiers. In their voices, Farid heard echoes of the epic battles sung by wandering bards in smoky teahouses.

Prince Rostam reclined on a carved wooden bench at the ring's edge like a lion at rest, his presence commanding even in repose. His dark hair, damp with the morning's exertion, curled against his neck, and his eyes—sharp as a falcon's—traced every movement of the fight. When he caught sight of Farid, his lips curved into the same smile that had preceded countless childhood adventures and mischiefs.

"Still pitting men against each other?" Farid said, folding his arms across his chest. "...like a child playing with ants."

"Better than withering in the palace gardens," Rostam replied, his voice carrying the weight of a crown he had always wanted. "While ministers trade honeyed lies and scheme behind perfumed sleeves. Here, at least, truth flows as freely as blood."

In the pit, a warrior built like an oak tree had his opponent in a grip that would crush a lesser man. His massive arms, marked with the geometric patterns of tribal tattoos, strained against sun-bronzed skin. But his smaller opponent moved like water through cupped hands, his lean body twisting with a dancer's grace as he drove his elbow into vulnerable flesh. The crowd's roar shook loose particles of dust from the ancient stone walls, making them dance in shafts of morning light.

"Which one carries your hopes today?" Farid asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"The big one," Rostam replied, pride glinting in his eyes. "They say his mother was nursed by mountain lions. Looking at him fight, I almost believe it."

Farid watched as the smaller fighter moved like water, ducking beneath a thunderous swing before his foot found the giant's knee with devastating precision. The crowd gasped as the mountain of a man crashed down, the sound of his fall echoing off the ancient stones like distant thunder.

"Your coins are about to take flight like Simorgh herself, brother," Farid said, savoring the flash of concern that crossed Rostam's face. The mythical bird's name tasted like childhood on his tongue, reminding him of the stories their mother once whispered to them in the cool shade of the palace gardens.

Rostam leaned forward, his grin tightening. "Then test your fortune, little brother. Put your gold behind the small one, if you dare to dance with fate."

Farid pretended to consider it. "Why not? The little one fights with the grace of a desert cat—much like you in our childhood spars. Always quick, always clever, always face—down in the dust by the end."

Rostam's laughter burst forth like water from a hidden spring, rich and unexpected, rolling over the crowd's roar. The sound transported Farid to simpler days, before crowns and kingdoms had cast their long shadows between them. The two princes stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Farid could smell the familiar scent of sandalwood and leather that always clung to his brother's clothes.

Though Rostam stood a hand's breadth taller, his presence had always seemed to fill more space than mere height could account for. Four years stretched between them like a bridge built of shared secrets and rivalries, love and ambition tangled together like the intricate knots in a Persian carpet.

Among the sons of the Shahanshah—the King of Kings, they each wore their roles like carefully fitted masks: Hormoz, the crown prince, wrapped in silk and ceremony; Navid, the rebel, whose defiance had earned him exile to the empire's edges; and Rostam—ah, Rostam—the warrior prince whose legend had already taken root in soldiers' songs. The Beast of Persia, they called him, but Farid knew better. Behind those battle-sharp eyes lay a mind that tracked the delicate dance of court politics as keenly as any swordplay.

Rostam's voice dropped low, barely a whisper above the crowd's thunder. "Father has been busy,"

Farid turned slightly, catching the shadow that passed over his brother's face, sensing the weight behind the words. "When isn't he?" 

"This time, it concerns you." 

Farid's spine straightened, though his face remained as still as water in a sacred pool. "Go on." 

Rostam turned to him, "The mountain princess from your campaign in the borderlands—Father has bound your futures together. Her caravan winds through the empire's heart even now."

The words struck like an assassin's blade between the ribs, but years of court politics had taught Farid the art of masking pain with grace.. "I never asked for a wife." 

"Since when has that ever mattered?" Rostam snorted. "You know the game as well as I do, little brother. Father's gifts come with golden chains, and refusal is not among the moves we're permitted to play."

Farid's jaw clenched tight enough to crack a walnut, his eyes drawn back to the fight below. The smaller warrior moved with precision, his strikes relentless as the giant crumbled into the mud. The crowd roared, their voices rising with each calculated blow, and Farid found himself reaching for a gold coin. He flicked it toward a waiting soldier. "Place it on the small one," he murmured.

Rostam's hand found his shoulder, heavy with understanding. "There's the brother I know," he said, his smile returning like the sun after rain.  "Always intrigued by a challenge." 

Farid's answering smile was a masterpiece of courtly deception, but his thoughts had already taken wing, soaring far beyond the barracks walls to the mountain passes where his bride-to-be traveled, unwittingly carrying both their fates in her saddlebags.

१

The feast hall blazed with a thousand flames, each crystal lamp and golden sconce conspiring to create an illusion of paradise. Yet beneath the sparkle of wealth and power, Farid could taste something darker—ambition and secrets floating like specks of ash in honeyed wine.

Platters of saffron-scented rice crowned with butter-soft lamb competed with towers of jewel-bright fruits and delicacies carried in from the empire's furthest reaches. The air hung thick with competing scents: frankincense burning in copper censers, rose water sprinkled on guests' hands, and the heavy musk of too many perfumed bodies pressed close.

Sima watched it all from the shadows, her fingers worrying the embroidered edge of her sleeve. Though she had served in the palace for years, these moments still made her feel like a sparrow among peacocks. Servants glided past her with the practiced grace of palace dancers, their trays laden with crystal decanters of blood-red wine and sweets dusted with precious gold.

When Farid entered, the very air seemed to shift. He moved through the obligatory greetings like a man walking through deep water, each step measured and careful. The weight of his presence drew every eye in the room, though he seemed not to notice. But Sima noticed. She felt his gaze touch her like a flame to parchment, and fought to keep her eyes lowered, her hands clasped together until her knuckles whitened.

The Shah's voice cut through the murmur of conversation like a sword through silk. "My son!" The words echoed off marble walls as he gestured toward the woman beside him—the mountain princess, whose beauty seemed carved from moonlight itself. Her hair fell in waves darker than a moonless night, and her robes caught the lamplight like stars scattered across the sky. Every movement caused the jewels adorning her to sing softly, a tinkling melody of wealth and status.

"Tell us," the Shah continued, pleasure and cruelty mingling in his voice like wine and poison, "does she not embody everything a prince could desire?"

Farid's throat worked silently for a moment, the muscle in his jaw tightening. The court held its collective breath, hungry for his response. When he finally spoke, his words fell like pebbles into still water. "She is... beautiful."

The Shah's laughter crashed through the hall, sharp and cutting as broken glass. "The warrior prince, who faces down armies without flinching, brought low by a single woman's beauty? Perhaps I should have sent her to lead your last campaign!"

Applause crashed against the marble walls like waves upon rocks as the Shah raised his jewel-encrusted goblet toward the heavens. "Let it be known throughout the empire! This night marks the binding of two great houses—Prince Farid and Princess Zabel, united under heaven's grace!"

But Farid heard the announcement as if from underwater, his heart a war drum in his chest. Against every instinct of self-preservation, his eyes sought Sima through the sea of celebrating nobles. When their gazes locked, time seemed to still. Behind her carefully crafted mask of servitude, he glimpsed something that made his breath catch—a darkness deep as a mountain lake, hiding secrets in its depths.

He held her gaze, defying protocol, defying wisdom, defying the very foundations of their world that demanded she look away first. In that suspended moment, the cacophony of celebration fell away, leaving only the thunder of his pulse and the weight of unspoken words between them.

The spell shattered as the Shah's commanding voice cut through the hall: "Sogoli! Wine!" She dropped her eyes instantly, moving with practiced grace toward the high table, each step a study in invisible existence.

Farid lifted his own chalice, letting the wine flood his mouth without tasting it. His attention shifted to his bride-to-be, and what he found in Zabel's gaze made his soldier's instincts sing with warning. Those eyes, dark as mountain caves and twice as treacherous, held no pretense of diplomacy. They blazed with something far more dangerous—a hatred as sharp as the daggers he knew mountain women kept strapped to their thighs.

A bitter smile touched his lips as he raised his cup in mock salute to his future wife. Of all the ways he'd imagined dying—in battle, by assassin's blade, or his brothers' ambitions—being poisoned by a vengeful mountain princess hadn't made the list. Yet here he was, betrothed to a woman who looked at him as a hawk eyes a wounded dove.

The irony wasn't lost on him. The Hero of the Eastern Gates, Bearer of the Sacred Flame, was about to meet his match in a diplomatic marriage that had all the warmth of a serpent's embrace. The gods, it seemed, had quite the sense of humor.

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