Who authored Homayun's letter of recommendation? That individual must be intricately tied to the Gulen family massacre. Yet, Aryan had no clues—at the time, he was just an inexperienced young master, wholly uninterested in such matters. Had it not been for Homayun presenting himself in the study that day, Aryan might not even remember that such a steward once existed.
Homayun must be able to recognize his former "little master". After all, one of his main purposes for sneaking into the Gulen family manor was to recognize people.. The wrong head the first time, the wrong one again the second—who else would know better than he?
Aryan's lingering fears had materialized. Now, caught in a life-or-death predicament, he found himself completely powerless. He couldn't leave rashly, as that would only arouse suspicion. Nor could he remain idle; it was only a matter of time before Homayun would open his eyes. Left with no other recourse, Aryan could only pray silently and entrust his fate to divine intervention.
His expression betrayed a flicker of unease, catching the sharp eye of doo-woodpile, who cast him a curious glance, starting to speak but stopping mid-thought.
Elsewhere, Homayun, reclining in his chair, turned his body slightly, gesturing for sefr-woodpile to massage his waist. In a lazy tone, he remarked,
"Enough idle chatter. I'm lucky I can still use this hand. Every time I face the Eighth Young Master, my heart pounds like a drum. Do you think I dare to speak? We'll discuss your matter another day."
Sefr-woodpile was visibly discontent, especially with the new slaves as his audience. Like a pouting lover, he pushed at Homayun's waist and whined coquettishly,
"Third Brother, I just don't get it. Killing the wrong child wasn't your fault. You weren't allowed to verify the head. And you're the one who found the boy in the end—why would you be afraid?"
Aryan, too, wanted to know, particularly about the mystery of this "second child."
Homayun chuckled softly, stretched lazily, and gave no answer. Instead, he turned toward the nine young slave boys, opening his eyes.
Aryan felt his heart leap into his throat, resisting the urge to flee outright. He would rather hurl himself from a cliff than fall back into his enemy's hands.
But Homayun simply closed his eyes again.
"I'll be gone for about a month. Give me some amusement before I leave."
Sefr-woodpile understood the unspoken directive—he needed to be inventive in currying favor with his patron.
"Panj-woodpile and Haft-woodpile, stay here. The rest of you, go back to your rooms." Then, lowering his voice near Homayun's ear, he whispered,
"two little brothers…"
The siblings froze, realizing they were being referred to.
The elder brother, Panj-woodpile, had thick brows and a rugged demeanor, while the younger, Haft-woodpile, was delicate and timid, perpetually hiding half his frame behind his brother. In Aryan's recollection, the boy had scarcely uttered a word.
Doo-woodpile's face darkened, as though deeply wronged. Once back in the sleeping quarters, his frustration erupted in a tirade.
"What's so special about those two? It's only because they're brothers. They're clueless, probably didn't even bother to wash their backsides! Ha! He thinks I tattled to Firouzeh? Everyone already knows about the beating noh-woodpile got."
Aryan surmised the grim fate awaiting the brothers.
Though only fourteen, he had faintly heard of pederasty during his time in the Western Kingdom. While the term's exact meaning eluded him, he knew it to be vile and shameful. Sympathy stirred for the brothers, but he was powerless to intervene. Instead, he felt a strange sense of relief—he had avoided danger. Homayun would leave tomorrow and be gone for a month. Perhaps, during that time, divine intervention would guide him to his sister, and they could escape, leaving space for revenge later.
doo-woodpile is upset that he didn't get the chance to flatter, turned his ire on others when the "fortunate" Panj-woodpile and Haft-woodpile weren't around.
"Yek-woodpile, looks like you're next! With that princely air you put on, they'll fawn all over you. Ah, but let me warn you—those men favor tender lambs like you and can be rather brutal. You might not walk straight for days afterward. Ha! Imagine, they—"
Aryan tried to caution himself against acting impulsively—Homayun was just across the hall. But the heat of anger overtook his reason, and he lunged at doo-woodpile.
Doo-woodpile had anticipated this, keeping himself shielded behind others. The five boys who had learned only bits of the Western Kingdom's tongue couldn't comprehend what had triggered Aryan. Together, they pulled him away.
Aryan, though trained in family martial arts, wasn't equipped to fight skilled assassins or bandits. But against boys his own age, he stood a fair chance. Still, reason returned in time. Stifling his fury, he retreated to a corner, hands trembling with suppressed rage.
It was near midnight when Panj-woodpile and Haft-woodpile returned.
The elder brother, Panj-woodpile, pressed his lips tightly together and kept his eyes cast down, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. His younger brother, Haft-woodpile, trailed behind him, sobbing quietly.
The two climbed into bed without a word, while the others feigned ignorance of the situation. However, one person's bitterness still simmered, unresolved.
"Hey, how's your backside feeling? Think cozying up to an assassin can get you ahead of me? Let me remind you, I'm the lady's trusted confidant now, and soon, I'll—"
Before doo-woodpile could finish his taunt, Panj-woodpile sprang over several of the boys and landed a punch squarely on his face. The two of them were instantly locked in a vicious brawl. Others initially tried to separate them but soon got pulled into the chaos themselves.
In the darkness, the dormitory erupted into a full-blown melee. Fists flew indiscriminately; no one could tell who was hitting whom. Even Aryan, despite his family-trained combat skills, couldn't avoid taking a few hard blows.
Caught up in their frenzied scuffle, none of them noticed the arrival of someone bearing a lantern.
Sefr-woodpile's voice cut through the commotion with a cold chuckle.
"my big Brother, it seems they're fighting for your favor."
Homayun, who had been resting in Sefr-woodpile's quarters, stepped in, annoyed yet amused by the chaotic sight. The noise could easily have drawn the attention of the night watch. With a commanding shout of "Enough!", he waded in, grabbing and tossing the boys aside to break up the fight.
Aryan, overwhelmed by pent-up fury, lost all reason. Every ounce of his strength surged into his fists. He felt a hand clamp onto his right arm, but without thinking, he twisted, sliding under the arm and lashing out with a left hook aimed at his captor's face.
To his surprise, Homayun didn't counter the attack. Instead, he tightened his grip and pushed Aryan forcefully into a corner.
A fresh red mark encircled the brand on Aryan's arm, as though it had seared his bone. The gap in power between Aryan and a Golden Eagle assassin was insurmountable.
The two locked eyes: one, the former spy who infiltrated the Gulen estate and now a loyal assassin in the service of the Eighth Young Master, Rashid; the other, a young heir of the fallen Gulen family, now reduced to slavery, marked by the disgrace of a brand.
In that moment, Aryan's mind was crystalline in its clarity. There was no escape. If death awaited him, he would choose to die with dignity rather than beg for mercy, tarnishing the Gulen name and the honor of the Western Kingdom.
The nine boys scattered throughout the room stayed silent, fully aware of their transgressions. Doo-woodpile averted his face, pretending to have no part in the matter.
Homayun flexed his hand, his expression breaking into one of delight.
"So, this place hides a hidden gem."
"Enough talk. Make your move," Aryan said as he slowly stood, his body coiling with tense energy. But facing him was a mountain, immovable and unassailable.
The typically meek Yek-woodpile's sudden audacity shocked the others, particularly Sefr-woodpile, who was stunned. Was this truly one of his trained slaves? Such behavior in the presence of the master was a blatant insult to his authority.
"You insolent brat! Are you courting death, speaking to an assassin in such a tone? What have I been teaching you?" Sefr-woodpile roared, snatching the redwood staff from his waist to enforce the harsh house rules.
But to everyone's astonishment, Homayun raised an arm to block him, his grin undiminished.
"Leave him be. No one touches him—until I return."
With that, Homayun and Sefr-woodpile exited, their lantern casting a dwindling glow as they left the boys alone in darkness. Slowly, the group returned to their bunks, breathing heavily. No one had won the fight. No one had gained an advantage.
Aryan climbed onto his cot, his body drained of strength, his bones feeling hollow as though they could no longer support him.
Homayun's cryptic words echoed in his mind. What did he mean? Could it be he hadn't recognized Aryan? How was that possible? Recognizing faces had been one of Homayun's key purposes when infiltrating the Gulen estate. Or perhaps the man was not Homayun at all but merely a look-alike? After all, Sefr-woodpile had referred to him as "Third Brother" without once uttering his real name.
"Another one to have his backside broken," doo-woodpile muttered bitterly under his breath before turning over and drifting off, resentful that such a "privilege" had not fallen to him.
By morning, Aryan finally understood. His face was swollen and bruised, a patchwork of reds and blues. He hadn't even noticed the pain, so preoccupied was he with his thoughts. Now, as he washed his face with cold water, the stinging itch became unbearable.
The others were equally battered, some limping as they walked.
When they went to present themselves to Firouzeh as per custom, the sight of the bedraggled boys earned only a dismissive snort. She said nothing and waved them off.
Back at the "Woodpile House," Sefr-woodpile seized the moment to remind them who truly held authority in the yard. Swinging his redwood staff, he demonstrated, one blow at a time, why he alone was entitled to mete out punishment.
Yet the instigator, doo-woodpile, escaped Sefr-woodpile's wrath. After their morning ritual, he would linger with Firouzeh for private training. Being noticed by the master wasn't enough to survive Alamut Castle; one needed martial prowess as well.
But Firouzeh's lessons were grueling. While the other boys' wounds healed, doo-woodpile constantly sported fresh bruises and cuts atop the old ones. Each evening, he would boast of how he would dominate as an assassin, though his confidence waned with each passing day.
Aryan doubted he would last a few months under Firouzeh's brutal training.
On the eleventh day in Alamut Castle, Aryan was still tormented by his failure to uncover any news of his sister and consumed with dread over Homayun's eventual return. Amid these thoughts, doo-woodpile approached him unexpectedly.
The two had barely spoken in days, so Aryan was taken aback when doo-woodpile appeared in Sefr-woodpile's room, much earlier than usual.
"You know martial arts?"
Aryan remained silent, continuing to scrub the floor.
"Teach me."
"Dream on," Aryan thought to himself, not bothering to reply.
"Teach me the Gulen Sword Technique, and I'll give you that piece of cloth back."
Aryan shot to his feet.