Chapter Twelve

The union between the most formidable assassin organization and the greatest bandit group of Central Asia was destined to cause a sensation in Lambsar City, a tale to be recounted for years to come.

Riding amidst the wedding procession, Aryan was perhaps the only one indifferent to the event itself. This was not his first visit to Lambsar City—he had been here two years ago—but his return felt like stepping into a different lifetime.

Back then, after nearly a month of arduous trekking through the desert, Lambsar City was the first densely populated place the Gulen family encountered. For travelers parched and weary, their first sip of water felt like ambrosia, and the city seemed nothing short of a paradise.

From its outskirts, the city sprawled with shops and taverns, its streets teeming with people of every origin, each a marvel to behold. It was the first time the family had seen such a melting pot of cultures, their eyes scarcely able to take it all in as they unabashedly gawked.

Yet Lord Gulen harbored no fondness for this place. After a brief stop to obtain travel permits from the local offices, they departed at dawn, resuming their journey westward to the oasis estate secured weeks in advance.

Aryan and his brothers were disappointed. The second brother muttered about wanting to buy a Central Asian dancing girl, earning a stern rebuke from the eldest. Yet even he couldn't help but ogle the elegant women in the streets, nearly falling off his horse in the process.

The second brother had hoarded a considerable stash of secret savings, hidden beneath his bedding, dreaming of returning to Lambsar City one day to purchase a beauty.

Now, the wedding procession entered the city through the western gate, parading through its streets with great fanfare. Citizens thronged the thoroughfares, bowing deeply in respect. Many scattered fragrant petals on the ground, giving the union of killers and thieves the reverence due royalty.

This was Lambsar City, where the sword was the crown.

Beyond the city lay the Alamut Castle, perched atop an unassailable peak. A winding, serpentine path served as its sole access point, beginning at the city's northern gate. From afar, the castle seemed like the palace of an emperor, with the city below as its sentinel and first line of defense.

Even the path leading upward was adorned for the occasion, the houses along the way draped with festive decorations. Most of the residents depended on Alamut Castle in one way or another, with the "King of Assassins" providing their livelihoods.

As the altitude rose, the temperature began to drop; even in the height of summer, there was a refreshing chill in the air.

Those seeing Alamut Castle's terrain for the first time were often struck with awe. From below, the fortress appeared to sit atop the mountain's summit, but in truth, it crowned a solitary pinnacle, surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides. The only link to the mountain path was a stone bridge, barely wide enough for a man to cross.

Without railings on either side, anyone crossing it and daring to look down would see only swirling mists and feel a disorienting vertigo, unable to linger on the view.

All dismounted and crossed on foot; no one dared risk their horse panicking and plunging into the abyss. Crossing the narrow half-mile bridge left even the bravest feeling humbled by the majesty of the castle.

The castle gates opened to a broad square, paved with black stones, some cracked and worn, evidence of the fortress's ancient past.

The fortress walls, built from massive stones, stood in staggered rows of varying heights, yet even the lowest exceeded three or four stories. Arrowslits and watchtowers dotted their tops, countless flags soaring skyward.

Such a bastion could truly be described as impenetrable, a place where a single soldier could hold back a thousand attackers. With sufficient provisions, no force could breach it from the outside.

Aryan increasingly believed in the divine intervention that had brought him here. Only through fate could he have infiltrated Alamut Castle's impregnable depths.

The castle gates stood open, and a welcoming party awaited the bride. Aryan had hoped to glimpse the legendary "King of Assassins," Rukn al-Din, but was disappointed. Aside from Rashid, no other members of the Khurshah family appeared, nor did he witness the wedding ceremony.

Ten boys and ten girls, along with the countless treasures of the dowry, had now become Khurshah property. Upon arrival, they were promptly taken away and assigned duties.

The girls were sent to Rashid's manor to serve as personal attendants for the new bride. The boys were dispatched to a small courtyard bearing the inscription "Woodpile House" above its gates—a clue, Aryan surmised, that their future tasks would involve chopping firewood.

For the newly arrived youths, the wedding celebration became nothing more than distant music and muted laughter.

Their first night in Alamut Castle was peaceful but excruciatingly long. After a simple meal delivered by a servant, no one came to check on the new acquisitions. The ten boys slept in a single room, squeezed together on a large communal bed barely wide enough for them all.

Bahman, a sharp-faced youth, was the first to shake off the initial shock. With the marks of the earlier slap now fading, he regained his confidence and proposed a pact of brotherhood, declaring himself the "eldest brother."

"This is Alamut Castle," he boasted. "Do you even understand? This is Alamut Castle. Even the royal families of Central Asia can't rival the Khurshah family's power. We're lucky—no, I'm lucky. I'll rise to greatness here, maybe even win the favor of the 'King of Assassins.' Being valued here means being valued throughout all of Lambsar City. As for you, just follow me loyally and learn a thing or two about getting ahead. Who knows? You might make something of yourselves. Oh, and don't say I didn't warn you—someone dies in Alamut Castle every day. At least one person. Watch yourselves."

Bahman reveled in instilling fear and enjoyed basking in flattery. Several boys, playing along, begged him to look out for them, pale-faced and stammering.

After an hour of his endless rambling, Bahman finally drifted off to sleep, followed by the others. Aryan, however, lay awake, staring into the darkness. He couldn't remember the last time he had truly rested.

His sister might be imprisoned somewhere within these very walls—he could almost hear her calling to him. The urge to investigate was too strong to resist, despite the perils.

Ignoring the risks,Bahman might still jump up and yell, there might be traps everywhere,Aryan carefully rose from the bed, barefoot, and slipped silently out of the room.

The courtyard was small, with doors on both its eastern and western sides. The eastern door led to the alley they had entered through earlier in the day. Remembering the guards posted there, Aryan decided to explore the west.

The door was ajar—a promising sign—but beyond lay impenetrable darkness. As Aryan's eyes adjusted, he discerned the contours of the ground: smooth dirt scattered with stones, and in the distance, shadowy trees looming tall.

This didn't feel like part of Alamut Castle anymore. It seemed he had unknowingly wandered outside its boundaries.

Surprised at how easy it had been to exit, Aryan cautiously advanced, moving step by step. After walking thirty or forty paces, he heard an unusual sound beneath his feet—a pebble dislodging, followed by a faint, eerie noise.

Startled, he froze and glanced down, realizing with a shock that he was at the edge of a precipice. A single step further, and he would have plunged into the abyss.

No guards were stationed here—it required none.

The sound he heard had come from below, faint and distant, resembling either the clatter of a falling stone against the cliff or the piercing whistle of something unnatural. In the stifling silence of the night, it seemed like an echo from the depths of hell.

Aryan felt a chill run down his spine. He cautiously stepped back a few paces before turning and sprinting towards the small courtyard. Once inside, his nerves settled somewhat. Quietly, he approached the eastern gate and gave it a push, only to find it securely locked from within. Taking a few steps back, he scanned for a possible place to climb over, but his retreat was abruptly halted by a collision with something behind him. Startled, he turned to look up—only to see a man staring down at him.

The figure was clad entirely in black, his face obscured by a mask, rendering him nearly indistinguishable from the darkness. His right hand rested on his left hip, gripping the hilt of a blade. He stood as silent and spectral as a phantom.

Aryan's initial shock gave way to an odd mix of hope and wariness. Could this shadowy figure be an ally, another intruder seeking to unravel the mysteries of Alamut Castle? Yet the chilling encounter by the cliff had sharpened Aryan's instincts, and he stood motionless, watching, waiting.

At last, the man spoke.

"You've violated the curfew."

A cold shiver raced through Aryan. This wasn't an accomplice—it was one of Alamut Castle's sentinels, proof that the fortress was as impenetrable within as without.

"I didn't know... I'm new here. I—uh—I needed to pee" Aryan stammered.

"You're one of the young mistress's people?"

Aryan nodded vigorously, grasping at the lifeline offered.

The man hesitated, his hand tightening briefly on the sword hilt before loosening again.

"There's a chamber pot inside."

Realizing how close he'd come to a grizzly end, Aryan nodded fervently and hurried back to the dormitory. He fumbled for the chamber pot, but his nerves made even this simple act difficult. For a long moment, he struggled, managing to pee sparingly, haunted by the image of the sentinel listening outside.

Lying back on the cramped dirt bed, his heart still racing, Aryan vowed to himself, No more recklessness. The soft snores of his fellow boys surrounded him, a mocking symphony of oblivion.

Despite his renewed resolve, Aryan realized on the second day that revenge would not be easily achieved. Even catching sight of Rashid proved nearly impossible.

The "Woodpile House" has nothing to do with storing firewood; it is where bodies are stored. It served as a place of death—a grim holding area for those injured or ill and deemed too insignificant to heal. In Alamut Castle, such unfortunates were plentiful. As Bahman had so bluntly declared the day prior, "Here, death is a daily ritual."

While the mistress basked in marital bliss, the boys she had brought with her descended into a new circle of hell. Assigned to care for the dying, they faced horrors far beyond witnessing a blade strike a neck. Open wounds, decaying flesh, the relentless scent of rot—they were assaulted by every form of human decay imaginable. By evening, all of them had aged in spirit, wearing silence and dread like ill-fitting shrouds. Even Bahman, so boastful before, sat pale and mute, his eyes hollow.

The overseer of the "Woodpile House" was a frail man in his twenties, his complexion pallid and speckled with a few pimples, as though he had long been tethered to illness. Originally sent to this grim sanctuary to await death, he had instead lingered on, becoming its unlikely "master."

His name was "Sefr-Woodpile." He uttered it with clenched teeth, as though its wretchedness were somehow the fault of the boys before him.

In his hand, he always carried a slender redwood cane, three feet long, with which he often proclaimed, "Only softened bones can produce obedient servants."

The rules of Alamut Castle were harsher than those of any mountain brigand clan. Sefr-Woodpile's first task upon taking charge of new slaves was to strip them of their identities and assign new names. The method was simple yet unrelenting: a number preceded by "Woodpile." Generations of slaves had borne these names, recycled endlessly.

Sefr-Woodpile's own name signified his dubious distinction as the very first slave of the Woodpile House, with "Sefr" meaning "zero."

He carried with him a register, crammed with symbols indicating which numbers were available.

The naming process unfolded in a small courtyard next door. An elderly man, his hair snow-white and skin sagging like melted wax, was tasked with this grim ritual. Once Sefr-Woodpile selected a number, the old man would retrieve the corresponding iron brand and heat it until it glowed red-hot.

Though the boys couldn't understand the language of the Western Kingdom, the sight of the fiery metal told them all they needed to know. They exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared step forward.

"Move along—we have much to do," Sefr-Woodpile barked impatiently.

Bahman—soon to be renamed "Doo-Woodpile"—shoved Aryan forward, forcing him to be the first. Aryan's right forearm was seared with his new name: Yek-Woodpile, marking him as Slave Number One in Persian. Bahman followed, becoming Doo-Woodpile—Number Two.

The brothers were next, one branded as Panj-Woodpile (Five) and the other Haft-Woodpile (Seven).

By the end, the boys' arms bore grotesque scars, etched with their new names and accompanied by a bird with outstretched wings—the emblem of Alamut Castle.

Seeing the sweat on the foreheads of the teenagers due to the severe pain, sefr-woodpile was very satisfied and even rolled up his own sleeve to reveal the branding on his arm.

 He let each boy see it before tugging the sleeve back down.

"You belong to Alamut Castle now," he declared. "In life, you are the King's servants; in death, you will serve the Soul of old lord. And remember—your lives are mine to command, Now."