Two days of festivities had already passed in Susa, with marble halls adorned with golden columns and colorful mosaics depicting hunting scenes and legendary battles. Servants dressed in simple linen robes carried trays of pomegranates, dates, roast lamb, and goblets of perfumed wine, while musicians played lyres, flutes, and drums. Persian rugs and silk curtains divided the rooms, and noblewomen danced to the sound of chants, their hands and ankles adorned with gold bracelets and rings glinting beneath the torches.

Riordan could no longer bear the pomp and excessive ceremony. Latifa's purification, a sacred ritual yet to come, postponed the end of the festivities, prolonging the obligation to maintain composure in front of guests and family.

"I fear the hour of my death from the weariness of these accursed days, brother," he said to Kavian, taking a large sip of wine from his golden chalice engraved with symbols of the sacred fire.

Kavian raised an eyebrow and replied mockingly, "If you die, at least let it be with dignity, Riordan, and not murmuring like a weary servant."

Looking around, Riordan saw Astyra. She stared at everyone with the indifference typical of nobility, as if nothing that happened there mattered. A servant whispered something about her being about to cry, but pride kept her rigid and haughty.

"It seems our bride is stiffer than the temple columns," Neriyan murmured to Riordan, chuckling softly.

"Make no mistake, brother," Riordan replied coldly, "her silence is more dangerous than your laughter."

Men drank and discussed politics and future battles, and women danced, maintaining practiced smiles. Among them, voices commented on the embroidered fabrics and gold threads on Riordan's bracelets, but he paid no attention. Every word was mere noise. Two more days passed in this frenetic rhythm—ceremonious speeches, banquets, and continuous music. Finally, it seemed as if everything was coming to an end—but it wasn't. The bride still remained under the obligation of the nuptial act, the final ritual that would complete the marriage and free Riordan from his temporary obligations.

He extended his hand to help her onto his horse, but Astyra hesitated, stumbling slightly. "Careful, Astyra!" exclaimed her father, rushing to help her with an embarrassed gesture.

Astyra tried to stay away, as if unwilling to touch the animal or accept any approach. Riordan watched every gesture with icy eyes. She clutched the horse's hair tightly in a suppressed sigh, and he made a sudden movement, riding off without waiting for elaborate farewells or displays of affection.

As they advanced, the distant mountain loomed before them, taking them away from the festivities and the court. The cold desert wind ruffled their tunics and hair, and the echoes of music and chants grew ever more distant. Riordan looked at Astyra, still on horseback, maintaining her proud posture, and murmured, more to himself than to her:

"May the gods help me." He sighs, already exhausted from what is to come.