The daughter of "The Iron-headed Demon" had not summoned her ten young slaves on a whim. Since their oaths of fealty, the boys were made to follow a maid each morning to pay their respects to their mistress at the residence of the Eighth Lord.
Aryan sought to win the favor of the young mistress but quickly realized how arduous a task it was. As a favored young master of the Gulen family, he had once been adored by everyone without even trying. Now, reduced to the status of the lowest slave, his body reeked of the stench of death, and people shunned him as if his mere presence was offensive. How could anyone now find him worthy of affection?
Even during the morning greetings, the boys had to kneel at the farthest edge of the courtyard, keeping their distance from others. They were forbidden to move or lift their heads until the mistress returned from outside and entered the inner chambers. Only then could they stand and quietly retrace their steps back to the "Woodpile House," enduring the cold disdain of sefr-woodpile upon their return.
This mistress was not like the daughters of the Khurshah family. Bound by her duties as a wife, she paid her respects each morning to her mother-in-law and sister-in-law—a ritual she seemingly detested. She took out this frustration on the slaves brought from her natal home. Her temper, much like that of her husband, Rashid, had a penchant for cruelty.
Doo-woodpile often warned, half-teasing, half-threatening, "Watch yourselves; don't make the mistress angry. And don't come to me for help—I'll protect myself first, even if we're brothers."
Though he was known for his empty bluster, this time, his words tragically came true. The first to suffer misfortune was noh-woodpile, the eldest and sturdiest among the boys, his round, friendly face perpetually smiling with an almost childlike innocence. Despite his size, he was the easiest target for doo-woodpile's taunts, even bursting into tears more than once. Yet it was this seemingly gentle giant who committed an unthinkable act during their second round of greetings.
He dared to lift his head.
At that moment, the young mistress strode into the courtyard, her steps brisk, her voice sharp with fury. "Why should Laleh change her name? Does the Khurshah family think they own every word in existence? Insufferable, insufferable!"
The mistress was accompanied by four personal maids whose names reflected ideals of harmony: Mahta, Mina, Laleh, and Parmida. The boys found these names uninspired, though the mistress seemed fond of them. Perhaps, however, it was not the maids or their names that she cherished but her defiance of any outside coercion, even though the demand to rename her maid had come from her mother-in-law, the matriarch of the Khurshah household.
These subtleties were far from the boys' minds; their thoughts froze when Laleh's surprised voice rang out across the courtyard. "Did you just lift your head? Why did you look up?"
Before noh-woodpile could respond, Firouzeh stepped forward. With a sharp motion, she pressed him face-first to the stone-paved ground, rendering him motionless with one calculated blow.
Kneeling with foreheads pressed to the ground, none of the boys dared to twitch, much less glance around.
The mistress stopped mid-complaint, her quick steps retreating behind a hastily erected screen within the hall. Only then did she ask, "Did that man see me?"
With a single glance, noh-woodpile had been elevated from a boy to a "man."
"No, he couldn't have," Firouzeh answered, her rebuke swift and harsh yet tinged with a hint of defense. She shot a glance at doo-woodpile, silencing any words he might have uttered.
"I didn't see anything. I saw nothing," noh-woodpile stammered from where he lay prostrate, his voice muffled but unmistakably filled with terror—a trembling confession that was, in itself, a damning admission.
"Kill him," the mistress commanded coldly from behind the screen.
"Miss, that may not be appropriate," Firouzeh hesitated, her tone measured.
This was Alamut Castle, not the Iron Mountain stronghold. The mistress could no longer wield absolute authority over life and death, much as the restraint chafed her.
"Then gouge out his eyes. Cut out his tongue," she declared instead.
The punishment was the same as what had been meted out to an ill-fated maidservant. The blinded, mute girl remained in service to the mistress, and the boys saw her during every morning greeting, a silent specter of caution.
"I didn't see anything! Please, I didn't see anything!" noh-woodpile's voice broke with desperation, his body trembling uncontrollably on the ground.
The mistress's four maids stepped forward in unison; maiming was among their duties. Laleh—no longer allowed to use her old name and yet without a new one—was especially eager, finding an outlet for her frustrations in this gruesome task.
Though the daughter of "The Iron-headed Demon" could no longer wield unchecked power, the punishment of her dowry slaves remained her unchallenged prerogative.
No one pleaded for noh-woodpile.
Aryan wanted to shut out the screams but could only quiver silently, wishing, for that dreadful moment, that he were deaf.
The maids worked quickly, their experience evident even in their savagery. When it was over, they dressed noh-woodpile's wounds with practiced efficiency, ensuring he survived—if only to serve as a ghastly example.
The boys carried the bloodied noh-woodpile back to the "Woodpile House" in complete silence. Though their vows of brotherhood were once mere pretenses, guilt now lingered in each of their hearts for their grievously injured companion.
When sefr-woodpile saw noh-woodpile's face, drenched in blood, he recoiled in alarm, stepping back while waving his polished wooden staff as if to dispel some unseen specter. "What happened?" he demanded.
doo-woodpile briefly recounted the events, and sefr-woodpile, visibly shaken, furrowed his brows, his expression shifting between disbelief and fear. "That foolish boy—why did he look up?"
Though noh-woodpile had lost both his eyes and tongue, his hearing remained intact. Suddenly, he broke free from their grip, groaning incoherently as he staggered toward where he believed sefr-woodpile to be.
The moment was chaotic and unanticipated. noh-woodpile veered past his intended target as sefr-woodpile froze in place before erupting into anger. Swinging his wooden staff mercilessly, he struck noh-woodpile with a flurry of blows.
"You brainless idiot! Are you mad, spying on the mistress? Trying to get yourself killed?" sefr-woodpile snarled, his fury strangely misplaced. It dawned on Aryan—the bitter truth behind sefr-woodpile's rage: it was he who had coaxed noh-woodpile into stealing a glance at their mistress.
There was no mistaking it. sefr-woodpile had, on more than one occasion during idle gossip with other slaves, expressed a curious fascination with the eighth mistress. Known as the daughter of a fabled Central Asian bandit and renowned for her unrivaled beauty, her face was jealously veiled from all men. For the men of Alamut Castle, who had never suffered the wrath of the "Iron-headed Demon," she remained an alluring mystery.
The ten boys, however, had been conditioned from their first day to never even entertain the notion of gazing upon their mistress. Curiosity had long been snuffed out, replaced with a suffocating sense of discipline. Only noh-woodpile, naïve and ever eager to please, had been manipulated by sefr-woodpile's scheming.
Though everyone tacitly understood the truth, no one dared voice it aloud. Following doo-woodpile's lead, they subdued noh-woodpile and carried him to his bed. In truth, noh-woodpile had already fallen unconscious under the relentless assault of the wooden staff, his limp body incapable of resistance.
Laid upon the wooden bed, noh-woodpile bled profusely. No matter how they tried, the bleeding refused to stop, staining the bedding and floor. sefr-woodpile dismissed the idea of calling for a doctor. Helpless, the boys could only clean the blood repeatedly, accustomed as they were to tending to the dying. To them, this scene felt bitterly familiar.
Throughout the night, noh-woodpile groaned in agony, his breath rasping as he muttered sporadic phrases in their native tongue. No one translated his words, leaving Aryan to wonder in vain what the dying boy sought to convey.
Sleep proved elusive for all within the dim, tense room. Eventually, doo-woodpile climbed down from his bed, gave noh-woodpile a firm pat on the head, and barked a few sharp words in command. Amazingly, the boy fell silent, his broken body momentarily at peace.
That night, Aryan barely closed his eyes. By morning, before he was fully awake, he somehow knew noh-woodpile had breathed his last.
The fragile bonds of their brotherhood, already insincere, crumbled entirely after the incident. Each boy realized that as mere slaves, they lacked both the strength and right to protect one another. Survival demanded new alliances and stronger patronage.
Three of them sought refuge with sefr-woodpile, though they learned from noh-woodpile's demise and swore never to partake in such risky schemes. Two others turned their efforts toward ingratiating themselves with doo-woodpile, who had gained Firouzeh's favor and seemed destined for a bright future as a trainee assassin.
The brothers panj-woodpile and haft-woodpile, however, chose to remain independent, distancing themselves from the rest. They often conversed quietly in their native language, their discussions obscured by secrecy.
Amid this undercurrent of shifting loyalties and fragile alliances, Aryan's mind was consumed with thoughts of revenge.
Two days after noh-woodpile's death, Firouzeh visited once more. She barged into sefr-woodpile's quarters, her face dark with anger.
"You beat my mistress's slave to death."
Startled by her accusation, sefr-woodpile shrank back, his usual bluster evaporating. Stammering, he attempted to summon courage and counter, "Don't pin this on me! You're the ones who maimed him—blinding and silencing him before he died! This has nothing to do with me."
Firouzeh, unversed in verbal sparring, relied instead on her infamous iron grip. Without a word, she jabbed sefr-woodpile's chest twice with her steely fingers. Every boy in the room had witnessed her strength before—her bony hands could rival the redwood staff itself in force.
sefr-woodpile's face flushed with sudden pain, and with a groan, he crumpled to the floor, writhing in agony. It was his second encounter with Firouzeh's formidable strength, and this time, the blows had been even more punishing.
Having delivered her message, Firouzeh left without another word. With that, the matter of noh-woodpile's death was laid to rest.
Still smarting from Firouzeh's attack, sefr-woodpile, determined to restore his authority, summoned his own patron the next day. By evening, when the remaining nine boys were settling in for the night, sefr-woodpile's voice rang out, commanding them all to gather. His tone brimmed with newfound confidence.
In his room, the boys saw the source of sefr-woodpile's bravado—a man lounging in a chair, his face tilted upward as if in boredom. sefr-woodpile sat at his feet, diligently massaging the man's legs.
The figure was clad in a black robe embroidered with a golden bird on the shoulder, a deep crimson sash at his waist, and a slender blade at his side—clear markings of an Alamut Castle assassin.
Though all present recognized the significance of his attire, Aryan alone realized who the man truly was. Though he could see only the side of his face, the assassin's features struck Aryan with startling familiarity.
"Little rats, Didn't your lady cut off anyone's tongue today? " sneered sefr-woodpile.
No one dared respond.
"Hey, watch your words," the assassin murmured, his tone indifferent as his eyes remained closed. "That's the eighth mistress you're talking about—show some respect."
Despite his rebuke, there was a casualness to his demeanor that belied his words.
"Brother, I meant no disrespect. It's just that one lowly slave died—nothing unusual for this place. No other master would care, yet this new mistress sends her sharp-tongued maid to jab at me! And all this when they mutilated the boy first!" sefr-woodpile complained, his voice tinged with resentment.
The assassin smirked faintly, still relaxed. "That maid has her own reputation. Consider yourself lucky she didn't strike harder. What do you expect me to do? I belong to the eighth master's household. Do you think I'll argue with his wife?"
Aryan suddenly recalled where he had seen the man before.
Roughly three months earlier, a Central Asian man calling himself Homayun had arrived at the Gulen estate, armed with a letter of introduction. Lord Gulen had taken him in as a retainer.
Aryan's heart sank. He was perched on the edge of a precipice once again. If Homayun turned his head and opened his eyes, he would undoubtedly recognize the youngest son of the Gulen family.