The wind howled through the crumbling ruins of an ancient palace, buried deep within the Alborz mountains. Mehran, a wandering bard, stumbled upon the remnants of a courtyard. Marble lions guarded the entrance, their faces weathered but defiant. In the air lingered a faint hum, like a melody half-forgotten, tethered to the past.

He knelt beside a fountain, its water long dried, and sang an old verse:

"When night betrays the veil of dawn,
The rightful king shall yet be drawn."

No sooner had the words left his lips than the earth beneath him trembled. From the shadows emerged an old man cloaked in shimmering gold, his face obscured by a jeweled mask.

"Who dares disturb the silence of Siyavashgard?" The voice was thunderous, commanding reverence.

Mehran’s heart raced. "A seeker of truth," he replied, clutching his lyre. "Are you a specter, or are you... the king?"

The figure stepped closer, and Mehran saw a glint of sorrow in the man’s eyes. "I am neither. I am a memory trapped between two worlds, bound to this place by betrayal and blood."

The bard gasped. "You are Siyavash, the prince who bore the flames of innocence, cursed by envy, and slain by treachery. Yet your name lives in the hearts of those who remember!"

Siyavash nodded solemnly. "Remembering is not enough, bard. The world has forgotten justice, forgotten honor. My father’s crown fell to tyrants, and even the stars have turned their backs."

He extended his hand, and Mehran felt an unseen force guide him. In the fountain’s dry basin, a reflection appeared: the shadow of a battle. Warriors clashed, their swords ablaze, while a boy held high a banner of hope.

"The banner of Faravahar," whispered Mehran. "The symbol of our people’s wisdom and purity."

Siyavash’s voice grew softer. "The child in the vision will rise. When the mountains echo my name, the blood of tyrants will fall like rain, and the earth shall be cleansed of its grief. But it is you, bard, who must carry the song to awaken the world."

The air turned cold, and Mehran felt the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders. Before he could respond, Siyavash vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of burning myrrh.

As the sun rose, Mehran’s voice rang through the valleys, carrying the tale of a prince who had been wronged, a prophecy yet to be fulfilled, and a people waiting to reclaim their honor.

The mountains listened, and so did the stars.