When the last Pari died, the skies wept for a week.

Her name was Simorgha, a being of radiance who glided on winds softer than whispers. She was the last of her kind, a Pari in a world that had forgotten magic. For centuries, she had lived in solitude, tending to hidden groves and singing to stars that no longer listened. Immortality had become a curse—an unending witness to the decline of wonder.

Then came the prince.

He arrived in the forest one spring morning, lost and bloodied from a skirmish over his crumbling kingdom. She found him beneath an ancient sycamore, the light catching his dark curls, his wounded arm cradled against his chest. He wasn’t like the others she had watched from afar, those who sought power and glory. His eyes were soft, filled with something deeper—something she had longed for but never dared to name.

She healed him. She didn’t mean to fall in love, but when he smiled at her, she felt mortal for the first time.

“You’re... beautiful,” he whispered as she wrapped his arm in shimmering threads of starlight.

Weeks turned to months, and they became inseparable. He spoke of his kingdom’s struggles, of famine and rebellion. She listened, her heart aching for his people. He spoke of dreams, of a better future. She believed him.

One evening, as fireflies danced around them, he knelt before her. “Simorgha, I need your help. Your magic could save my people. With your power, I can unite the kingdom and end the suffering.”

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “A Pari’s magic is bound to her soul. To give it away is to give... everything.”

“I would never ask if it weren’t necessary,” he said, taking her hands in his. His touch was warm, grounding. “You are my heart, Simorgha. With your help, we can create a world where no one suffers. A world where we can be together.”

Her heart swelled, and she made her choice.

The ritual was simple, ancient. She stood beneath the sycamore, weaving her essence into a golden thread, binding it to him with a kiss. As the magic left her, she felt the pull of mortality—the heaviness of flesh, the vulnerability of time. But she didn’t care. She would have given him the universe if he’d asked.

The next morning, he was gone.

The forest was silent. She waited for days, but the prince never returned. When she ventured beyond the grove, she found his kingdom thriving. Crops grew in abundance, the people celebrated, and the prince stood tall on the balcony of his palace, a golden thread glinting around his neck. Beside him was another—a woman dressed in silks, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

Simorgha fell to her knees. She had given him her magic, her soul, and he had betrayed her.

As the days passed, her light began to fade. The forest withered, the streams dried, and the skies turned gray. A Pari could survive betrayal, but not when it was intertwined with love.

On the last night of her life, she returned to the sycamore. She sang a final song, her voice trembling with sorrow and regret. The winds carried it far, to the stars, to the prince’s palace, and to every corner of the world.

When her heart gave its last beat, the skies opened, unleashing a storm of golden rain. It fell on the prince’s kingdom, washing away his crops, his palace, and the golden thread he had so proudly worn.

The forest grew quiet, and magic left the earth.

The prince lived the rest of his days haunted by her song, her light, and the weight of what he had lost. And though the world moved on, the name Simorgha was whispered in hushed tones, a reminder of the last Pari who gave everything for love—and paid the ultimate price.