"I know your real hair color is hidden under all that dye," Arman stated firmly, his tone carrying a note of certainty. He paused for a moment before adding, "You may not realize it, but I have a sharp sense of smell—I can pick up the scent of hair dye."
Leila gave a nervous laugh, hoping to brush off his comment as just another one of his random theories. She knew her brother well enough to suspect he might only be fishing for information, grasping at a suspicion that had yet to be confirmed. And yet, a flicker of doubt gnawed at her. Perhaps she had grown too careless in concealing her secret.
"Arman," she replied, her voice wavering slightly as she forced a strained smile onto her face. "I think you're mistaken. None of us inherited the gift Mother had. If I truly were like her, do you think the Shah would have allowed me such freedom?"
Arman narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. "I know, Leila. That's exactly why you and Mother have worked so hard to hide it," he said, with a hint of resignation in his tone. "You've done an impressive job of keeping it under wraps all this time."
She shifted uncomfortably, trying to retain her composure. "If this is about the few white strands you spotted this morning, then I'm afraid you're jumping to conclusions," she replied, her voice almost steady. "The ash from the fire must have stained my hair." But as she spoke, she could tell her words lacked conviction, and the way Arman looked at her made it clear that he wasn't buying her explanation.
"No," he murmured, his voice low but resolute. "If you're so certain that the white in your hair is nothing but ash…" He pointed toward the river nearby, where the waters rushed by in a gentle but insistent flow, lapping up against the bank. She followed his gesture, her gaze falling on the cool, clear water. "Then I suppose you wouldn't mind washing your hair right here and now, would you?"
"Come on, Arman," she hissed, glancing around as if afraid someone might overhear. "I don't have time for this nonsense."
He just smirked, that knowing, infuriating look on his face. "Because you know I'm right," he continued, undeterred. "Think about it, Leila. Mother never let us bathe together, even as kids. She was always so careful, so secretive when it came to you. I used to wonder why."
Leila fell silent. His words landed heavily; he had stumbled too close to the truth, and her continued denial would only sound hollow. There was no use pretending anymore.
"Are you still going to deny it?" he asked softly, his gaze steady, as though daring her to keep up the facade.
She glared at him, frustration mixing with resignation. "Even if you know, you can't tell anyone," she warned, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. Grabbing a piece of fabric, she dipped it into the water, her hands moving automatically as her mind churned. Her heart raced. Her mother had always told her to guard this secret fiercely, never to whisper it, not even to her own shadow. Shadows had a way of betraying secrets.
No one had ever known until last night. The only reason she'd told Shahkhur was because it was the one thing that convinced him not to kill her—and it had worked. But now, Arman knew, and she couldn't undo that.
She bit her lip, cursing herself for her carelessness.
"Who would I even tell?" Arman murmured, his tone gentler. He turned back to his own washing, his hands busy scrubbing a coarse piece of cloth. "We're both outcasts, banished to this forest. I barely see twenty people in a year, and when I go into the village to sell charcoal and firewood, I don't linger. Who would I tell? My customers?" He laughed softly, almost bitterly. "What would that accomplish? They'd report it to the Shah, and then his guards would come and take you away, turn you into whatever it was they turned Mother into."
Leila's hands stilled in the water as his words sank in. The thought of facing the same fate as their mother filled her with dread.
Leila shrugged, though her thoughts raced. That was quite a way to put it, she thought, her brows furrowed as she tried to recall any moments of carelessness. How long had he known? When had she let her guard down? She had to know.
"Since when did you figure it out?" she asked, picking up the last piece of clothing and slamming it against the rock with more force than necessary.
Arman paused, pressing a finger thoughtfully to his chin as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he searched his memory. "I first suspected something about three years ago," he replied slowly. "We were cooking, and you cut yourself—your right finger. I remember trying to get you some medicine, but by noon, the wound was already closed."
Leila's eyes widened. She recalled the incident now, but she had thought no one noticed the cut—or how quickly it had disappeared.
"And I confirmed my suspicions a few months later," he went on, crouching beside the river and letting his fingers drift through the water. He dropped the damp clothing in front of her, watching her reaction closely. "I got so sick that I thought I wouldn't make it. The illness dragged on for weeks; no remedy, no medication seemed to help. You and Jaleh's father even found a respected physician, but he couldn't do much, either. I remember lying there, almost resigned to my fate, certain I wouldn't survive the night."
He hesitated, glancing down at the water, his voice softer as he continued. "What hurt the most wasn't the thought of dying—it was the thought of leaving you behind."
Leila's heart ached as she listened, a knot forming in her throat. She had forgotten how much her brother had suffered, how deeply he must have felt his own powerlessness in those moments.
Arman let out another sigh, his expression distant as he spoke. "But you came back to my room that night, around midnight, holding a cup. Even though I was barely conscious, I could sense your presence." He paused, his gaze fixed on some distant memory. "The moment I drank from that cup, something happened. I felt this surge of strength, like a weight lifting from my chest. The pain vanished—it was almost like magic. I knew it wasn't an ordinary remedy because… well, Mother did something similar once, when I was a child."
Leila sighed deeply, the memory as clear for her as it was for him. She remembered the sight of him lying there, weak and vulnerable.
She couldn't bear to see him suffer when she knew her blood could save him.
"I've always wanted to thank you for that night," he whispered, his voice softened with an emotion he rarely let show. "But the next morning, I saw your face. You were so guarded, so distant, and I realized it was something you needed to keep hidden. So I pretended not to know."
"I wish it had stayed that way," Leila replied, her voice barely above a murmur. "I wish you could have kept pretending. So why did you bring it up now?"
He sighed once more, heavier this time, before rising to his feet and reaching out to take her hands. His grip was gentle, but she could feel his desperation. "I know this might sound selfish, but… I can't just sit here in the dark while you carry the weight of everything." He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Isn't there something you could do for Mother? I know she'd refuse if she could, being as stubborn as she is. But is there any way you could heal her, the same way you healed me?"