Ah, behold the sorrow that draped Homan's heart,

Decades of nurturing, toil, and unwavering art,

Now, before his eyes, on the earth it lies,

No soul lost a truer friend, beneath Neyestan's skies.

Rubina reclined against the left side of the imposing rock, her arms enveloping her knees, as she gazed into the abyss of her thoughts. Beneath her breath, she softly uttered the verses of Homan's Lament. In the confines of Ashuban, such an act could have dire consequences, but fortune smiled upon her, for they were in Parsin, and her companions exhibited no inclination to rebuke her. After all, Homan stood as a venerable hero and elder among humans, a scion of Dohamad's lineage.

The lengths to which she had gone to procure a copy of Old Parsin Poetry were known only to her, and the elegy held an inexplicable solace in her heart. Her convictions differed markedly from many of Homan's actions. She, for one, would never turn a blind eye to the smallest aperture through which to strike at the enemy, and she regarded falsehoods and stratagem as essential elements of her own tactics. Furthermore, if ever faced with a situation where death loomed, her choice would be surrender, reserving vengeance for a later date—a stark contrast to Homan's unyielding determination to spill his own blood in pursuit of his chosen path.

Nevertheless, in the chronicles of Homan's saga, Rubina found a warmth that enveloped her, particularly on nights like the one at hand, when the mild cold gnawed at their very bones, liberating her mind from other disquieting thoughts.

Among their group, Shahab stood out as one of the more reserved individuals, an intriguing contrast to the knowledge they held about him. Upon regaining his senses, his eyes fell upon Tufan and Tizpa, diligently excavating a deep pit. In silence, Shahab watched them, his brow furrowed, his gaze tinged with a peculiar blend of astonishment and anger, lost in contemplation. He unconsciously toyed with the anti-fire amulet hanging from his necklace, a tangible tether to his thoughts.

Each time Tufan's hand drove forcefully into the earth, guiding the air stream into the ground, the visage of the enigmatic man, whose fate remained uncertain, haunted Shahab's thoughts. That final moment, the wretched smile upon the man's lips—what did it mean? It was evident that if he had wished, he could have met out the same fate to Shahab as he did to Arjang. Did it imply an intention to humiliate him? Shahab recognized that, for a soldier who had failed to come to the aid of a comrade, enduring wounded pride was perhaps more excruciating than facing death. This burden was compounded by the prospect of spending an indeterminate stretch of time in the aftermath of such a calamity, alongside the fellow survivors of that failure.

Yet, it was the insidious "or" that ignited countless enigmatic thoughts and imaginings, causing him to press his nails so firmly into his palms that blood welled forth. What had that malevolent specter perceived in the heir of the Azarbar family, prompting him to withhold his hands from staining with Shahab's blood? Perhaps, the accursed man aimed to convey, in a symbolic gesture, that Shahab was not worthy enough to stain his hands with the blood of an unworthy enemy. The mere contemplation of this possibility sent Shahab's blood coursing with fury, drawing Parisa's concerned gaze upon him.

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Their eyes met, and Parisa noticed the fierce flames adorning Shahab's head. Gradually, the flames diminished in stature—although they did not vanish entirely. Instead, they burned sporadically, casting shades of charcoal red and azure blue amidst the fiery display, an unusual phenomenon for those who knew Shahab well.

“I think… we’re good.”

Among the hushed assembly, Suzanne, whose silence was as profound as the tranquility of Dara Shah's valley, roused herself and noticed that Tizpa and Tufan had ceased their excavation. In a composed tone, Tufan inquired, "Does anyone know to which family he belonged? Are you familiar with their customs?"

Parisa, resting a hand on her hip, chimed in, "So, neither of you has any inkling? Didn't he follow you around like a shadow? What about you, Shahab?"

Shahab, having risen and approached the grave, replied in a subdued voice, "He rarely spoke of his family, only a memory or two about his father. He was discreet about his origins... but I doubt he hailed from a prominent lineage "

Rubina offered a practical solution, saying, "In that case, we should perform the customary rites of Ashuban for an unknown soul."

The collective agreement was silent but unequivocal. Moments later, at Tufan's signal, Arjang's lifeless form was gently lowered into the grave, six pairs of eyes observing from above. Although none displayed overt grief, their individual dispositions concealed their own unique forms of anguish.

Suzanne, clutching her left arm, blinked as Parisa's hand rested on her shoulder. With an urgency to convey her message, she proclaimed, "Arjang Mar-chap ventured into the abyss to remind us of the proximity of death, urging us to fight for the cause of Ashuban while we still draw breath."

With a determined resolve, she released a small green fireball she had conjured within her fist, directing it into the depths of the grave. The response elicited by Arjang's body upon contact with this mystical fire held the potential to unveil glimpses of his heritage and roots, for those who understood the cryptic signs.

As the fireball made contact with Arjang's chest, he began to ignite, a blaze that swept from head to toe, painting him in hues of the same fiery spectrum. The entire grave filled with smoke, a shade lighter than the flames, obscuring the corpse from view. Within the smoky veil, vibrant streaks emerged and twined together, forming a circle with a central vertical line before vanishing. The Ashubanies exchanged glances, silently seeking recognition of the symbol. Yet, even Rubina shook her head, signaling her lack of understanding. Not wanting to press the matter, they proceeded with Tufan's gesture, burying the smoky grave in the earth.

Amidst the shroud of darkness, they maintained their silence for a few moments, finding solace in the sound of one another's breaths, although none dared to mention it. Eventually, someone broke the quietude.

"Suzanne..."

Rubina, the first to voice her thoughts openly, pondered aloud, "I believe this mission, in some manner, was not tailored for our group."