The King, old and tired, only sighed. “He unravels because he sees the knots before we tie them.”
She whispered “savior.”
In the gilded court of Babylon, whispers clung to the Prince like shadows to a lamp. They called him the Rogue. Not to his face—no one dared—but in the dripping alcoves of the water gardens and behind the silk curtains of the royal bathhouse, his name was a curse and a prayer.
That was his crime: he refused to walk the path the empire had paved for him.
“I delayed your death,” Cyrus replied. “Not the same.”
She did not whisper “rogue.”
Reza flinched. “You always speak in riddles.”
“The fire revealed the false ceiling.”