A thousand years before the Era of the Ashen Wheel, decade of the Sleeping Frost.
Night was falling. In the Fire Temple of Jinxiujing, a hundred lacquered glass lamps were lit, diffusing an amber glow. In the center of the main hall, the Sacred Flame, venerated by the Gönok people as "the Pure Fire," throbbed gently with blue and gold tongues.
Suddenly, clamors in the Gönok language arose, reverberating in waves: "آرداشیر، شاهشاهان، سلامت باشید" (Ardashir, King of Kings, may health be with you!)
The glow of the flames illuminated faces from the distant West, their features marked by the fatigue of a long journey and an almost demented fervor.
Ardashir stood near the Sacred Fire, observing the crowd kneeling in a circle around him, his gaze like that of a startled young deer. Before him, at the head of the prostrated, was Razmir (رازمهر), an old general of his father's, whom he had not seen for years.
The old court commander now had greying hair and beard, his worn robe still soiled with sand, but he stood with his back straight, solemnly presenting a roll of white oxhide to Ardashir. Five years earlier, the light cavalry of the kingdom of Kawahir had swept through Passar (پاسار), the capital of the Gönok kingdom (گونو), with the speed of wind. It was this general who, with the remnants of his army, had fought his way through an ocean of blood, losing track of King Iskandar (اسکندر) ever since.
The glory of its civilization had once made the Gönok kingdom a shining star among nations, with its vast territories, countless rivers, and cities scattered like constellations. In its stables, noble steeds leaped like clouds; in its markets, brocades and spices mingled in a colorful crowd; the towers of its astronomical observatories and temples pierced the skies...
Yet, this ancient nation, proud of its heavy cavalry that dominated battlefields, had suffered defeat after defeat against the pack tactics of the light cavalry from the new kingdom of Kawahir.
Razmir, with the debris of his army, had fled eastward, crossing scorched lands and ruins, inquiring along the way about Iskandar's fate. Having heard that his king was constantly heading east, he had followed these tenuous clues.
Finally, in Jinxiujing, right here, he had found Ardashir – but he also learned, in bits and pieces, that Iskandar had died of illness during his flight, his body abandoned in the wilderness.
He respectfully presented the roll of white oxhide he held in his hands – a fragment of the Livista (لاوستا), the Gönok book of wisdom, calligraphed in gold ink.
Five years prior, when Kawahir's light cavalry had burst into Passar, the Gönok capital, they had slaughtered countless people, burned the sacred temple, and blood had stained the cobblestones. The Livista, kept near the Sacred Fire, had been reduced to ashes. This scroll Razmir held was a fragment he had managed to transcribe word for word, dictated by a surviving high priest, found in the ruins of a fire temple in a remote small town during his escape.
A glint of sadness shone in Ardashir's eyes. He lowered his head and accepted the fragment of the Livista. His lips moved slightly as he murmured a silent prayer in the ancient Gönok language:
باشد که خرد باز گردد،
و روح گونو جاویدان بماند.
(May wisdom return, may the Gönok soul remain eternal.)
Then, he took from the high priest's tray a pinch of fine, immaculate white sacred pine resin – considered by the Gönoks as the purest of fuels, a symbol of light and oath – and gently sprinkled it into the Sacred Fire, as if feeding a lion. The blue and gold tongues of fire flickered for a moment, exhaling a clear, sweet fragrance.
At the misty and bloody dawn five years ago, Ardashir, then twelve years old, was startled awake by the shrill sound of horns.
He ran barefoot onto the palace terrace and saw Kawahir's silver light cavalry surging over Passar's walls like a tide. In the distance, amidst the confusion, his mother was hoisted onto the saddle of an enemy general, her veil embroidered with gold flowers fluttering in the wind.
Iskandar had led a cavalry charge. In the pre-dawn mist, enemy arrows rained down, thick as locusts. When his father was forcibly brought back by his bodyguards, the drops of congealed blood on his scimitar fell one by one onto the stone steps of the terrace, among the roses.
In this chaos and despair, Iskandar handed Ardashir a small silver casket. It was an ancient fire receptacle, containing a faint glow protected by pine resin, a secret instrument used by the Gönoks to transport the Sacred Fire over long distances.
"Don't let it go out," Iskandar whispered to Ardashir, before hoisting him and Mithrana onto his warhorse. Hooves pounded the morning mist, and they fled at full speed.
Ardashir remembered looking back at that moment: the torches of the Kawahir pursuers formed a scarlet venomous serpent, roaring and chasing them into the dawning day.
During the three years that followed, the sound of camel bells and horses' hooves became Ardashir's lullaby.
Along the way, they crossed sixteen kingdoms and city-states, for Iskandar had heard rumors spread by traveling merchants that there existed in the east an empire named Xu, with rich and vast lands, whose king was generous and benevolent, and who might perhaps offer them aid.
Mithrana's fascination with birds began during the crossing of the "Land of a Thousand Springs" bazaar.
When the caravan's bells startled a flock of red-crowned sandgrouse into flight, the seven-year-old girl suddenly let go of her father's hand and began to chase these birds with iridescently colored spotted wings, running right into the Euphrates poplar forest. Ardashir followed her closely, and brother and sister fell together into an ostrich trap dug by shepherds. At the bottom of the pit were three tame, white-feathered ostriches, observing them with tilted heads, surprised by these intruders.
"I want to ride the big bird!" Mithrana exclaimed, trading her malachite ring, her treasure, for an ostrich.
From that day on, the little girl with the red ribbon in her hair spent her days following the caravan on ostrich-back, her ribbon tracing joyful arcs in the golden sea of sand, like a scarlet-feathered bird in full flight.
Every dusk on the road of exile, the caravan held a ceremony for the Sacred Fire. Iskandar fed this flame with spices collected along the way. The Sacred Fire burned gently under the desert night sky, sometimes adorned with peacock-blue waves, or silently casting sparks like golden feathers.
Every night, by the fireside, Iskandar invented new stories for his children, transforming the monotony of exile into a flamboyant adventure:
He told them that,
when they crossed the "Desert of Iron Roses," the dinosaur skeleton discovered by the caravan was actually a forest of singing fossils. These agatized tree trunks emitted sounds like chimes, and these great petrified orchestras, on nights when the two moons were full, allowed glimpses of transparent figures dancing among the rocks...
In the "Mirror Abyss" oasis, the fierce-looking merchants were actually selling flasks of "reflections." These crystal bottles contained the reflections of snow-capped mountains, palaces, and even tornadoes; the most expensive was called "the Lover's Shadow"...
Passing near a place where nomads were massively slaughtering their livestock, he told them that the "Cloud Herder People" lived in immense houses made of inflated bladders and sold passersby microclimates contained in sheep bladders... One of them was called "Mist of Memory"; when one wanted to forget, one just had to blow it.
In the kingdom of Xu, at the far east of the continent, the capital's walls were made of amber, and the markets smelled of honey and roses...
Amidst the ruins of a broken world, Iskandar, through countless benevolent lies, had pitched for Ardashir and Mithrana a dream tent shimmering with soft lights.
In Ardashir's memory, it was a brief and brilliant childhood, born in the interstices of a shattered world.
As they progressed eastward, along the path of exile, they heard more and more rumors in post houses and markets about the prosperity of the kingdom of Xu. These fragments of hope comforted Iskandar in his direction.
Once, a black sandstorm nearly extinguished the Sacred Fire. Iskandar, holding a terror-stricken, weeping Mithrana with one hand, undid his bloodied bandage with the other, poured the rest of his wine onto it, then shook the strip of cloth over the embers. The flame suddenly shot up to more than a man's height.
"Look..."
Iskandar crouched down and, pointing to an evanescent shape in the fire, said softly to Mithrana: "In the flames, do you see Passar? Do you see Mother?"
Ardashir noticed at that moment that the Sacred Fire illuminated the tears streaming from his father's eyes, resembling molten gold.
However, on the very day the ashen mountains of the kingdom of Xu finally appeared on the desert horizon, they fell into an ambush set by desert brigands. A poisoned arrow pierced Iskandar's chest.
Ardashir felt something explode within him. The fifteen-year-old adolescent gripped his bloodied scimitar and rushed at the enemy. The moment his blade sliced a brigand's throat, hot blood spurted onto his eyelashes – the world suddenly turned dark red.
He no longer remembered how many men he had cut down, only the terrified pupils reflecting his own image: the corners of his bloodshot eyes wept tears of blood, the upturned corners of his lips were covered in foam; he resembled a demon emerged from hell.
"Ardashir!"
His father's voice tore through the stupor of the massacre.
The adolescent froze, realizing his blade was stuck in a brigand's cervical vertebra, while Mithrana, ten paces away, covered her eyes, trembling.
Iskandar was half-leaning against a broken shield. The hem of his robe, soaked in blood, was covered in sand, but his gaze remained clear.
"Come," said the dying king.
When Ardashir knelt beside his father, blood was still dripping from his saber. Iskandar did not look at these stains but took the two young hands in his own. His palms were already a little cold, but his grip was firm.
"My children..."
He paused, his breathing weak, but imbued with a gentleness and firmness that brooked no argument.
"Continue... Go see over there... Go see what the world truly looks like."
Ardashir, prostrated at his knees, trembled slightly. He wanted to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
Mithrana sobbed, wanting to throw herself into her father's arms, but Iskandar gently wiped the tears from her face with his fingertips.
"Don't stop for me, and don't stop for the past either," he said, each word spoken calmly, as if giving instructions for something insignificant.
He paused, contemplating the Frost Moon rising in the night sky, pale as bone, cold and silent; while the Ash Moon, dark red like embers, had its edges faintly burning with a bloody glow. He turned his head towards Ardashir, an almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.
"When you see a new dawn... ask yourself... where you want to go." He laboriously raised his hand and pointed to the silver casket of the Sacred Fire lying on the ground. "The Sacred Fire must illuminate the true nature of all things, not the phantom of vengeance."
With these words, he slowly closed his eyes, a final peaceful smile on his lips.
The next morning, a faint, pallid light appeared on the horizon.
The Gönok warriors used their chipped scimitars to lift a bloodied cloak, using it as a shroud to cover Iskandar's remains.
On the nearest high ground, they piled rough stones and gravel to erect a simple and solemn funerary tower for him.
Ardashir, still dazed, held his sister in his arms, contemplating his father's catafalque on the silent tower in the desert. In exile, grief, and solitude, the prince was crowned king.
He did not know how long he had walked, remembering only the desolate mountains and intermittent stars succeeding one another before his eyes, until one morning, a strange golden glow finally appeared on the horizon.
Ardashir, carrying a half-conscious Mithrana, staggered over the last dune. Suddenly, the landscape opened up before him.
— A city, floating in the morning light like a mirage.
High mud-brick walls, yellow and white, rose majestically between the sea of sand and the oasis. Before the city gates, a stream of chariots and horses; the sound of camel bells, merchants' cries, horse trainers' curses mingled in a din, banners snapping in the wind like a sea.
The air was filled with the smells of grilled meat, cheese, sandalwood, spices – a warm tumult.
But what almost made Ardashir's heart stop was the order and wealth emanating from the details of this city.
Market stalls lined the streets; horses' hooves struck the smooth, blue stone pavers; merchants sold rose mead in lacquered glass containers; caravans entered in an orderly fashion through the gate; soldiers patrolled; immaculate banners fluttered in the wind...
It was so similar. So similar to Passar.
So similar to the capital of his memories, the one that shone gold under the sun, where the Sacred Fire burned eternally.
Ardashir hardly dared to believe his eyes.
His father had not deceived him; he had finally reached that land of hope his father had described to him.
Ardashir, pulling Mithrana by the hand, led his caravan through the bustling market. This convoy, which seemed a little too large in the eyes of the local merchants, slowly crossed the market, like a small kingdom in exile.
Passersby turned around; townspeople whispered. The authorities soon noticed these unusual foreigners. Soon, a troop of horsemen dressed in dark blue war robes arrived before the market.
At their head was the General of the Protectorate, Pang Duo.
Pang Duo reined in his horse and carefully observed this strange convoy:
A hundred men and mounts advancing slowly through the sandy market. Although the troop appeared tired, it maintained a kind of implicit order. About thirty large warhorses, manes shining, saddles adorned with complex and finely engraved totemic motifs. About twenty fine-bred camels, carrying on their backs crates of goods wrapped in purple and blue brocade, characters embroidered at the corners of the crates, silver bells tinkling softly with each of their steps.
When the wind lifted the fabrics, one could glimpse the treasures they concealed: gold wine cups inlaid with jade, amulets finely carved from nephrite jade, portable altars inlaid with malachite and silver, as well as exotic beasts protected by fine iron cages. A desert falcon with black feathers and golden eyes, a lion with a mane as silky as flowing water, a large bird with white feathers shining with a golden sheen under the sun...
These objects were not the wealth that simple nomadic merchants or refugees could possess. Even Pang Duo, seasoned on the frontiers, had never seen among the caravans such quality and such rarities.
Pang Duo observed in silence, his judgment already made.
They were not mere travelers, nor routed refugees, nor nomadic brigands.
Pang Duo said a few words, but Ardashir, clearly, did not understand.
Fortunately, an older spice merchant nearby knew a little of the Gönok language and offered himself as an impromptu interpreter.
Thanks to this hesitant translation, Pang Duo learned that:
— This was a group of members of a royal family in exile, come from the distant west. They had survived by trading throughout their journey, eventually arriving here.
Pang Duo asked no more questions. After exchanging a few more words with the spice merchant, his gaze rested for a moment on Ardashir's face, then he clasped his hands in salute.
The merchant translated:
"The general says... this is not the capital, but you may settle here. He is willing to offer you a hot soup and a room to sleep in until morning. And also, he would be very happy to become your friend."
At the end of the path of destruction and wandering, this simple and direct kindness was like a warm light that illuminated Ardashir's heart.