The Troubled Dream

The gentle warmth of the July sun stirred a sweet breeze among the green leaves of the mulberry and orange trees in the backyard garden. The soft gurgling of a small stream that flowed through the middle of the garden mingled with the chirping of birds, creating a peaceful and delightful atmosphere.

Arash played among the cool shadows beneath the trees. His laughter was pure and carefree, like the sound of silver bells trembling in the wind. He was busy building a castle from clay and small stones, weaving tales of princes and dragons in his mind.

"Arash, dear! Come inside, breakfast is ready!" his mother's kind voice called from the house. A voice that always carried the warm security of family within it.

Arash looked up joyfully and ran toward the house. Their stone house was small but charming. The thick stone walls provided coolness in summer and retained the warmth of the hearth in winter. The scent of his mother's freshly baked bread and the aroma of hot tea filled the interior.

His mother, a middle-aged woman with a kind face and hands callused from work, smiled: "Your breakfast will get cold, my dear."

"Where is Azar?" Arash asked, looking around the house.

"She must be with your father. Go call them, they're waiting."

His father stood in the middle of the courtyard, but he was not alone. Five soldiers in black, gleaming armor stood before him. The boar insignia gleamed on their chests—the family crest whose very name made his mother and father tremble.

His mother's voice rose from behind him, but this time it was no longer kind. Distress and fear rippled through it: "Please leave! We are no longer part of that family! What do you want from us?"

One of the soldiers spoke with a cold, soulless voice: "The master's orders are not open to discussion. All able-bodied men of this family must serve."

The soldiers seized his father's hands. His father did not resist, but turned and looked at Arash with a gaze that held a mixture of love, worry, and resolve.

"Arash, my son," his voice was calm but firm, "I must go to war. If Fire wills and fate assists, I will return. But you are now the man of the house. Take care of your mother and Azar. Promise me."

"Father, don't go!" Arash cried out, but his voice was lost in the cold air.

His mother sat on the ground and began to weep. Her tears fell on the earth like spring rain. "Arash, where is Azar? Have you seen your sister? Where is Azar?"

This question became like a spell that repeated several times. His mother's voice grew louder and louder, until Arash awoke with a violent heartbeat and cold sweat on his forehead.

The Slave Market

The air was hot, perhaps because of the crowding, or perhaps because this place was no different from hell. Of course, for me... for many, this was an unparalleled and beautiful paradise, but for my sister it was a hell of loneliness. I could not bear it any longer. What could someone like me, ash-born, accomplish? I didn't even have the permission or worth to walk these streets by my own will.

Only in the presence of Master Keyhan could I set foot in this market.

"What can I accomplish?" I murmured to myself, as my fists trembled with helplessness.

Master Keyhan—a man who had years of experience working in this market and whose face had become hard and emotionless as stone—cast a cold glance at me and said: "Arash, remember one thing. Here, only the law of gold and power rules. Emotions and compassion have no place. If you want to survive and do the right thing, don't forget this law."

Before us stood a tall, wide wooden platform where slaves were standing. Men, women, and even children whose fate depended on the money of those willing to pay for them. Filth and the unpleasant smell of sweat, dried blood on wounds, and the scent of despair filled the air. Some of the slaves were so weak they could barely stand on their feet.

But among all this, there were still those whose spirits had not been broken. Young girls who, despite all hardships, still retained their beauty. Strong men in whose eyes hope still gleamed. These were sold at high prices—each coin and each flame stone representing a human soul.

"There isn't much time. I must get my sister out of here somehow," I told myself, while Master Pirbod's voice echoed in my mind: "Haste is the enemy of reason, young man. But sometimes, hurrying is the only way to salvation."

Time passed slowly, like blood dripping from a deep wound. The sun had now reached directly above us and its scorching heat poured over everything. Soldiers in black clothes and metal helmets brought cloths and placed them in front of the platform for us buyers. We who were perhaps morally filthier than the slaves, but we had money. The slaves still stood under the hot sun, their skin burning and sweat streaming down their faces.

The Fatal Auction

Most of the lower-grade slaves had been sold. Now it was time for the first-class slaves: the healthiest, youngest, most expensive ones—those who had not yet been broken enough to stop resisting, but had been damaged enough to obey.

The auctioneer, a man with a wrinkled face and unkempt beard who had been in this business for years, shouted loudly: "Now it's time for the treasures! Five hundred coins for this young girl! Look what a jewel!"

A man's voice rose from the middle of the filthy, sweaty crowd: "Four hundred!"

Another shout that carried human greed and avarice: "Six hundred!"

Master Keyhan, who had been silent until now, gave me a meaningful look. In that look was both threat and promise: "Arash, listen. I'll buy your sister, but you must do whatever I tell you without question. Anything. Of course, I can't pay more than three hundred gold coins. Pray that no one offers more than me, or your sister will fall into the hands of someone for whom death would be better than life."

My eyes fixed on Azar. My God, how thin she had become. How pale and broken she appeared. The metal chains that bound her wrists had wounded her skin, and dried blood on her hands gleamed like dark stains. But still, despite all these injuries, a spark of hope burned in her eyes—a spark that I had to preserve with my life and soul.

"Master Keyhan," my voice trembled but a firm resolve was hidden within it, "whether you buy my sister or not doesn't matter. I won't allow my sister to ever become a slave. Even if it costs me my own life."

And then came the moment I had been waiting for and dreading. They brought Azar onto the platform. Her steps were shaky and she could barely walk. The auctioneer, with a voice like the roar of a demon, shouted: "One hundred and seventy-five coins to start! Look at this girl, fresh and untouched! A golden opportunity!"

Azar lifted her head for the first time and our gazes met in the air. There was fear in her eyes, deep and rooted fear, but she had not surrendered. The spirit of a warrior still gleamed in them. Her lips silently murmured my name, like a prayer spoken to lost gods.

Master Keyhan raised his hand: "One hundred and eighty!"

"Two hundred!" declared another person standing a few steps away.

Suddenly, from among the crowd, someone in dark, neat clothes who had hidden his face with a deep hood called out: "Two hundred and fifty!"

My heart stopped in my chest. I knew that voice. It was Master Hirbad! He was so disguised that even angels couldn't recognize him.

Master Keyhan, with anger blazing from his eyes like fire, said: "Who is that damned man? Why is he paying so much for this girl?" Then he shouted loudly: "Three hundred coins!"

"Four hundred!" the same black-clad man whom I knew was Master Hirbad.

"Five hundred!" Master Keyhan, his neck veins bulging with rage.

I looked at him and murmured: "Didn't you say you wouldn't give more than three hundred?"

He glared at me angrily: "I'm helping you, fool! Go thank God that someone has been found who's willing to do this for you!"

"Five hundred and fifty!" Master Hirbad's voice rose like thunder in a clear sky.

"My God, this man is either crazy or I've gone crazy!" Master Keyhan muttered to himself.

But then, as if darkness itself had emerged from underground, a fat man, clearly aristocratic, entered the scene. He had an ominous look that froze the blood in my veins. I could sense the smell of corruption and filthy lusts from a distance. His clothes were expensive and gold rings and jewels covered his hands.

"Six hundred coins!" he shouted, while his gaze crawled like a snake over Azar's body, examining it.

"Seven hundred!" Master Hirbad with a voice that had lost some of its power.

"Eight hundred!" the fat man with a smile that even the devil would find disgusting.

"Eight hundred and fifty!" Master Hirbad, while I could see cold sweat on his forehead.

I couldn't believe that Master Hirbad was using his personal money to free my sister. He looked at me with pain and despair and quietly said: "I don't have more than this, son. I'm truly sorry."

The fat man smiled with a grin that seemed to inspire hell itself: "One flame stone!" His voice echoed in the deadly silence of the market and silenced everyone. A flame stone is worth a thousand to fifteen hundred gold coins.

The auctioneer struck his hammer like a death sentence: "Sold to the honorable gentleman!"