"In the shadows of the chamber, destiny held its breath, waiting to see which way the scales would tip."

The Shah of Persia lay amid cushions threaded with golden nightingales and ancient prayers, each breath rattling like copper coins dropped in an empty well. The mighty ruler—once likened to the gods themselves—had been reduced to a husk of humanity, his legendary strength seeping away like water through cupped palms. In his fevered dreams, he saw the simurgh circling, waiting to carry his soul to the next world.

The chamber, perfumed with burning isfand and amber, bore witness to his decline. Carved demons danced across the ceiling beams, their shadows made monstrous by flickering oil lamps that hung from chains of brass and lapis. The court physician bent over his patient, pressing fingers stained with herbs and hope against the Shah's pulse point, counting each faltering beat like a string of prayer beads.

The disease that gripped the Shah defied the ancient wisdom passed down through generations of healers. His skin, once bronzed like a warrior's shield, now peeled away in scrolls, revealing flesh that wept blood and viridian ichor. The stench of decay mingled with the sweet smoke of medicinal incense—a perfume of death that even the strongest frankincense could not mask. His eyes, which had once commanded armies with a single glance, darted between shadows like a desert hare scanning for jackals.

Sima kept her vigil beside him, her silk veil embroidered with protection verses that she knew would offer no salvation. To the world, she was the picture of a devoted sogoli, her body curved in grief. But beneath her carefully arranged shawl, her heart beat a rhythm of triumph, each pulse a silent celebration of patience rewarded. For ten years, she had woven death into his meals and wines with the same precision with which she had once embroidered his robes. The poison—ancient as the desert itself—had worked slowly, surely, like water wearing away stone. It was her masterpiece, a death that even the most learned hakims would attribute to the capricious will of fate.

"Tell me true," the Shah commanded, his voice like parchment crumbling to dust. His fingers clutched at sheets shot through with golden threads—threads that would outlast their owner.

The physician's gaze darted to Sima like a sparrow seeking shelter from a storm. She remained still.

"My lord," the physician began, his words falling like bitter almonds into the heavy air, "the illness... it devours you from within, like a djinn consuming flame. Our medicines are as effective as arrows shot at the wind. Your body turns against itself, as if... as if the very stars have aligned against your recovery."

In the shadows of the chamber, unseen by all, the ghost of a smile played across Sima's lips—quick as a desert viper's strike, deadly as its kiss.

"Turns against itself?" The Shah's words emerged as a snarl, though they held more desperation than fury. Another fit of coughing seized him, and emerald-stained blood bloomed like poison flowers on the silk handkerchief Sima pressed into his trembling hands. In her subtle cruelty, she had embroidered the cloth with verses of healing—prayers that would go forever unanswered.

The ancient cedar doors groaned open. "His Highness, Prince Farid," the herald announced.

Farid entered as though guided by desert winds, his movements holding none of the rigid ambition that made his brothers walk like wooden soldiers in a child's game. His emerald tunic caught the light of the oil lamps, shimmering like the scales of a serpent in sunlight. Those who knew the old stories would have recognized in him the grace of the legendary Xerxes—blessed by fate, cursed by circumstance.

His ocean eyes, keen as a desert hawk's, took in the scene before him. They lingered for a heartbeat too long on Sima, as they always did, like a moth drawn to flame though knowing it meant destruction.

"Father." Farid's bow was deep. When he rose, the lamplight caught the angles of his face—sharp as a blade, honest as winter.

"You come late, my son." The Shah's words scratched against the air like sand across marble. "Sit."

Farid settled onto a low cushion beside the physician. "Tell me of my father's health," he commanded, addressing the healer directly. In his voice was the echo of future authority—a sound that made Sima's fingers tighten imperceptibly in her lap.

The physician's hesitation was tangible. "There... may be a way, Your Highness," he ventured, each word chosen with care. "A path less traveled, but perhaps..."

"What way?," the Shah demanded, his fever-bright eyes flashing with a ghost of his former power.

"In ancient Susa, where empires sleep beneath the dust, there is a tribe." The physician's voice gained strength. "The Zurvanites—children of time itself, keepers of secrets older than the stones of Persepolis. Their healing arts..." He paused, weighing his next words. "They say these mystics can coax miracles from the very breath of Ahura Mazda."

"Susa?" Farid murmured, his mind already racing down desert paths and mountain passes. "Beyond the Zagros, where the Tigris draws lines in the earth? But that is weeks of hard riding, if the roads are kind."

Behind her veil, Sima's eyes glittered like obsidian in firelight. This unexpected thread in fate's tapestry—this whispered hope the physician dared to offer—threatened to unravel ten years of careful plotting. But she had not survived the deadly games of the Persian court by allowing such surprises to shake her resolve. Like a master weaver, she would simply incorporate this new thread into her design.

"Yes," the physician nodded quickly. "The journey is long, but the route is straightforward. From Babylon, one must take the southern road toward the Karkheh River. Once you cross its banks, the city lies nestled between the rivers of Dez and Karkheh."

"And you believe these... Zurvanites can help me?" the Shah asked, his tone sharp despite the frailty of his voice.

The physician hesitated. "It is a chance, Your Majesty. They are famed for their knowledge of herbs and rituals that the rest of Persia has abandoned. If anyone can reverse this ailment, it is them."

Farid's gaze lingered on the physician, then shifted to Sima. She had not spoken a word during the exchange, but her silence was loud, her presence palpable. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met his. He saw sorrow there, or so he thought, but Sima quickly lowered her gaze.

"I will go," Farid declared, breaking the tension.

The Shah's fever-bright eyes fixed upon his fifth son. "You?"

"Yes, Father." Farid's voice held the strength his father's lacked. "This illness that plagues you speaks in riddles our physicians cannot solve. I swear by the eternal flame, I will bring these healers from Susa."

The physician cleared his throat, the sound like pebbles scattered on marble. "Your Highness, forgiveness, but... the Zurvanites are bound to their sacred grounds like roots to earth. They do not leave their sanctuary."

"What madness do you speak?" Farid's words exploded like thunder. "The Shah cannot abandon Babylon! The kingdom—"

"Your father may not see the winter roses bloom if he remains," the physician cut in.

"Surely there must be another path," Farid protested, but his voice had lost its thunder, replaced by the whisper of desert winds.

"Farid..." The Shah's voice, though weak, carried the weight of command that had ruled an empire.

"Yes, Father?"

"I will go."

The words fell into the chamber like stones into a still pool, ripples of consequence spreading outward. In the shadows, Sima's fingers tightened beneath her veil until her knuckles turned white as bleached bone. She had not anticipated this—the Shah leaving the safety of Babylon's walls, venturing into lands where her careful web of influence might not reach.

"But Father—" Farid's protest died on his lips like a flame snuffed by desert winds.

"Prepare a black convoy," the Shah commanded, his voice thin but threaded with steel. "Let no whisper of my absence reach the court's ears. You will ride the southern road at my side." He drew a labored breath, green-tinged spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. "Hormoz must not know of this, and Navid..." His eyes darkened like storm clouds. "Especially Navid."

"Yes, Father."

"Send word to Rostam. Tell him to return to Babylon with the swiftness of the dawn wind. I need someone whose loyalty runs deeper than ambition to guard Parisa and the Lion Throne." The Shah's gaze drifted to the carved lions adorning his chamber walls, their eternal vigilance a mirror of his own concerns.

"It shall be done."

The Shah's attention snapped to the physician like a whip crack. "Should even a whisper of this escape your lips, your bloodline will be erased from the earth as thoroughly as footprints from desert sand."

The physician's face bleached white as cemetery bones. "Y-yes, Your Majesty."

"I'll set these wheels in motion." Farid rose with the fluid grace that marked him different from his brothers, already mapping the intricate dance of secrecy and preparation that lay ahead.

As the Shah sank back against his cushions, strength bleeding from him like water from a cracked vessel, Sima's fingers worked the embroidered edge of her veil. Susa lay beyond her reach, and the Zurvanites... they were an unknown constellation in her carefully charted sky.

Yet hope flickered in her chest like a poisoned flame. Farid's declaration of loyalty, noble as the ancient heroes of legend, might yet be turned to her advantage. Or it could become the blade that severed her ambitions entirely.

"You will accompany me, sogoli." The Shah's words cut through her thoughts like a scimitar through silk. His use of the old endearment carried echoes of tenderness that made her want to scream. Instead, she bowed her head in acquiescence, her mind already racing ahead like a thousand horses across the desert of possibilities.

In the shadows of the chamber, destiny held its breath, waiting to see which way the scales would tip.

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