I was born screaming under a sky split by lightning. The midwives tried to silence me—just as they had the others—but the cord around my neck burned to ash. The Sultan wept when he held me, calling me Ajooba, the Miracle. He didn’t know then that I was marked by heaven, that my veins carried light.

Now, at nineteen, I train in the courtyard, sweat stinging my eyes as I parry Farhad’s blade. The people whisper. Some call me blessed. Others, cursed.

Tonight, I found a hidden passage beneath the throne room. The air was thick with incense and something darker—blood. And there, in the shadows, the Fauladi Shaitan stirred. Its stone eyes cracked open.

A voice echoed: You are the last. Kill the Vazir, or become his sacrifice.

I clutched my sword. The choice is mine.