In the darkness of night, the sound of "clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop" of horse hooves echoed like a calm yet determined heartbeat through the silent air. Mahvan led the horse slowly forward, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. Arash sat on the horse's back, weary and lost in thought, while Azar slept peacefully in his arms, unaware of what lay ahead. The air was cold and heavy; the scent of dry earth, withered grass, and smoke from extinguished hearths mingled together.

The narrow path before the gates of House Mithra was part of the outer edge of the territory. The cracked and weathered lands that once held weak farmlands were now filled with thorn bushes and rotting stalks scattered among low stone walls. Mud-brick huts with flat, cracked roofs huddled together, creating confused shadows against the moonlight. From one of the huts, a weak oil lamp flickered; the shadow of an old woman could be seen stoking a dying oven. The groan of an old camel or the muffled cry of a child pierced the silence, as if it were a soundless scream from a life grown weary.

Arash lifted his head and gazed into the darkness of these homes. Chained dogs barked in the dim moonlight, thin and ragged men sat by the walls. Their sunken faces and eyes that held the color of life's hardships tightened his heart. Occasionally, the sound of a mortar grinding grain or the soft noise of work in a small workshop drifted through.

Mahvan sometimes broke the silence, murmuring under his breath: "This place still has the scent of the outside—the smell of weary earth and slippery life. But it's close now..."

Arash glanced at him. "Mahvan, will they really accept us?"

"Don't think of such things. Humans have an uncertain fate—just accept it," Mahvan said with a tone in which hidden doubt rippled. "But remember, here the House is everything. Weigh every word you speak."

Azar remained blissfully unaware in her sleep. But Arash pressed his hand against the horse's saddle; he was worried and had no vision of where they were going. He had only heard talk of it being a great and noble House, but the capital had been the same. House Ruby Ember also had a good reputation, but the disasters and events that befell them were not right. Even when he learned who their true House was, they cast them out. Now in this new land, a new House... Arash and Azar were children without a House, and in this society, apart from not being blessed by fire, House and noble lineage were considered the highest things. Someone who was nobody was worthless.

Mahvan, who was only seventeen years old but whose face and gaze were mature, had previously given calm and measured answers to Arash's questions. When Arash, amazed, had asked about his age, he had said: "Seventeen years." Arash had thought about his premature development—how could a young man be responsible for such a journey that stands only on its own feet?

"You know things you're not telling us, don't you?" Arash asked under his breath.

Mahvan paused for a moment. "Some things are better said at the right time."

After a long passage through dry lands and simple houses, finally the first high wall of House Mithra was visible in the moonlight. Entry lights, small braziers, or distant torches occasionally flickered. The stone columns of the gateway bore two seated lions upon them.

But one of the lions had cracked, and a stone had fallen from its right eye.

Mahvan paused—for he knew this meant "the guardian is blind"—meaning the House's gate was defenseless against evil.

But when he turned his head, he saw that Arash and Azar had fallen asleep—perhaps simple sleep... perhaps something from beyond the gate had crept into their dreams.

He murmured under his breath: "It's nothing special... just a broken stone... perhaps."

And he entered.

But something heavy settled in his heart... for he knew this simple crack heralded the breaking of traditions and the coming of something new.

They entered, engulfed in the heavy silence of the walls. A sense of weight had settled in Mahvan's heart. Arash opened his eyes, tired though worried and confused, unable to anticipate the spectacle of the first encounter beyond the gate. He still didn't grasp the true meaning of being without a House, but fear of not knowing and responsibility toward his sister had tightened his heart. Azar still slept, unaware of her brother's worried glances and the signs carved into the walls.

Mahvan approached the guards; in the darkness they seemed invisible but stood firm and motionless, a sign of discipline and strict laws. Their clothing was simple and dark: a sleeved tunic with loose trousers, layers of leather or light scales on shoulder and arm, and a soft cap that shadowed their faces. Each held a short spear and had a simple but solid sword bound to their belt; on their other hand, they wore rings with two stones each that sparkled in the firelight—stones of power and their inherent essence. Their eyes gleamed alertly in the half-shadow.

When Mahvan approached, one of the guards said in a quiet voice: "Who comes at this hour of night...?"

Mahvan brought his belt forward slightly so that the patterns on it could be seen in the torchlight. Upon seeing it, the guards immediately nodded with military dignity and recognized him as a renowned warrior.

"Master, welcome," one of them said.

Mahvan replied calmly: "Tell them to repair the lion stones tomorrow. And do you know anyone in these outskirts who could take guardianship of these children?"

The guards exchanged glances. It seemed a common thing. One of them said: "Yes, master. Mother Nahal... she's a healer woman who lives in the eastern district. She may accept them."

"Her address?"

"Third alley past the water tower, a house with a pomegranate tree in the courtyard."

Mahvan nodded. The soldiers paid their respects and he returned.

On the way back, Arash, between sleep and waking, asked under his breath: "They knew you?"

"No," Mahvan replied, "but they knew this belt."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that sometimes signs are more important than names."

Arash could no longer stay awake and fell asleep right there on the horse's back.

Mahvan went toward the house of the woman whose name he had heard. This was the border between "within the House" and "the outside world." Respect and fear for the great House could still be felt, but there was no sign of grandeur, stone paving, or fruit trees. The midnight silence, the distant sound of mill wheels, the smell of firewood, the quiet sound of a night flute or reed filled the air. People here still considered themselves "close to the earth"—to old traditions, ancient beliefs, the evil eye, passing spirits.

Mahvan stood before the house: a one-story structure but somewhat larger than the other huts around it, with cracked mud-straw walls and a flat roof. Weak moonlight scattered in the air and the shadow of tree branches beside the courtyard fell on the wall. He paused for a few moments until the sound of the sleeping children's movement on the horse's back ceased, then raised his hand and knocked softly.

In the midnight silence, a woman's voice came from behind the door: "Who is it at this hour of night?"

Her voice was both worried and tired.

Mahvan took a deep breath: "I am Mahvan. I have children without guardians. Please open the door."

A long silence reigned. Then the sound of a small bell scraping was heard from behind the door, and the lock opened. The wooden door opened with a bit of creaking and dim light spilled from inside to outside.

The woman, in simple clothes with a face marked by years of suffering, appeared in the doorframe. Her gaze was initially cautious, but when her eye fell on Mahvan's belt, her expression changed.

In the darkness, the linear patterns of the belt appeared like an untold tale. The woman immediately understood who he was, and said with respectful tone: "My lord, welcome."

Mahvan stepped inside quietly without saying an extra word, and with just a decisive look and commanding presence, the woman who had seen his belt made no objection.

"My lord," the woman bowed deeply with respect, "my house is your house."

Inside, a small lamp was lit; a small courtyard with half-filled water vessels and a few pots of dried plants. The house seemed relatively larger than other huts: it had a higher ceiling and a separate room for cooking. The smell of medicinal plants—for the woman was known for her skill in healing—filled the space.

Mahvan quietly brought the children down without saying an extra word: Azar was still asleep and Arash jumped down from the horse with tired but alert eyes.

The woman gently guided them to the side room and said: "Sit down. I can give you food and a place to rest. But first tell me what has happened that you have come such a way in the night."

Arash explained with a tired but respectful tone; Azar sat beside him and rested her head. Mahvan stood by the wall, not hiding his belt: the simple but meaningful patterns had a quasi-luminescence in the darkness.

While listening, the woman glanced several times at Mahvan's belt. Finally she said: "This belt... is a sign that assures me to help you. But why have you, who bear such a sign, brought these children to my simple and humble house?"

Mahvan gave her a deep look. "Sometimes the simplest places are the safest. And sometimes those who have the least give the most kindness."

The woman nodded, without asking too much. She knew that some things were better left unasked.

The space was filled with a heavy but reassuring silence. In the heart of night and darkness, this very recognition through the belt was a key to shelter and help.

"The children can stay here," the woman said. "But where will you go?"

Mahvan paused for a moment. "Attend to your affairs. But first I had to make sure they were safe."