"A prince's heart cannot beat in time with a traitor's daughter—but oh, how it tries."

Sima did not think—she ran.

The streets of Susa were a labyrinth of bodies, scents, and voices, a pulsing heart of merchants and beggars, courtesans and thieves, fortune-tellers and snake charmers. She wove through them with the precision of someone born for the hunt, though tonight she was the hunted. The rising moon hung like a silver pendant above, witness to her flight.

Behind her, Kaveh's voice thundered over the noise of the market. "Stop her!" His words scattered like startled doves across the evening air.

But this was Susa—where everyone was a liar, a thief, or a dreamer, and no one cared for a nameless girl running for her life. The crowd swallowed her whole, their indifference shielding her as she darted past a spice merchant, knocking over baskets of saffron and cinnamon. The air filled with the warm, heady scent of crushed spices, mingling with the sweat of laborers and the perfume of women watching from their balconies like desert flowers clinging to stone walls.

The weight of her mother's amulet pressed against her chest, each beat of her heart a prayer to the old gods. Ya Ahura Mazda, she whispered, guide my feet through this maze of shadows.

Kaveh and his men pushed through the throng, faces red with exertion, hands gripping swords that flashed under the amber glow of hanging lanterns. Their blades caught the light like teeth of hungry wolves. Sima's feet barely touched the ground as she leapt over crates, tore through the stalls of silk and sandalwood, her breath ragged, her heart a caged nightingale beating against her ribs.

She ducked beneath a clothesline heavy with drying rugs, their patterns telling stories of battles and love affairs she had no time to read. The scent of jasmine and rosewater drifted from a nearby hammam, where steam rose like spirits into the purple dusk.

A hand—sudden, rough—grasped at her veil. She spun, knifing into a darkened alcove, finding herself in the courtesans' quarters, where women with kohl-lined eyes lounged on plush divans, their laughter heavy with secrets. One of them, a girl with a gold-ringed nose and ink-stained fingers, smirked and murmured, "You've made quite the mess, sister."

The courtesan rose like water, her silk garments rustling like autumn leaves. "Quick," she whispered, pressing a key into Sima's palm. "Through the garden gate. The nightingales will mask your footsteps."

Behind her, Kaveh's boots thundered on the cobblestones. She was out of time. But in her hand, the key burned like hope, and ahead, the garden beckoned with promises of sanctuary in its shadows.

Sima didn't wait for them to betray her. She lunged through a side door, the wood groaning like an old lover's lament. She emerged into the alley where a snake charmer sat cross-legged, his cobra swaying to the mournful hum of his flute like a reed dancing in desert winds. The man barely blinked as Sima vaulted over his basket, the serpent hissing in protest, its scales gleaming like wet pearls in the dying light.

The alley twisted like a knife wound through the city, leading her toward freedom—the gates of Susa, barely visible beyond the shadows of looming minarets that pierced the sky like spears of the ancient kings. Above, stars began to pierce the violet veil of dusk, each one a silent witness to her betrayal.

She was almost there. Almost free. The word "free" tasted like stolen honey on her tongue, sweet and forbidden.

Then—she crashed into him.

The impact was bone-jarring, like two celestial bodies colliding in the heavens the astronomers spoke of. She stumbled back, breathless, looking up into a face she now knew better than her own prayers. A face she had traced countless times in her dreams, until its features were carved into her memory like verses in stone.

Farid.

But this was not the man she had scale the Howling Maw with, where they dodged wolves and fought beasts together. This was not the prince who had kissed her in front of the large fire, who had looked at her like she was something holy—a temple to worship at, a flame to tend.

His gaze was dark now, his features hard as carved stone, as if some cruel artist had chiseled away all softness, leaving only marble and shadows. The kohl around his eyes made them look endless, like wells she could drown in.

"Going somewhere?"

The words were smooth, careless as falling silk—but his eyes betrayed him. In them, she saw the same storm that raged in her own heart, a tempest of love and duty warring like ancient enemies.

Sima swallowed, her pulse a frantic drum beating out the rhythm of an old battle song. "My prince, I—" The title felt like poison on her tongue, bitter as the herbs the palace healers used to treat faithless hearts.

Her fingers closed around the dagger hidden in her robe, its handle warm from resting against her skin. The blade had been a gift from his father, once upon a time, when she believed she could enact her revenge and get away with it. Its damascus steel bore patterns like flowing water, like the tears she refused to shed.

A single strike. That was all she needed. A single cut across his throat, and she could taste freedom. The thought was terrible as it was sweet, like biting into unripe pomegranate seeds.

But Farid was faster, had always been faster, even in their childhood games of chase with his brothers through the palace gardens where peacocks screamed their secrets to the moon. His hand shot out like a striking falcon, fingers wrapping around her wrist with the same gentleness he once used to hold her heart.

With effortless grace, he kicked the blade from her hand, sending it clattering onto the stones like a fallen star. In the same breath, his fingers wrapped around her throat, pulling her close as if they were about to share a lover's secret. The touch was familiar as a prayer, devastating as destiny.

"You little serpent," he hissed, rage trembling beneath his voice like thunder behind summer clouds. "You dare raise a dagger against me?" Each word fell between them like petals from a dying rose, bitter and beautiful.

His grip tightened, not enough to harm her—just enough to remind her that he could. Like the scorpion in the old tales, love and poison flowed from the same source.

Her eyes burned—not with fear, not with defiance, but with something far more dangerous. Something that had no place between them, like a nightingale singing in a warrior's tent. Something that bloomed like desert flowers after rain, stubborn and lovely and doomed.

Love.

"My prince, please—" The words escaped like doves from a broken cage, carrying messages neither could bear to read.

He laughed, but it was hollow, pained, like wind through abandoned ruins. The sound echoed in the space between heartbeats, where all their unspoken truths lived.

"You will answer for your crimes, Sima of Golemut."

He pulled her closer, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath, see the flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. Their hearts beat against each other like wings of trapped birds, remembering the rhythm of gentler days.

And then—she saw it.

The tear gathering at the corner of his eye, unshed, unwanted, gleaming like the last star before dawn.

"You will answer for every single thing." The words held hard weight, inevitable as the turning of seasons.

Then—he shoved her away, like a poet casting aside his most beloved verse.

Kaveh and his men had caught up now, their hands grabbing at her arms, yanking her from his grasp like fate tearing lovers apart. Their touch was rough as sandstone, cold as desert nights.

Farid turned his back, the final act of betrayal. His silhouette against the dying light was regal, distant as the mountains that guarded Susa's horizons. The curve of his shoulders bore the weight of empire, of duty heavy as centuries.

They dragged her away, her feet scraping against the stones, her body resisting like a reed fighting the river's current. The sound of her slippers on stone was a lament only the old gods could understand.

But her heart—it had already fallen, like a drop of blood from a poet's pen, staining the pages of their story with impossible love.

As they dragged her through the winding streets of Susa, past throngs of merchants that had witnessed centuries of whispered betrayals and broken vows, Sima did not think of the dungeons awaiting her. She did not think of the iron shackles that would bite into her wrists, nor the whip that might carve her defiance into her skin. She did not think of the Shah's judgment, the weight of his wrath, or the fate he would carve for her with a flick of his jeweled hand. 

No. 

All she thought of— 
All she burned for— 
All she suffered beneath— 

Was the look on Farid's face. 

Not the anger. She had expected his anger, had braced for it like a sailor facing a storm at sea. She had prepared for the steel in his voice, the sharp edges of his words. She had even steeled herself for his hatred, if it came to that. 

But not the betrayal. 

Not the way his breath had hitched in his chest, the way his hands had trembled for the barest moment before steadying into fists. Not the way his eyes, blue as the ocean, had widened as if she had plunged the dagger into his heart instead of merely raising it against his throat. 

Not the sorrow that had flickered there, brief as candlelight in the wind. 

She had wanted to speak. To tell him it was not as he thought. That the truth was tangled, twisted like vines around their throats. That if he only listened—just listened—he would understand why she had done what she had done. 

But the words had died in her throat. 

And now, as her feet stumbled over the cold cobblestones, as hands like iron shackles yanked her forward, she wished for more moments. Just a few more. 

Not grand ones. Not stolen kisses under moonlit arches or hushed laughter in the quiet corners of the palace gardens. 

No. 

She only wished for the simplest of things. 

A glance across a crowded hall. A lingering touch as he handed her a cup of wine. The way he used to tilt his head when he listened to her speak, as if she were saying something worth hearing. 

She would trade a decade worth of satisfaction poison the Shah's cup for just one more breath beside him, one moment to explain. 

But fate was cruel. 

And she—she had run out of time.

They dragged Sima back to the Shah's chambers, where incense smoke curled like ancient spirits through air thick with secrets. The Shah reclined on his cushions, pale as moonlight on marble, the poison's work evident in the horrors of his flesh. He didn't spare her a look, as if she were merely another shadow among many.

"Ten years," he breathed, each word dripping venom. "Ten years you poured poison in my cup while wearing the face of innocence. Such devotion to your hatred of the Lion Throne. And for what? To avenge a father whose own poison ran deeper than yours?"

"Do not speak of my father with your fouled tongue," Sima snarled, baring her teeth like a desert wolf. "He was worth a thousand of you, you crown-stealing serpent."

The Shah laughed, the sound dissolving into a fit of coughing that shook him like autumn leaves in a storm. "Ah, there she is—the true daughter of Golemut, with fire in her veins instead of blood. Tell me, little viper, did you dream of this moment? Did you savor each drop of poison like sweet revenge?"

"I should have slit your throat the moment your cursed hands touched me." Her words cut like a blade wrapped in silk. "Quick death was too kind for the monster who burned Golemut to ash."

"Monster?" His eyes gleamed like old copper in the lamplight. "Your father dealt with devils, child. He conspired with desert raiders who would have bled Persia dry. The Nasib-e-Elahi—our sacred Divine Fate—he would have sold it to heathens who worship gold instead of gods."

"LIES!" The word tore from her throat like a curse. "You spin pretty tales with a poisoned tongue!"

"Truth needs no embellishment, Sogoli." He drew a labored breath, each word measured like precious spice. "I have been many things in this life—thief, murderer, usurper, shah, emperor. But lies? Those I leave to better men than I. Perhaps you are my punishment, sent by the old gods themselves—hatred wrapped in beauty, poison masked as prayer."

"Save your poetry for the grave that awaits you," she spat, tears falling like molten silver. "You murdered my family, burned my home, all for your cursed throne of lies!"

The Shah waved a hand, heavy with rings that once commanded armies. "Take this daughter of vengeance away. Let her fury echo in darker halls than these."

As Kaveh's men dragged her from the chamber, their grip unyielding as destiny itself, the Shah's voice followed like a curse: "Where is my son?"

"The prince wanders the shadows, my lord," Kaveh answered, his voice careful as a man treading on scorpions.

The Shah's exhale was heavy as autumn rain. "Poor, foolish boy." His words were thorns wrapped in silk. "He must learn that a prince's heart cannot beat in time with a traitor's daughter."

In the shadows, unseen, Farid's fingers traced the handle of his dagger, his heart a battlefield where duty and love waged their ancient war.

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