The sound of birds echoed in the corner of this empty room. Arash sat in absolute solitude, a strange feeling coursing through his being. He was helpless, lost in thought.

"I am outside of everything, yet within myself I hear voices from the outside that are never within reach," he murmured to himself. "Tonight is so loud. I see myself, but no one is there. Today was so strange... because I was supposed to be nothing, yet I was everything else. Still, I could only see myself."

Arash had come to the outskirts of the city. He couldn't go anywhere—not to the inns, not to any place within the walls of the land of Mithra. He too went to the city's edges and took shelter in the nearest house he found there. It was empty, but it was shelter—at least to get through the night.

A cold wind blew through the room. The sound of ash swirling around his bony fingers filled the darkness as he unconsciously controlled the gray particles, making them dance in spirals around his hand. "What use are these ashes?" he thought to himself. "Let a wind come, and they are gone. They have no power."

His gaze fell on the ash flowing between his fingers, responding to his will. "This is the description of my condition. A wind came and lifted me up, cast me aside to some corner."

Arash clenched his fist. " But a weak man cannot bring himself to be unkind , because the smallest action causes his destruction. Like ash, with every wind he is moved about. But he is balm for wounds, he is kind, yet he has no power."

The sound of wind grew stronger. He rose and looked out the window. "If I were fire, I would be balm for wounds, I would bring warmth, I would bring life and destruction. Fire is power itself."

His gaze fixed on the night sky. "Only the powerful can truly be kind, because they are dangerous. And if a wind comes, they grow larger. They can be kind and bring life, or they can bring destruction. Only the powerful can control and direct the fire within them. Ash that is upon the wind falls wherever the wind goes."

The next morning, Arash set out toward his sister's path. The guards at the gate, like the night before, looked at Arash strangely. These looks were gradually beginning to trouble Arash. "No matter how insignificant I may be, a person's gaze causes torment. But one must pass through, because it is empty and meaningless."

A memory from the court came alive in his mind. When they read Arash's sentence in the court of Khurvan, Rashnav requested the Seal-Bearer and using the Power-Stone, placed a seal upon his forehead.

Their eyes, with just one look, illuminated the stone's seal upon his forehead—a deep blue and flame-like circle, like a sun in mist, without anything physical being on his skin.

"I have been condemned in their sight," he murmured to himself.

They told him he must prove himself and make amends for his error, or walk on foot toward the Sacred Fire so that perhaps the stone's seal might be lifted from his being. Laughing under their breath, they said the last person died of starvation before the Sacred Fire and the seal was only cleansed by his death—meaning he must bow his head in submission and let them remove his seal themselves.

When he reached near Nahal's house, he saw his sister sitting outside the house. It seemed she had been waiting for him. His heart beat fast at the sight of Azar.

When he approached her, his sister rose joyfully, but the pain of her broken leg threw her to the ground. Arash quickly went to her and lifted her up.

"Azar! Be careful!" Worry was evident in his voice.

"Arash! You don't know how much I've missed you." Azar was very happy, as was Arash, but suddenly a dim light, as if from within mist, flashed flame-like. Very dim, but visible. Its deep blue color worried Azar.

"What is this, Arash? On your forehead?"

Arash ran his hand across his forehead. "Don't worry yourself, it's nothing special. I just can't be here with you for a while. But I'll return very soon."

"Arash, I know you're hiding something. What is this?"

"Azar, listen. Take care of yourself. Don't leave the house."

"You're leaving? Where to?"

"ُStay with Nahal until your leg heals. I’m just nearby."

Arash walked away. On foot and wandering. When the city's people saw him, they moved away from him. They wouldn't even look at him.

A vista had captured Arash's eyes from the very beginning. In the distance, beyond the land, a part of a mountain near the center of the territory had risen. It had a very great height. It was night.

At the top of that tall mountain, at its peak, even from that far distance, from the other side of the land, one could see the light of the fire temple's flame. Arash had been moving toward it all day.

Now in the middle of the night, when people lit wards, spells, and small sacred fires on their doors to keep away Div’s (demon’s) and djinn’s, Arash was still walking.

"I cannot go there directly," he thought to himself. "The closer you get to the center, the more beautiful and taller the houses become, until you reach a wall that only nobles and powerful people are allowed to enter—those who have high levels can come and go there."

In this world, power speaks first. The higher level you have, the more respected you are and of course you have more power too.

"Power here is determined by level, not at the time of the Fire Ceremony." Arash thought back to his childhood teachings under Master Keyhan. "It's true that it's very rare for someone to be Flame-born from the beginning—or Ignited. Or Blazeds who are chosen a bit more often. And Kindleds who are the norm of society. Ash-born are also very rare. Sometimes their rarity is considered almost equal to Blazeds, but they are slightly more rare. They are rarer than Blazeds, but they have no value."

His gaze fixed on the night sky. "These only show the purity of the flame within them. Refined people increase the level of purity of their flame. And the higher the level of flame purity, the more powerful you are. But with one difference."

A cold wind blew that made him shiver. "It's true that the level of flame purity is determined for people in the Sacred Fire, but in terms of power at that time, everyone is at the same level. Only with one difference."

"When a person who is, say, a Kindled reaches level 7, meaning completion of that Flame cycle, they can go further, but it's useless. After this stage, they must be judged by the Atash-dadgah (Fire of the Court) to become a Blazed. But they return to level 1, yet they are not weaker, because they are completers of a flame cycle."

A bitter memory of those who had failed came alive in his mind. "If they are judged and cannot go to the next level, all fire purity is lost. They have done everything right, but they haven't believed in the inner Flame. That's why very few people are completers of a flame cycle."

Ascent to Heaven

Three days of walking took him to go around the central city where the nobles and high-levels lived and reach the entrance to the fire temple. But there was still a long way to go.

Before him, ancient stone steps like giant's teeth were carved into the mountain's slope. Seven thousand nine hundred and twelve steps covering an elevation of one thousand three hundred and forty-five meters. Above that, the Sacred Fire Temple was hidden among the clouds.

Beside the first steps, a crowd of people had gathered. The sound of screaming, shouting, and cheering echoed in the morning air. Arash approached and saw that a competition was underway. Excited young and strong men were trying to climb the steps at high speed, but one after another, even before reaching halfway, they fell to the ground gasping and exhausted.

"No one has ever been able to go up!" said a man with a white beard. "These steps are enchanted. The higher you go, the heavier you become."

Arash took a slow step. He climbed the first step, then the second. The smooth, ancient stones beneath his feet had warmed from the summer sun. His breaths in the hot, thin air went up and down with difficulty.

After hours, when the sun had reached its peak, his legs had become heavy as lead. His thigh muscles burned and stretched. His stomach was empty and hungry, and thirst burned his throat. The air was getting thinner too, and each breath went into his lungs like a needle.

In a flat and level stretch, where the steps had become somewhat gentler, he saw something strange. Small white houses built from simple stones were placed beside the path. People all dressed in white, with simple clothes and calm faces, lived in them. They performed their daily tasks as if life at this altitude was the most natural thing in the world.

When he approached, he realized these people didn't avoid him. His feet involuntarily led him toward a well from which a white-clad woman was drawing water. Thirst had so overcome his being that he no longer had control over himself.

The woman in a white veil offered him water. "Where are you going, young man?" Her voice was like a gentle breeze.

"To the fire temple..." Arash answered with a hoarse voice.

"The path is long." The woman gave him fresh bread and dried kashk. "For those whose hearts are pure, the mountain opens the way."

Arash thanked them for their kindness and continued the path. The steps now became steeper and smoother. A cold wind blew from the snowy peaks that penetrated to the bone. His fingers had become numb and each step was now like carrying a stone slab.

Hours passed. The sun was gradually setting and shadows grew long. Arash knew the first day wasn't over, but thousands of steps still remained to the fire temple. His legs trembled and his knees had weakened. The seal on his forehead now glowed more calmly, as if soothed by the cool night air.

In the last light of day, he found a place to stop. Under the shadow of a large stone slab, he sat tired and beaten.

The mountain air had become cool and pleasant. Stars covered the sky and only the sound of wind and his own deep breaths could be heard. The land of Mithra, seen from above in the darkness of night, was beautiful. The lights from small fires flickered in the distance. The noble district within the inner wall glowed golden. From high above, all was silent—only the whisper of the wind and the hush of night’s cold drifting in.

 "I’m tired"