A door creaked open, revealing a dark alley beyond. A small flame pushed back the shadows as Fazel stepped through, fire trembling in his hand. Sweat clung to his face despite the cold, his eyes wide with terror. With clumsy, cautious steps, he moved forward, one hand sliding along the wall for balance. The stone felt icy beneath his fingers, yet he kept sweating, his breath uneven as the darkness closed in around him. After what felt like an age, he reached the end of the alley. Another door waited there. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
At first, fear froze him in place. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Is this…
The figure before him looked so small, so weak.
After a moment, his voice finally found him.
“Father.”
The figure raised a hand to shield his eyes and said, “Hey, kid… put that flame aside. It’s burning my eyes. I’m used to the dark now.”
His voice was weak. It took Fazel a moment to understand what he had said. He lowered the flame.
“Father,” he said again.
The figure smiled faintly and spoke, “Sit with me, son,” patting the cold stone floor beside him.
Fazel was lost for words. He had come here expecting to find a warrior — a man strong enough to break free, to lead a rebellion once more.
Instead, he saw this.
Can he even walk straight?
After a moment, Fazel crushed the thoughts down and spoke, “Father… I’m going to break you out. They’re going to—”
His father cut him off mid-sentence, as if he hadn’t been listening at all.
“Son,” he said quietly, “he used to remember my name. He used to listen to me. All the battles we won together…”
His voice faltered.
“He doesn’t remember a single one.”
“Father, they’re going to execute you,” Fazel said urgently. “You have to get out of here. I can make arrangements. All your loyal soldiers are ready. They’ll kill that old king and his brute of a son—”
His father didn’t listen. It was as if Fazel’s words never reached him at all.
Instead, he spoke softly, lost in memory.
“You know… his son used to call me uncle,” he said.
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A bitter pause followed.
“Now all he wants is my head.”
Fazel’s voice rose.
“Father, I’m not here to listen to old stories,” he said sharply. “They’re going to kill you. Execute you. Mark you as a traitor after everything you’ve done for them.”
He stepped closer.
“Come with me. Get up.”
Fazel reached for him, trying to pull him to his feet — not roughly, not in anger, but with desperate encouragement, as if will alone might give his father strength.“You haven’t really seen me,” he said. “Give me that flame.”
Fazel hesitated, then kindled the fire again and handed it to him. When their hands touched, Fazel flinched — it felt as though he had grasped dry sticks, brittle and hollow.
His father lifted the flame closer to his face.
What Fazel saw made his breath catch.
This was nothing like the man he remembered — the strong, proud face that once commanded armies. The skin clung tightly to bone, stretched thin as parchment. His cheeks had sunk inward, his eyes hollow and shadowed, dulled by sickness and time.
Even his beard — once his pride, thick and well kept — now hung heavy and unkempt, like a burden dragging his face downward rather than framing it.
The warrior was gone.
Only the remains of him sat before Fazel, flickering in the firelight.
Fazel flinched, shock and fear tightening his chest. He leaned his head back slightly — and then suddenly remembered.
This is my father.
He tried to speak, but his father spoke first.
“You look disappointed,” he said softly. “Afraid.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“It’s all right, son. I haven’t had the chance to look into a mirror, but I know.”
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
Then his father spoke again.
“Son, I don’t want to fight another war. I’ve had enough. I think I’ve paid my share in blood.”
For a brief moment, something old stirred in his voice — the general Fazel remembered.
“He is like my brother,” his father continued. “And he is old and frail, just like me. I won’t bring another war to his doorstep. I don’t have it in me anymore.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Even if you break me out, I will die but I’ve accepted it.”
He looked at Fazel for a long moment.
“You don’t have to fight my wars.”
As he spoke, he brought the flame closer to his other hand, as if searching for something in the shadows. His fingers closed around an object on the floor. He tried to lift it — once, then again — but his arms trembled and failed him.
“Son,” he said quietly, “pick this up. It’s yours now. I can’t even lift it anymore.”
Fazel moved to the other side and knelt. He drew the object into the light.
A sword — still in its sheath. Massive. Nearly six feet long.
“They let you keep this?” Fazel asked in disbelief.
His father cut him off.
“This is the only thing they were afraid to strip from me,” he said. “They say the one who wields this sword never dies in bed.”
He let out a dry breath.
“I don’t believe in such myths.”
He looked at Fazel then, truly looked at him.
“Keep it. A final gift from me. Prove them wrong.”
His voice softened.
“Go, son. Live in peace. Go to Irania… or anywhere else. You don’t have to avenge me.”
A pause.
“That’s all I want.”
Fazel tried to speak, but the words froze in his throat.
His father closed his eyes, as if drifting into peaceful sleep.
A tear slipped down Fazel’s cheek. He had never cried in front of his father — he had always wanted to look strong.
Slowly, he rose. It felt as though a mountain rested on his shoulders, but still, he stood.
Flame in one hand.
Sword in the other.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder. It felt heavier than before.
Somehow, he stepped through.
Once outside, Fazel wiped away his tears, tightened his grip on the sword, and walked into the darkness — each step stronger than the last.
He opened the second door and vanished into the cold night.
For a time, a lone flame could be seen from afar.
Then it went out.
