For three days and nights, Arash had walked the treacherous path that led away from the central city where nobles and the powerful had gathered. The rocky, winding road climbed high into the mountains, as if nature itself had carved this route to reach the summit.

With aching legs, Arash finally passed the last boulder as the sun rose on the fourth day. What appeared before him would never fade from his memory.

At the mountain's peak stood a fire temple grander than any he had seen in the capital. The structure rose like a massive hill, its brick walls plastered with dried clay reaching twenty paces toward the sky. The stones that formed these thick, sturdy walls stood like an eternal monument against time itself.

Morning mist had draped the summit like a silver veil. The fire temple, with its trapezoidal structure whose sides bore witness to the geometric harmony of ancient engineering, had achieved heavenly majesty in perfect simplicity. Its glory lay not in elaborate decorations, but in those simple, strong lines that stood firm as mountains.

What truly captivated the eye was a blue, crystal-clear lake that bubbled up from a spring deep within the mountain, its expanse even wider than the fire temple itself. A clear stream flowed into the lake with rhythmic, musical sounds. The water was so transparent and pure that the stone pavement at its bottom gleamed like precious jewels.

The lake then transformed into a thunderous waterfall that tumbled down the mountainside, creating a great river that flowed across the entire land. The sound of water, like an eternal murmur, filled the entire space.

Facing the entrance stood a platform about five paces wide and seven paces high, with an edge rising to a man's waist. Three steps above the main platform, a triangular opening was carved into the wall, as if the eye of history peered inward.

Heavy wooden doors with carved bronze handles opened quietly, releasing the sweet fragrance of frankincense and oud. In the center of the inner courtyard burned a large, white fire that rose and fell silently and peacefully. This eternal fire never died—a flame as if a star had fallen to earth.

Lush gardens with red and white flowers, pomegranate and grape trees, and small stone fountains with the soothing sound of flowing water had transformed the entire space into a garden of paradise. Small birds with melodious songs flew among the branches.

Evidence of collapsed corridors and chambers was visible—walls where priests had once gone about their work now held only buried memories. These walls, simple and unadorned, yet so massive and solid they seemed to have grown from the earth's heart. The primary materials were brick and clay—crude yet enduring.

Golden sunlight filtering through the mist danced on the lake's surface, its reflection creating a magical display on the fire temple's walls. Complete silence had engulfed the entire space, yet the walls still carried traces of that era's glory within them.

Here, the fire temple was not merely a building, but a manifestation of humanity's bond with an eternal flame.

Arash, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he saw, had no strength left to stand. His legs trembled, and he sat down on the soft grass beside the lake. The gentle sound of water, the fragrant scent of flowers, and the great fire glowing in the distance made his eyes heavy.

Under the shade of an ancient tree whose branches cast shadows over the lake water, deep sleep overcame him. The last image that formed in his mind was the fire temple's eternal flame, shining like an everlasting ray upon the water.

Memories in the Sacred Fire

Arash awoke from a deep and troubled sleep. Night still cast its shadow over the earth, and heavy fatigue gripped his limbs. He had remained in this fire temple for a day and night, hidden and anonymous, like a shadow fleeing from light.

Arash sat on an old carpet and lost his eyes in the hypnotic flames. The fire's light settled on his face and cast moving shadows on the walls. In this sacred silence, his mother's voice echoed in his ears like a murmur from another world.

Mother... she had always told him this story. The tale of Verethraghna, the god of war and victory, a deity who shattered obstacles and triumphed in all battles. The very name his family had carried, a family from which Arash and his mother had been cast out.

Memories of those final days, when death had knocked at their door, crashed over him like waves of a stormy sea. After hearing news of his father's death in war, his mother had withered day by day like a water lily pulled from its pond.

He would never forget that last night. His mother's voice was so weak that even autumn's gentle breeze could carry it away. Azar, his little sister, had slept at the neighbors' house so their mother's illness wouldn't spread to her.  Arash was alone, alone with death and silence.

Arash's eyes had swum with tears. "Mother, gather your strength... tomorrow you'll be better..."

But the words had frozen in her throat. Mother couldn't continue. She had exhaled her last breath, and heavy silence had taken the place of words.

Now Arash repeated those unfinished words under his breath: "Be like Verethraghna, shatter obstacles, fearless in battle... and like him..."

His eyes shone with the sacred flames. He saw himself in the fire, burning, transforming into something he didn't understand. He felt emptied, as if his heart were a deep cavity that nothing could fill.

Azar, his ten-year-old sister, was the only one he had left. But even she couldn't truly care for him. A fragile girl who needed care herself. Arash hugged his legs like a helpless child and rested his head on his knees. Only his eyes, fixed on the fire, gleamed in the fire temple's darkness alongside the sacred flame.

A tear rolled down from the corner of his eye. The last time he had cried was four years ago, that same night of his mother's death. That night too he had been alone, sitting by his mother's side until morning, holding her hand tight—only he had been there.

Arash carefully peered outside through the entrance. Thick darkness had engulfed the courtyard, but the moonlight was enough to see the silhouette of a tall man. The man wore robes blacker than night and stood in the center of the courtyard.

The man's movements were calm and calculated, like a hunter stalking his prey. Something about him made the hair on the back of Arash's neck stand up. Without any apparent effort, the man made a soft gesture with his hand, and a piece of earth lifted from the ground as if obeying his command. Then he pulled a strange stone from a leather pouch and placed it in the soil.

"Four rings..." Arash whispered under his breath. "This man... is powerful."

When the black-robed man placed the stone in the earth, he began reciting a prayer. His words were in the ancient language, a tongue Arash didn't recognize, but his voice wound through the air like magic. The air gradually grew heavy, and Arash felt strange pressure on his chest.

His head grew dizzy. He felt his mind sinking into thick fog. His eyes grew heavy and his eyelids automatically drooped. The last thing he saw was the black-robed man looking directly at him, as if he knew Arash was hidden there.

Then everything went black.

The sound of countless footsteps pulled Arash from unconsciousness. Thump, thump, thump... like war drums approaching. Arash opened his eyes and found himself in the same corner, hidden behind the wooden door. But now a completely different scene lay before him.

The fire ceremony had begun. Thousands of people from across the land of Mithra had come to witness this sacred ritual. Arash still had a headache and couldn't remember how two days had passed. It was as if two days had been erased from his life.

Grrrr... the sound of his hungry stomach emerged. He felt his intestines twisting together. He hadn't eaten proper food for two days. He had to do something, or he would die of hunger.

It was strange that no one paid attention to him. People were busy with the ceremony, and he seemed to have become invisible. The mark of the sealstone seemed to have vanished, unseen by others, as if the sacred fire had cleansed it—in any case, he appeared to be an ordinary person.

He went toward the simple people's stalls. Small merchants had set up shop and were selling various foods. Arash had no money, so he was forced to steal. With cunning skill, he stole several apples and pieces of bread.

He sat in a corner away from prying eyes and began to eat. God, how delicious it was! The most delicious bread and apple he had ever eaten. Or perhaps hunger made everything taste good.

But his thoughts kept returning to the incident two nights ago. That strange feeling. Something wasn't right. He couldn't remember how he had fallen asleep and spent two days...

Arash entered the sacred grounds with silent steps. A massive crowd had formed a circle around the eternal flame, their murmured voices rippling through the air like gentle ocean waves. The high priests stood in formation wearing snow-white robes and carrying flame-tipped staves, their faces hidden and mysterious beneath the shadows of their hoods.

The High Priest, a man whose years of wisdom were etched into every line and wrinkle of his face, stepped onto the stone platform. His white beard gleamed in the firelight, and his deep eyes seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. He raised his aged hands, and absolute silence fell over the grounds.

"Children of the land of Mithra!" his voice thundered across the space like heavenly lightning. "The hour of your destiny has arrived!"

Even the morning breeze seemed to hold its breath. Arash felt his heart drumming in his chest. His fingers curled around the hidden stone in his pocket—the stone he shouldn't possess.

"Today, the eternal flame shall reveal the path of your future. You who have breathed in this land for fourteen years shall step into the flames of judgment." The High Priest paused, his gaze sweeping across the young faces. "The fire will examine your inner spirit and reveal your worthiness to all."

Bitter memories stirred in Arash's mind. The day of his own selection, the day his world crumbled. When the fire showed no color and disgraced him. The day he and Azar, his beloved sister, were cast from their home. The day the High Priest had declared in that same stern voice: "Without flame... this child has no power."

"Ramin, son of Bahram!" the High Priest called the first name.

A pale-faced boy stepped forward from the crowd. Arash recognized him—the same youth who had bought a suspicious-looking stone from an old stone merchant a few days ago. His hands trembled so violently that others noticed.

"Should... should I step forward?" Ramin asked in a choked voice.

"The fire awaits you, boy," the High Priest said with kind but firm authority.

Ramin stepped back. "If... if I'm not chosen, what then?"

"You must surrender yourself to the flames ," the High Priest said seriously. "This is your fate."

Ramin took a deep breath, as if trying to gather all the courage in the world. With trembling steps, he approached the fire. Each step was heavier than the last. His hand moved toward his pocket, where the Color stone lay hidden.

When he stepped into the flames, the fire gradually took on color—a mild, ordinary orange. Ramin waited, hoping the color would change. But nothing happened. In truth, he wasn’t chosen by the flames; it only seemed as if he was chosen by the color they took.