At the edge of a quiet forest, not far from the city, where the great road curves like

an old
memory, a mighty banyan tree rises—ancient, sprawling, and eternal. Its roots tangle deep
beneath the earth, and its branches stretch wide, like arms holding stories too old for words.

On one of its thick limbs, half-shaded by leaves that shimmer in the breeze, sits a small boy.

His legs dangle freely. Sunlight flickers through the foliage, dancing across his face. His hair, a
tousled crown, falls gently over his brow. His eyes—bright and full of dreams—gaze
downward, caught between wonder and thought. Just above his left eye, hidden partly
beneath his brow, is a small scar—faint but unforgotten.

He is lost in silence, but not in stillness.

Perhaps he is thinking about the story he heard today.

He loves stories. Loves reading, imagining, wandering in the pages of things long written or
whispered.

But this one—this story—is unlike the rest.

Strange. Beautiful. Heavy.

It clings to his mind, not like a tale, but like a reflection.

He frowns slightly. Then, as if a sudden warmth stirs in his chest, he smiles—soft, innocent,
and quietly knowing.

Below, a little far on the path that skirts the tree’s massive roots, a man stands.

Still. Watching and Smiling.

His eyes are deeper. The kind that have seen more than they ever asked to. His stance is calm,
yet there is something reverent in the way he looks at the tree—at the boy. A familiarity in his
gaze, as if he already knows every thought drifting through that young mind.

He does not call out. He does not move. He simply watches—knowing the boy cannot see him.
But still, he watches.

He too carries a scar, nearly hidden beneath his left eyebrow. Time has faded it, but not
erased it. Nothing ever truly fades.
Then—

A voice. Soft. Clear. Call his name.

The boy lifts his head, blinking as if waking from a dream. He thinks he hears it—a voice like
sunlight in winter, warm and full of longing. He looks around, but sees no one. So he smiles
again, thinking it a trick of the wind, and returns to his quiet wondering.

But the man sees. He knows who is calling. The voice touches something in him that no blade
or wound ever could. It is the voice that carried him through the storm. The voice that gave
him strength when he was hollow. The voice that called him home and make him whole.

He looks at the boy once more—at that moment of peace, of before—and smiles.

Then he turns, and walks toward the voice.

Toward the ending that feels like a beginning or towards the beginning that feels like ending.

Chapter 1
This was one of the city's outer and suburban districts, where cobbled paths meandered
between whispering trees. Unlike the crowded stone heart of the inner city, this place breathed
green—a district where the city’s edge kissed the open lands beyond.

Cottages and homesteads dotted the area, each surrounded by flowering hedges, vegetable
gardens, and moss-covered walls. Morning mist often curled above the rooftops, and the songs
of birds filled the air from dawn till dusk. A narrow stream—no more than waist-deep—ran
through the district like a silver thread, fed by mountain springs and guided by ancient
stonework. Children played along its banks, fish darted beneath its crystal surface, and the
water carried a soft, melodic burble that could be heard on quiet afternoons. Some said it had
been built in the time of the Old Kings, to bless the soil and purify the breath of the land.

Fruit trees leaned over fences. Wild herbs grew between the cracks in the stones. Old, leaning
signposts marked paths that led to bakeries, apothecaries, or quiet shrines hidden among ivy-
covered ruins.

Life here moved gently—closer to nature, slower in rhythm. It was a place where people
remembered old stories, where warriors once returned to rest, and where the air still held the
memory of magic long faded.

At the heart of it all stood a house—painted in shades of grey and sky blue. Larger than its
neighbors, it carried a quiet majesty. The two-story home had a small, well-kept garden in
front, with soft green grass and vibrant flower beds. A stone-paved path led from the silver-
handled front gate to the main door—crafted from fine wood, with a silver falcon carved above
the handle. Atop the house stood a large bronze statue of a falcon with wings wide open, a
sword positioned behind it, pointing downward.

The front door opened into the great hall of the house — long and less wide, its wooden
floors worn smooth by years of footfall, yet gleaming in the gentle afternoon light that filtered
through the high, narrow windows.

Directly opposite the main door, a grand stone fireplace dominated the far wall. Its mantle was
carved with curling vines and ancient symbols. Above it, a portrait hung in solemn silence—a
man and a woman, captured in brush and oil, their expressions proud yet distant, as though
watching over the hall from another time. A small table and 2 army chairs are placed in front of
the fireplace. Between the fireplace and the front door stood a large dining table, made of dark
oak. Its surface bore the faint marks of years of use. Sturdy chairs were placed neatly around it,
and an old, iron chandelier with golden carvings hung above, its candles unlit in the daylight.
The walls of the hall were alive with art. Framed paintings lined every side—some of misty
mountain ranges, golden meadows, or moonlit rivers; others of armored warriors on
horseback, locked in battle or resting beneath banners that fluttered in forgotten winds.

To the right, a wooden door stood slightly ajar, leading into the sitting room, where the edges
of plush chairs and tall shelves could just be glimpsed. On the left side wall, another door was
set into the paneling. Beside sitting room their was another door—this one open—revealing the
warm interior of a tidy kitchen. To the left of the fireplace, just past the closed door, was yet
another opening—this one leading into a narrow, hall-like room. From its far end rose a
staircase of polished dark wood, leading upward into the house’s second floor.

And opposite side of the main door, besides the fireplace an another exit led out into the rear
of the house—into a vast, lush garden enclosed within tall hedges and flowering shrubs. A
second gate from the kitchen also opened into this space, allowing the scent of vegetables and
flowers to waft easily indoors. The garden was alive with color and growth. Rows of vegetable
beds stretched near the kitchen door—carrots, beans, herbs, and bright red tomatoes among
them. Between the beds ran a stone-paved path that wound gently through the greenery,
leading to the very back of the garden, where a small stone-and-wood cottage stood nestled
under the shade of towering trees.

Tall trees framed the gardene and at the center of them all stood a single great tree—its
branches heavy with leaves, its roots sprawling like fingers through the earth. Beneath it, a
small pond reflected the sky and leaves above, its water still except for the occasional ripple
from a frog or falling leaf. Beside the pond, a wooden bench sat in patient silence, worn smooth
with age.

It is noon time and an old lady is sitting on this bench. Her name is Vardhaini and even at
seventy-five years of age she carried herself with the quiet authority of one who had lived many
lives—and remembered them all. Her back remained straight, her steps measured, and her
gaze unwavering. Though age had thinned her once-powerful frame, it had not dulled her
presence.

In her youth, She had served in the Royal Army of the Kingdom, as was tradition in her
bloodline. Few ever questioned her strength—fewer still dared oppose her judgment. She had
once stood at the battlefront beside knights and commanders, sword in hand, her voice
carrying over clashing steel. But war did not define her. What set her apart was her curiosity—a
deep, lifelong hunger for knowledge and meaning beyond swordplay and politics.

In the decades that followed her service, she became a traveler, a scholar. Her journeys had
taken her from the Skyhold Mountains to the desert and to the grasslands. She spoke many
languages, read a dozen more. Among the wise, she was well respected. Among the old, she
was revered. She is also a dear friend of the King’s grandmother, and her words still held
weight in the high courts, though she preferred to live quietly now, away from the echo of
thrones and politics.

Her face was slender with time, her skin lined like parchment drawn tight by the sun and wind
of many lands. But beauty clung to her still—in her soft, shining eyes, which glowed with
intelligence and love, and in the gentle curve of her smile, warm as sunlight through leaves.

But now, most of the time her World is limited to this old house and her only grandson, Sarvin,
a boy of fifteen years and it's her who upbring him since his childhood. To Sarvin, she was the
world’s calm center. Her affection for him ran deep and unconditional, like a river that would
never dry. He was her last remaining kin, and in him, she saw the echo of both his parents.

Two other people also live in this apartment from grandmother and grandson, the two old
servants of the family.

One is Narsi and he works both as Cook and Gardener. Narsi was sixty-five, but his spirit carried
the brightness of a man half his age. With a soft belly beneath his apron and cheeks as red as
autumn apples, he moved around the kitchen and garden with surprising ease. His head was
bald at the front, leaving only a ring of wispy grey hair that danced in the breeze as he worked
among the herbs and soil. His face was round, friendly, and almost always split by a cheerful
grin that reached his bright, observant eyes. His nose was long and simple, like a carving left
unfinished by a whimsical sculptor. He had no beard—his clean-shaven face giving him a boyish
charm, especially when he chuckled at his own jokes, which he told often whether someone
listened or not. Narsi was gentle, humorous, and full of the kind of kindness that lingered long
after he left the room. Though he smelled faintly of onions and rosemary most days, there was
something comforting about him.

He belongs to the western lands and had worked for the family all his life like his parents who
came here a long time ago.

Other is Yamini , she is also more than sixty years of old and she is the soul of the household’s
order and cleanliness. Her hands were long and bony, her fingers always in motion—dusting,
scrubbing, folding, or pointing accusingly at Narsi whenever he tracked mud through her freshly
cleaned floors.

Her face was narrow, with deep, thoughtful eyes set into a time-worn expression that rarely
smiled but always watched. She wore her silver hair in a tight knot at the back of her head, and
her dresses were always plain and spotless. Though she argued with the cook daily—usually
about his muddy boots or his herb trimmings left on the floor—there was a quiet affection
beneath their bickering. She cared for Sarvin like a stern aunt, always scolding him for leaving
his shoes by the door, yet staying up late to sew his torn sleeves or warm his blankets by the
hearth. Her heart, like her soul, was pure. She just didn’t like showing it where dust could land
on it.

Together, Narsi and Yamini were more than servants—they were family. These four are the
only resident of this house except ocational styas of Adad, Sarvin's childhood friend , who lives
nearby.

The surroundings were silent, save for the soft rustling of wind and the occasional birdsong
from the nearby trees. The road outside the house was empty, except for a dog asleep in the
corner.

Suddenly, a large eagle appeared from above. It swooped down and perched on the fence
opposite the house, its keen eyes fixed on the door.

Moments later, a man in a grey uniform shows up on the road with a satchel hung by his side,
he pushed open the main gate and then knock on the front door, Lady Yamini open the door a
few seconds later and the postman gave her a large envelope and exchange some words then
he came out on the road again, reaching into his bag, he pulled out a letter, squinting at the
address. After a brief pause, he turned left and began walking down the road. The eagle
watched the postman for a moment before turning its gaze back to the house and it became
silent again.

A sound footsteps from the right side broke the silence as a boy appeared on the corer and The
eagle shifted and flew to a nearby tree. The dog also woke up start wagging its tail, as he saw
the boy who gently patted its head and start walking toward the house. The boy was fifteen,
with fair skin, bright brown eyes, and a striking face. His nose was sharp, his dark hair short and
slightly wavy, and his expression calm and he is , Sarvin.

The sun had begun its descent, casting golden light over the rooftops and bathing everything in
warm hues. The boy’s boots crunched softly over the gravel—a familiar sound on a road he had
walked all his life. At the gate, he paused, glancing up at the trees. He couldn’t see the eagle
watching from above. He pushed open the gate, walked up the path, and opened the front door
and went inside.

The wooden door shut gently behind him, muffling the sounds of the outside world. “Narsi?” he
called, his voice echoing softly in the hallway.

From the kitchen came the clatter of pots and a cheerful hum.
“Aha! There you are, boy!” Narsi’s voice rang out before the man himself appeared, wiping his
hands on a flour-dusted cloth. His round face gleamed with a smile. “Back just in time! I was
wondering whether to save you the good part of the food or punish you with dry bread.”

Sarvin chuckled. “You’d never do that.”

Narsi feigned a look of insult. “You think too highly of my mercy. Hmph!”

From the side corridor, Yamini’s voice cut in—sharp, familiar. “If he brings in any more dust
from that garden, I swear by the spirits, I’ll sweep it into his curry."

Yamini entered with a broom in one hand and her thin face furrowed with mock anger. Her
long fingers pointed accusingly at Narsi, who immediately raised both hands in defense.

“I stepped lightly! Like a feather on wind!” he declared.

“You stomped like an ox and left footprints on my clean floor,” Yamini snapped, though the
warmth in her old, deep-set eyes gave her away.

Then her gaze turned to Sarvin. “Your grandmother is asking for you, boy. She’s in the back
garden. And—” she paused, “—a letter came for you. I gave it to her.”

Sarvin blinked. “A letter?”

Yamini nodded.

His heart gave a quiet thump.

He murmured a quick thank-you and turned from the warm scent of food. He stepped through
the rear hall, past family paintings and timeworn tapestries, toward the back garden.

The garden was quiet. The rays of sunlight kissed the tops of the hedges and glimmered on the
petals of bright flowers. Vardhaini sat near the old stone bench beneath the spreading tree, her
silver hair catching the light like threads of woven moonlight. In her lap, a sealed letter rested
gently.

She looked up as he approached, “There you are, Sarvin,” she said, in her soft voice.

Sarvin sat beside her.

“You received something today,” she said, holding out the letter.

He took it carefully, turning it in his hands. But it wasn’t what he was thinking about. The
envelope bore a symbol — one he had expected — yet his thoughts were elsewhere.
The letter had come from the kingdom's special academy, where selected fifteen-year-olds —
only 800 of them — were trained in the disciplines of warfare and politics. Applications were
submitted a year in advance, and after a thorough vetting process, the kingdom's officials chose
the most promising candidates.

Although every major and minor city had schools offering both general education and advanced
training in these arts, being selected for *this* academy was a mark of great honor. Every
generation in Sarvin's family had seen someone chosen, and now it was his turn.

His grandmother looked at his face and said softly, "You don't look happy, son."

He looked up at her, gave a bright smile, and replied, "I am, Grandmother."

And what he said was a hundred percent true — he had always wanted to go there, to master
the arts of warfare, politics, and diplomacy. He had always dreamed of walking in the footsteps
of his father and the generations before him.

"Your parents would have been proud of you," she said, gently running her hand over his head.

When Sarvin looked at her, he noticed a faint glimmer of tears in her aged eyes. He quickly
lowered his gaze and stared at a frog sitting by the water.

He didn’t really know whether his parents would have been proud or not — and he knew he
would never be able to ask them. And the one person he did want to ask — he hadn’t heard
any news of him for over a year.

"You should find out if Adad received a letter too," Vardhini said, pulling him out of his
thoughts.

"Yes, I was just about to go see him," Sarvin replied, rising to his feet.

Vardhini wanted to stop him for dinner, but seeing the excitement on his face, she let him go.

Adad’s house wasn’t far from Sarvin’s. His father, a skilled mason, had built their small home
with his own hands. It stood a little near the city’s edge, where the narrow path met the
dustier outskirts, fringed with wild grasses and half-built structures.
As Sarvin approached, he spotted his friend sitting on a low stone wall just outside the house.
Adad’s head was bowed, shoulders slumped. His father sat beside him, a silent figure of
strength, his weathered hand resting gently on his son's shoulder.

Sarvin slowed down, the joy in his chest starting to dim at the sight.

“Adad!” he called, trying to keep the hope in his voice alive. “I got my letter! I’ve been accepted
into the School."

Adad looked up slowly. His eyes held no excitement, only a hollow ache.

“I got mine too,” he said softly.

Sarvin’s face fell. “And…?”

Adad shook his head. “It’s a rejection. They didn’t take me.”

There was a stillness that followed, pierced only by the wind rustling through the dry grass.

“I’m sorry,” Sarvin said after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “You deserved it
just as much as I did.”

Adad gave a bitter chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “No. Maybe I never really stood a
chance. My father lays bricks. Maybe that’s all I was meant to do too.”

Adad’s father shifted beside his son, removing his hand from his shoulder and placing it on his
knee. He looked at Adad with quiet resolve.

“You don’t have to become a mason if that’s not what you want, son,” he said gently. “I can
admit you to one of the local schools. They are equally good too— ones who aren’t among
those eight hundred chosen, learn there."

The words were like balm to Adad’s aching heart. He gave a small nod, but the sorrow in his
eyes hadn’t faded completely. The wound was deeper—more than just rejection; it was the
sting of lost dreams and the fear of being left behind.

“I should get back to the site,” his father said, standing. “Think about what I said. You’re not out
of paths. Just… maybe not the one you first hoped for.”

He gave Adad a reassuring pat, nodded to Sarvin, and walked down the narrow path, his tools
clinking softly in his cloth bag.

Adad sat in silence, staring at the dust curling at his feet. Sarvin sat beside him.
“I know my father means well,” he murmured. “And I’m grateful. Truly. But I… I just feel like a
door slammed shut before I even had the chance to touch it.”

Sarvin didn’t respond right away. The happiness of recieving the acceptance letter has gone
away. He watched his Best friend for a moment, then slowly a thought bloomed in his mind—
half-formed at first, then solidifying into something bold.

His eyes lit up.

“What?” Adad asked, noticing the shift.

Sarvin grinned. “There’s someone. Someone who might be able to help us.”

Adad frowned. “Who?”

Sarvin stood. “I don’t want to say anything yet—not until I’m sure. But trust me, if there’s a way
in, this person will know it, I will come meet you soon." And he ran towards his house.

Chapter - 2

(Who knows how it all began-how existence came from non-existence, or even how that non-
existence came to be? For once, there was nothing-no space, no sky. There was no life or death.
Perhaps there was only darkness, and from that darkness, maybe desire came first, as it is the
primal nature of all. And perhaps from that desire, life itself arose. But tell me-does anyone
truly know? Perhaps the gods know-or maybe even they came afterward. Then who does
know? Maybe the one who look from the above knows-or perhaps even he does not.

Then was neither non-existence nor existence,

No realm of air, no sky beyond.

What covered it? Where was it? In whose keeping?

Was there cosmic water, deep and profound?

There was no death, nor immortality then,

No sign of night or day.

That One breathed, breathless, by its own nature-

Apart from it, nothing else existed.

Darkness was hidden within darkness,

All this was an undifferentiated flood. That One, born of heat and fervent will, Came into being
through the power of tapas. Desire first arose in It-

The primal seed, born of mind. Sages, searching in their hearts,

Discovered the link between the existent and the non-existent.

Their line was stretched across-

Was there a below? Was there an above?

There were seed-bearers, mighty forces, Impulse beneath, and creative power above. Who
truly knows, who can here declare it-Whence it came, and how this creation happened?
Whether He made it or not-

The gods came after, with the creation of this world. Who then knows whence it has arisen?

Only He, who surveys it from the highest heaven, knows.

Or perhaps even He does not know.

"Yes... this is what the sages of old had written long ago," said the old man, He sat upon a
weathered stone, smoothed by time, perched on the edge of a high ridge. Below, the valley
stretched out like a painting of forgotten times. Far in the distance, flickering softly against the
encroaching dusk, in the darkness of the night the dim lights of a small village blinked to life-like
stars trapped on earth.
The village, hidden deep within the embrace of ancient hills and dense emerald forests, was
named Tavish. Nestled away from the chaos of Big cities and towns. Tavish remained
untouched by the outside world-a haven of peace and harmony. The land around it seemed
blessed by the gods themselves: meadows of wildflowers swayed gently under the wind's
lullaby, and birds sang tunes known only to this quiet corner of the realm.

Through the heart of the village ran a stream, born high in the snow-clad mountains. Its waters,
clear and cool, shimmered like glass under the golden rays of the sun, dancing with the light like
liquid gems. The villagers often spoke of the river as a spirit, a guardian, whose song had lulled
generations to sleep. It was perhaps this heavenly beauty that had inspired the village's name-
Tavish.

The village was small, with no more than fifty or sixty homes, each built of stone and timber,
with flowering vines climbing their walls like living tapestries. Tavish thrived not on wealth or
trade, but on something rarer-community. The people lived simply, their days shaped by the
rising and setting sun, their joys drawn from harvests, festivals, and the bonds they shared.
Here, strangers became friends, and neighbors became kin.

The old man, whose name was Bahman, was also a resident of the village, in his younger days is
one of the greatest commander of the royal army and then he serves in the royal court as a
minister also, but now he lived far from it, in a small hut up on the hill. The hut, built from
sturdy wood and stone, was surrounded by flourishing plants and creeping vines. Just beyond
it, the stream cascaded over jagged rocks in a rapid descent. Above the hut, the flag of the
kingdom fluttered in the morning breeze-a soft green fabric bearing the image of the Huma
bird. The bird's pale blue and white form shimmered in the light, as though soaring even within
the threads of the fabric.

"And they are not wrong," said another, even older man sitting beside Bahman. His very long
white hair and beard flowed in the light breeze, and his long staff lay beside him. His name was
Abgal, in the ancient tongue of the West.

Bahman looked at Abgal and smiled. "I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Me neither," said Abgal.

"You went to the North when we last met," Bahman asked.

"And there is no peace there," Abgal said, while looking toward the north. "You must remain
alert, something is moving in the dark and things have been changing."
A seriousness fell over Bahman's aged face. "I'm planning to go on a journey towards South
soon. I will begin my journey shortly." He looked toward the village as he said this, his eyes
fixing on the Southern edge where a modest house stood slightly apart from the rest.

Here lived a small but tightly-knit family. The head of the household, a man of honor and duty,
served in the kingdom's army far from home. His wife, a kind-hearted and unassuming woman,
managed the household with quiet grace. Their fifteen-year-old daughter, Shyla, had inherited
her family's adventurous spirit-a trait that set her apart from many in the village... or perhaps,
her grandfather's spirit.

A smile came to Bahman's face as he thought of his granddaughter.

"What news of Shyla", Abgal asked.

"She is same as you meet her last timez but now her questions are becoming more serious and
tougher to answer," Bahman told with a little laugh. "You didn't want to meet her." He asked

"Not this time Bahman , I must leave immediately, maybe I revist tomorrow's evening again."
Abgal said in a low voice while picking his staff and standing up.

Stars are shining above in the sky, Abgal look at them , bow toward Bahman and walk on the
path.

Shyla's mother was content with the gentle rhythms of village life, Shyla longed for more. Her
yearning to explore the world beyond Tavish wasn't born of mere wanderlust; it was nourished
by the stories of her grandfather, Bahman. His tales of distant lands, fearless heroes, and untold
wonders painted vivid pictures in her mind, stirring a longing she could neither suppress nor
ignore.

Bahman, a wise old man, lived on the edge of the dense forest in a small, humble hut. Though
the path to his home was rugged, Shyla and her two closest friends braved it every morning and
evening. They walked through the woods, their laughter echoing amidst the trees, the scent of
pine and earth filling their lungs, until they reached Bahman's hut. To Shyla, these visits were
sacred-moments where she felt both grounded and bound for something greater.

In her grandfather's presence, her dreams felt closer, more tangible. The village was peaceful,
but it was not enough for her. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long
shadows over the forest, Shyla would feel a quiet ache in her heart-a yearning for a life beyond
the hills and the river. She did not know where her journey would take her, but one thing was
certain: her adventure had only just begun.

Shyla stepped out of her house early in the morning, the crisp air filling her lungs. She clutched
a tiffin box her mother had packed for Bahman. The sky was tinged with soft hues of dawn, and
the village was just beginning to stir. As she crossed the wooden fence, her mother's voice
called after her.

"Be back on time, Shyla!"

But the girl only grinned and skipped away, her light footsteps blending with the gentle hum of
the waking village.

The scent of damp earth and fresh bread filled the air as villagers went about their morning
routines-some lighting their stoves, others tending to cattle or setting up market stalls. Shyla
greeted them all with a cheerful "Good morning!" Her infectious energy brought smiles
wherever she went.

As she reached the central road, she spotted a familiar figure approaching ,Bahram. Her heart
warmed at the sight of the old soldier, a man she deeply admired, second only to her own
family. He was a retired officer of the royal army, once known for his fearless leadership and
remarkable victories. Though he had been offered a prestigious position, he had chosen to
leave military life behind and return to Tavish, where he now spent his days sharing wisdom
and stories of the past.

Shyla paused, beaming as she greeted him.

"The way to your grandfather's house is in the other direction," he remarked, eyeing the tiffin
box with amusement.

"I'm taking my friends along," she replied playfully before dashing off. Bahram chuckled,
shaking his head as he continued on his way.

At the village square, she found her two best friends-a boy named Allan, known for his
curiosity, and a girl named Ama, whose adventurous spirit matched Shyla's. She called out to
them, and they eagerly joined her. Together, they set off toward the hills, their laughter
echoing through the narrow pathways.

As they walked, the familiar sights of the village gave way to wilder, untouched beauty. The
path curved, leading them over an old stone bridge spanning the narrow stream, there is a
small stone bridge above the stream and its waters rushing below. The road which ran through
the village turn Southward here and further down join the main road , and a small path from
here went above the hill. Birds flitted between the trees, their bright feathers flashing against
the green canopy. The deeper they ventured, the more vivid nature became-wildflowers lined
the path, and vines twisted around towering trees.

Lost in their chatter, they barely noticed the climb until they reached a plateau. Before them lay
Bahman's hut, nestled in a sun-dappled clearing. The air here was different-fresher, infused
with the scent of pine and the distant roar of the river.

Bahman sat on a broad, smooth rock by the stream side, his gaze lost in the horizon. His
presence was both commanding and comforting, a man whose wisdom was etched into the
lines of his weathered face. When he saw the children, his eyes crinkled with warmth. Without
a word, he gestured for them to sit and they obeyed.

Shyla gave the Lunchbox to his grandfather and look around and then she tilted her head,
gazing at the Huma bird on the flag.

" A question is looming is her head for a very long time. "Baba, why is the Huma called the bird
of heaven?" she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

Bahman leaned back, his gaze shifting to the sky.

"It's said that even the shadow of the Huma can change one's destiny," he said, his voice rich
with the weight of old tales. "It flies higher than any other creature, soaring where no eye can
see. It never touches the ground, for it belongs to the skies alone."

The children followed his gaze, imagining the legendary bird gliding above them-unseen yet
ever-present.

"Does it really exist?" Allan asked, his tone both skeptical and hopeful.

Bahman smiled knowingly. "Perhaps it does. Perhaps it lives in the hearts of those who dare to
dream, those who never let their spirits touch the ground."

A hush settled over them as they let his words sink in. The wind rustled the trees, carrying with
it the silent promise of endless possibilities.

For a moment, Shyla closed her eyes and felt the weightlessness of the wind. Maybe, just
maybe, the Huma bird was soaring above them-watching, waiting for those who believed.

"Abgal visited yesterday night", Bahman's word bringe Shyla out of her thinking.

"Why didn't you stop him, it's been a long time since I meet her." She said in a sad voice.
Abgal laughed, "I did ask him to stay my child ,but he say he will visit again soon and meet with
you all."

Shyla make a weird face. Abgal saw it and smile, " I am expecting a letter tommarow."

"What it will be about", Shyla asked with curiosity but Bahman smiles,

"I will tell you that ,when it come," he said, " I have some urgent works to do, so you childerns
now head back to the village."

They stood up and start walking on the path towards the village, Bahman keep looking at them
for a while and then stoop up and went inside his hut.

Chapter - 3

Sarvin returned home where his grandmother is waiting for him for the lunch, at the dining
table, he began to eat, but his mind drifted far away. His eyes kept returning to the portrait of
his parents hanging above the fireplace — their faces calm and proud, and yet so unreachable
now.

A storm of questions churned inside him. Can I live up to their legacy? Will I be able to carry
forward our family’s honor? For more than a year, these and many other doubts had gnawed at
him, unanswered and growing. The sting of separation from his best friend added to the weight
on his heart.

His grandmother, Vardhaini, noticed his distant gaze and asked softly, “What troubles you,
child?”

Sarvin looked away, silent at first. “Nothing.”

Though he did not answer clearly, she could sense his turmoil — the confusion and the
unspoken fears about his future.

After a pause, Sarvin finally spoke, “I don’t feel ready for the world yet. There is so much I still
don’t understand… I fear I am not strong enough or wise enough to face what lies ahead and
live up to my family history."

She spoke gently but with quiet strength, “Sometimes, the answers we seek cannot be given;
they must be found by walking our own path. It is through this search that a person grows — in
strength, in wisdom, in character.”

Sarvin hesitated, then added, “The prince used to tell me about Father and what he thought of
me, and I used to ask him so many questions whenever he visited. Most of the time, I got
satisfying answers. But he has been gone for over a year now. No one knows where he is. I wish
I could talk to him one more time.”

Vardhaini’s eyes flickered with understanding. She knew Sarvin was more mature than his age
and his mind won't came to ease until he found every answer for his questions.

“A letter came from Fravash while you were at Adad’s house. He wants you to meet him — and
you can also ask him about the prince. Who could know better than Fravash?”

Sarvin nodded. “Yes… why didn’t it come to my mind?” A smile appeared on his face as his eyes
glittered with hope.

Her voice softened with encouragement, “Then you must go meet him this evening, Sarvin. But
first eat your Lunch properly.”

“One more thing, Grandmother,” Sarvin said with a little hesitation.

“What is it, son?”

“Can you… can you do something for Adad, so that he can also join the school?” he asked with
eyes full of hope.

Vardhaini gave a sigh and gently placed her hand on Sarvin’s head. “We can’t do anything in
this matter, son.”

Sarvin’s heart sank with her words — and so did his appetite.

*
Sarvin is riding his chestnut horse swiftly, moved with practiced ease. This horse was shorter
than those typically used by others in the region. His grandmother had brought two such horses
from the far west, as their height suited Sarvin well. He had mastered the art of horse riding,
and alongside him, Adad had also learned to ride.

He crossed the ancient stone bridge arching over the narrow river below. The sound of rushing
water echoed through the valley, blending with the rhythmic thudding of his horse’s hooves
against the time-worn stones. He often paused at this beautiful spot — the mossy banks, the
glistening water, and the wildflowers that bloomed in the dappled shade of the trees.

But not today.

Today, there was no time to admire the view. His heart was restless, his mind burdened with
thoughts of what lay ahead. That’s why he hadn’t even waited for the evening and came to
meet Fravash as soon as his grandmother finished her lunch.

The path ahead narrowed as the trees closed in, their dark green canopy dimming the fading
light of day. Beyond the treetops, the jagged silhouette of the old tower rose against the
evening sky, its weathered stones glowing faintly with the last red light of sunset. Sarvin guided
his horse into the deepening shadow of the forest — but just as he reached the edge of the
trees, he pulled the reins sharply.

A figure was emerging from the undergrowth.

The man who approached had the weathered face of someone who had seen many hard years.
He appeared to be around sixty, though his powerful frame and the steady focus in his eyes
suggested strength well beyond his age. His beard and hair, streaked heavily with silver, caught
the dimming light. His dark eyes — sharp and observant — studied Sarvin with quiet
calculation.

Sarvin dismounted in one smooth, practiced motion, landing softly on the grassy floor. He
lowered his head respectfully as the man came to a stop before him.

“How are you, Sarvin? I wasn’t expecting you until evening,” the man said with a calm and deep
voice — steady as the current of a slow river.

“Well, I couldn’t wait to meet you,” Sarvin replied, his voice composed despite the nervous
energy thrumming beneath his skin.

Fravash’s eyes narrowed slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at the edge of his lips.
“I just wanted to congratulate you. I heard you’ve been accepted as a student in the school,” he
said with a gentle smile.

Sarvin bowed slightly.

“Thank you very much,” he said. Then he paused a moment and added, “There’s also
something else I want to ask you.”

Fravash’s smile lingered, and for a moment, silence hung between them. His gaze shifted
toward the horizon, where the trees met the darkening sky. When he finally spoke, his voice
was quieter.

“I don’t know where he is.”

Sarvin had expected this answer, yet the weight of hearing it still landed heavily on his chest.
His jaw tightened, frustration flickering in his eyes — but he was also struck by amusement.

“How did you know what I was going to ask you?”

Fravash smiled. “That doesn’t matter, son. Everyone has questions in their mind, and they seek
the answer wherever they can.”

On his ride from home, Sarvin had already decided something. He hesitated for a moment, then
asked, “So... should I go and look for him?”

Fravash studied him closely, and then a smile appeared on his face — as if he had been
expecting the question and after a pause, he said, “If that’s how you feel — if it seems
necessary — then yes, you should definitely go.” He paused again. “Besides, your father never
stayed in one place for too long. He loved adventures. But you must discuss this with your
grandmother, boy.”

Hearing his father’s name stirred something deep within Sarvin — a bittersweet ache of grief
and longing.

“Where should I begin?... if I decide to go?” Sarvin asked quietly, though his voice held a
growing resolve.

Fravash’s expression grew serious. “I can’t tell you that, boy. I don’t know,” he said. “But I do
have something for you — that’s why I asked you to meet me. I’ll send it to your house this
evening.”

Sarvin hesitated for a breath, then nodded. Without another word, he swung onto his horse
and turned toward the path leading out of the woods.
“See you soon,” he said, and with a nudge of his heels, the horse surged forward into a gallop,
disappearing down the narrow trail.

Fravash watched him go, his eyes distant and thoughtful. After a long moment, he smiled faintly
and shook his head. Then he turned back toward the forest — and his eyes fell on a nearby
tree, where an eagle sat quietly, its feathers ruffling in the cool evening breeze.

He nodded at the bird, almost knowingly, and then walked on. The deep woods swallowed his
figure as he walked away.

Chapter - 4

The wooden gate creaked softly as Sarvin entered the courtyard, the evening light bathing the
stone path in golden hues. The scent of jasmine drifted from the garden where his
grandmother, Vardhaini, sat beneath the old neem tree, a cup of warm herbal brew in her
hand. Her silver hair was pinned neatly back, and the folds of her deep blue robe shimmered
faintly in the fading light.

She looked up as he approached.

“You’re back early,” she said, setting the cup aside. “Did you meet Fravash?”

Sarvin nodded and sat down beside her, folding his hands.

“Yes. He... he congratulated me and gave his blessing. And he also told me something I think I
already knew deep inside.”

Vardhaini tilted her head slightly, sensing the storm brewing in her grandson's chest.
“I want to go,” Sarvin said finally. “I want to go and find him.”

Her breath caught, though she showed no sign of shock. Only her eyes betrayed the weight of
the words.

“Sarvin…” she began gently, “you are still just a boy. The world outside is not forgiving. It does
not bend for the brave or the kind.”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “But I won’t be at peace until I try. I’ve felt it for
years now — that there’s something missing… something I have to see through. He may be the
key. I have to know the truth.”

Vardhaini looked at him for a long time, her gaze softening. In him, she saw the echoes of her
son — Sarvin’s father — not just in his face, but in the fire behind his eyes. The same stubborn
spark. The same hunger for meaning.

A gentle smile touched her lips.

“You are no different than your father. He, too, never waited for permission to chase after what
mattered. And… I didn’t raise you to be afraid of life.”

Sarvin’s eyes lit up with hope.

“Then you’ll let me go?”

“I’ll let you choose,” she said. “But not alone.”

He leaned forward, excited.

“Adad might come with me—if his parents allow. He’ll love it, and this could be a way for him to
move past what happened.”

Vardhaini nodded thoughtfully. “I will send Narsi with you. He may grumble at times, but he’ll
care for you like his own son.”

Just then, Narsi, who had been pruning flowers nearby, looked up with a wide grin.

“I heard that! And I do grumble, but only when the food is late or the firewood is wet.”

Sarvin laughed.

“So you'll come?”

“Of course. You think I’d let you wander into the wild without claws or sense? I’ll keep you fed
— and out of trouble, mostly.”
 *

Later that night, Sarvin found Adad in the stables, brushing down the horse with slow,
distracted strokes. He didn’t look up as Sarvin approached.

“I’m going on a journey, and I want you to come with me,” Sarvin said straightforwardly.

Adad finally turned to him, his eyes still carrying the sadness of rejection.

“What?”

“I’m going to seek the prince, wherever he is. Grandmother is sending Narsi with me, but I
know I can’t do this alone. And I know you’re not meant to stay behind. What do you say?”

Adad was silent for a moment. Then, with a breath that seemed to lift a weight off his chest, he
said,

“Of course I’ll go with you. Is there any doubt? But I have to ask my parents, and I don’t know
what they’ll say.”

“Then ask them and tell me in the morning,” Sarvin said before he left the stable.

Just as Sarvin arrived home, Yamini called him and told him that a rider had come and left a
parcel for him — from Fravash.

Sarvin took the parcel and opened it. Inside was a narrow blade, beautifully crafted with a red
ruby on the hilt. The metal shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Sarvin looked at it with
amazement. A note had also come with it, written in Fravash’s firm, careful hand.

Sarvin quickly unfolded the note and read:

This sword belonged to your mother. She was braver than most I’ve ever known,
and I kept this safe for you until the time was right — and I think this is the right
time, as a new journey of your life will begin soon (or earlier if you decide to do
what we talked about today).

I don't know where he is , but there are many rumours about his whereabouts.
All I can say is - as you start to walk on the way , the way appears.

May a great and happy future awaits you.

Fravash

Sarvin held the sword in his hands, he keep looking at the sword until a tear fell on its shining
blade. He looked at the portrait and saw his mother’s beautiful, smiling face.

Adad showed up early in the morning and looked very happy. He told Sarvin that his parents
were convinced easily, as they believed that if Lady Vardhaini had permitted them to go, then
there must be no danger. He also said that he had prepared everything during the night for the
journey.

Soon, everything was ready. Three horses stood prepared. Narsi had gathered many things for
the journey, and now his horse looked like that of a wandering merchant.

Vardhaini came to Sarvin and kissed his forehead." Take good care of yourself son. May this
journey make you what you meant to be and remove everything which isn't really you. You may
face many failures too remember, someone is not great because he hasn't failed, we became
Great when failure doesn't stop us. The world is cruel and harsh but it's also beautiful and
looving, you will find it how you look at it, but be kind, don't let the world make you cruel and
do not let the pain make you hate, do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness." Then she
hug him.

With a final nod to the house — to Yamini, Vardhaini, and the life he was leaving behind —
Sarvin swung into the saddle. His heart is heavy when he looked at his grandmother but he try
very hard to hide it. Adad and Narsi joined him, and together, they rode down the path through
the trees.
As they disappeared into the distance, Yamini spoke in a sobbing voice,

“I didn’t expect that you would let him go, my lady. He is just a boy.”

Vardhaini looked at Yamini and smiled. “I have thought about it, Yamini. And I want him to be
ready — for the world and for what is coming. He will be alright.”

Vardhaini watched with misted eyes. Not with fear — but with quiet pride.

For every journey begins with a single choice, and Sarvin had made his.

******

Somewhere else......

A lone lamp hung from a peg near the corner of the room, its dim glow flickering against the
rough stone walls. Shadows danced erratically across the wooden floor, cast by the uncertain
flame. On the table beneath it, a collection of aged papers lay scattered—some filled with
cryptic symbols in a language long forgotten, others yellowed with time. A tattered map, its
edges frayed and ink smudged, rested among them, whispering secrets of lost roads and
forsaken places.

A man sat slumped in a worn-out chair, his head tilted forward in uneasy sleep. Though his
posture suggested exhaustion, his body still bore the marks of past strength—broad shoulders,
a muscular frame, and calloused hands that had seen their share of battle. But time had etched
its signature. Strands of gray streaked his unkempt hair, and his beard, wild and overgrown,
spoke of years lived without care. Even in rest, his expression was hardened, as if haunted by
memories the world had long buried.

A soft knock echoed from beyond the open door, stirring him from slumber. His eyes snapped
open—sharp, alert. The darkness outside was thick, swallowing the edges of the threshold. He
held his breath and listened.

Then, a slow creak—the sound of weight pressing against old wooden planks. His hand,
instinctively, inched toward the hilt of a sword leaning against the wall. Another sound
followed: faint, deliberate—something tapping lightly against the wood.

A shadow shifted just beyond the doorway.

His fingers curled around the sword’s hilt, muscles tensing—but before he could rise, a voice
cut through the silence.

“If I were your enemy, you’d already be dead.”

The figure standing at the door was barely visible—a silhouette etched against the blackness
beyond. He leaned on a wooden staff, his presence was calm but commanding and his voice,
deep and steady, carried the weight of an authority.

The man in the chair relaxed slightly, exhaling. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his
lips.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The visitor stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his boots clicking softly against the
floorboards. The lamp’s glow revealed his features—or rather, the hood that concealed them.
Beneath the hood, the face was smooth and expressionless, hiding all but his chin which is full
of beard.

The man’s eyes flicked toward the table. In one swift motion, he gathered the scattered papers,
stacking them with forced nonchalance—as though they meant nothing, though his urgency
betrayed otherwise.

“Tell me,” he said, voice edged with dry amusement. “What brings you here?”

The hooded man planted his staff against the floor, fingers resting lightly on its polished wood.

“I have a message for you.” Visitor tilted his head slightly. “He has a job for you.”

The smirk vanished.

“I already gave him my answer.” The man leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “He should
know by now—I have nothing to give him."

The hooded man tapped his staff against the table with a sharp, deliberate sound.

“He’s not used to hearing ‘no.’”

“Then he’d better get used to it,” came the quick reply. “If you’ve come to drink, sit down. If not
—shut the door on your way out.”

“I didn’t travel all this way just to close your door.” The hooded man reached into his cloak and
withdrew a small envelope and placed it on the table. The aged parchment bore a sigil burned
into a wax seal—ancient, unmistakable.
With a flick of his fingers, Visitor slid it forward.

“This envelope has every detail.”

The man’s gaze lingered on it for a moment, then he flicked it aside.

“I am no one’s slave,” he said, his voice lower now, but no less resolute.

Silence stretched between them.

The hooded man didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to go, his movements fluid, deliberate. At the
door, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“No, you’re not anyone’s slave.” His voice was softer now, almost thoughtful. “But let me tell
you something—an orphan boy just start wandering into the world." He said and make a
deliberate pause before speaking again. “You might still care.”

With that, he stepped into the darkness. The steady rhythm of his staff tapping against the
wooden planks faded slowly, swallowed by the night and the door remained open.

The man in the chair sat motionless, staring at the empty doorway. Outside, the wind
whispered through unseen trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.

Slowly, he turned his gaze to the envelope. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, as if
hoping it might vanish. Then, with a tired sigh, he reached into his pocket and drew out
something small and cold—an old locket, its once-bright metal dulled by years of wear.

He clenched it tightly while his knuckles whitening and his eyes slid shut.

And in the silence, the past pressed in like a phantom—unseen, but ever present.
 Chapter - 5

The sun was leaning westward behind the mountains, casting long golden fingers over the
forest canopy, when Shyla and her friends found themselves walking on the winding woodland
path once again. But this time, the air felt heavier, as if the trees were holding their breath.

And they weren’t alone.

A tall shadow emerged from a bend in the trail — a figure still and silent. From the shadows,
Bahram stepped forward. His cloak was worn, his boots muddied from travel, and his greying
beard caught a glint of fading light. His arms were crossed over his chest, and one eyebrow
arched in a way that said he had been expecting them.

“You three shouldn’t be wandering alone,” he said, his voice calm but with a sharp undertone.
“Not at this hour.”

Shyla stopped in surprise. “Uncle Bahram? What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Just came down from the northern ridge. Needed some air. Heard a few things I
didn’t like. Thought I’d make my way toward the old man’s hut… it’s been too long.”

“We were going to see Grandfather too,” Shyla said in a happy tone. “Why shouldn’t you join
us?”
He nodded once. “Then let’s go together.”

No more words were spoken after that. The group continued down the path, the forest growing
darker around them. The usual chatter of birds had fallen silent. Even the breeze had stilled, as
if nature itself was listening.

When the trees finally parted and the clearing opened up before them, Shyla broke into a run.
She stopped dead at the threshold.

The hut — her grandfather’s humble, warm, fragrant home — was in ruins. The door hung
askew on one hinge, its surface scratched and splintered. Dried bundles of herbs had fallen
from the ceiling beams, and papers and scrolls lay scattered like shed feathers. The wooden
table had been flipped, and deep, rust-colored stains streaked the floorboards.

Girl gasped, clutching boy's arm. Karun’s face turned pale as chalk. Even Bahram stepped
forward cautiously, eyes narrowing as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

“No…” Shyla whispered, her voice barely a breath. “No, this can’t be… where is Baba?”

As they stared at the chaotic scene, a horn rang out — deep, guttural, and far too close.

“That’s the village horn,” Boy stammered, his voice shaking. “Something’s happening!”

Bahram drew his sword in one fluid motion and stepped to the edge of the clearing. From
there, he could see the valley and the village below. The others followed him and saw many
torches emerging from the woods, moving toward the village. There was motion on the village
boundary.

“Who are they?” Boy asked, his voice full of fear.

“I don’t know. Stay close,” Bahram said sharply. “Everyone, behind me — where’s Shyla?”

But she hadn’t moved. Shyla still stood amid the debris, her eyes wide with dread, flicking from
torn books to scattered vials, to the broken chair where her grandfather used to sit and smile as
he stirred his herbal mixtures.

“Where is he?” she murmured. “Where is Baba?”

Bahram approached her slowly. “We’ll find him,” he said gently. “But first, we must move to
safety and be ready for anything—”

Suddenly, there was a rustling at the tree line, and a figure staggered into view. An old man,
cloaked in dirt and blood, limped into the clearing. His robes were torn, and blood stained one
side of his clothes. His shoulder sagged, and his breath came in sharp gasps — but he was alive.
“Baba!” Shyla cried and ran to him, dropping to her knees beside him. “What happened?!”

He raised a hand. “Later… we have no time,” he rasped. “They’ve come.”

He looked up at Bahram with bloodshot eyes. “Still standing, old wolf?”

“Still breathing,” Bahram replied, stepping closer. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live,” Grandfather said, clutching his shoulder.

“Then let’s go to a safe place. I must reach the village soon — it’s under attack,” Bahram said in
a hurried voice.

“No,” Bahman said, breathing heavily. “I’ve lit the beacon. Reinforcements will come soon.” He
reached into his satchel and pulled out a small iron box, sealed with red wax and etched with
runes that shimmered faintly in the dusk light. “There is something else you must do.”

He turned to Shyla. “I trust no one… except you, my child. This box must reach ___________
before they get it. Find him. Now go.”

Shyla looked at the box, stunned. “Why… what… I’m not leaving you, Baba.”

He put his hand on Shyla’s cheek and spoke in a low but loving voice, “I always wanted you to
have the best life, my child. And now I’m putting you into something bigger than you — but you
will be safe. I will arrange that.” Then he turned to Bahram with firm eyes, despite the pain.
“She’s in your care now. Whatever happens — keep her safe.”

Bahram gave a solemn nod. “On my life.”

A howl echoed through the trees — not a wolf’s cry, but something warped and ancient, bone-
deep and full of malice.

“They’re coming. You all must leave,” Grandfather said. “Don’t go towards the village or the
road — it’s not safe. Find Abgal. He must be nearby — he’ll help.”

“But you—” Shyla’s protest was cut short as her grandfather raised his good arm.

“I’ll buy you time. I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

“No!”

“Go!”

Bahram took her gently by the arm. “Shyla. Now.”

He didn’t wait for more resistance. With practiced force, he guided her away. Her eyes met the
old man’s — eyes full of love, compassion, and pain — and then the old eyes turned and
vanished among the trees.

The group fled too. The shadows deepened as they ran, and behind them, a horn blew again —
this time frantic, followed by the unmistakable sound of screaming.

From the ridge, they could see the village while running downhill.

Torches that had emerged from the woods now reached the village's outer gates. The village
guards were holding the front, and their battle cries could be heard. Someone was blowing the
horn again and again — the sound echoing across the hills.

And then, distant but clear — another horn blew, from the mountains farther away.

“They must have seen the beacon. The watchtower isn’t far — they’ll be here soon,” the
Veteran said as they ran.

"Wait, who is there," Girl cried suddenly.

A figure stood beneath a twisted oak, leaning heavily against its trunk.

“Abgal!” Shyla’s voice cracked with relief as she ran towards him.

“I was only two ridges away,” Abgal said with a tired smile. “I heard the horns.” He fell in beside
them. “There’s an inn not far to the east. I was staying there and coming to visit Bahman."

“We’re not stopping,” Bahram growled.

“Didn’t plan to,” Abgal said. “We must leave the road now and take the wild path toward that
inn. Something bad is stirring tonight. Where is old man Bahman?”

“He stayed behind to give us a chance to escape,” Bahram said.

“Expected that,” Abgal muttered. “Now let’s move fast.”

But suddenly, out of the dark, a beast leapt — hideous, wolf-shaped but far too large, its eyes
glowing like smoldering coals. Its fangs glistened with drool, claws slicing through the air toward
Karun, who screamed in fear.

But before it could strike — crack! — a bolt of blue light seared the air.

Abgal stood firm, his staff glowing bright, the runes flaring like fireflies.

“Pick on someone your own size,” he muttered.

The beast howled, but Bahram lunged forward with his blade flashing silver. The creature
snarled and leapt back into the trees.

“More will come,” Bahram said.

Then — behind them — the sky glowed orange.

The village’s outer rim was ablaze.

The children’s eyes widened in horror, fear for their families etched into their faces.

Bahram pointed east. “We move southeast. Through the lower woods and over the mountains.
Quiet. Fast. We’ll figure out the rest later."

Abgal turned to the fearful children and gave a small nod. “Don’t worry, kids. Reinforcements
will be there before the enemies breach the village.”

Then he picked a large leaf, rolled it, brought it to his mouth, and whispered something in an
ancient tongue. With practiced grace, he blew into it and sent it drifting toward the burning
village.

“This will inform your mother, Shyla. She won’t worry. Now we must move fast — nowhere is
safe now.”

“Now,” he said again, and the boy and girl turned back to run.

But Shyla was still staring at the village — fire reflected in her eyes. Then she turned toward the
hill path, hoping to see her grandfather.

But there was no one.

Bahram was also staring toward the village, frustrated that he couldn’t help the guards. He
grunted and turned, then looked at Shyla and put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go, Shyla.
This is what he wants us to do.”

And so,

they ran again — five shadows slipping into deeper darkness, and vanished into the night.