Novel: At the Persian Bazaar

Chapter Five: The Critical Point — Destiny Explodes at Noon

1. Madness Called Silence

The instant the market clock stopped, sound was peeled away from the world.

Only seconds earlier, Danesh had been shouting, Inaz laughing, Cyrus’s camels neighing—

that frenzy vanished as if swallowed by a vacuum.

Yet this was not a peaceful silence.

It was the dreadful pause just before an explosion—

the moment when a torch is thrown into a powder magazine,

and time itself holds its breath.

The crowd forgot how to move.

Danesh the merchant stood frozen like a statue,

still holding out a vial of perfume.

From his fingertips, a single drop hovered,

falling in impossible slow motion,

as though defying gravity itself.

Inaz remained with one hand resting atop her mountain of saffron,

her breath stopped.

In her eyes, golden dust hung suspended in midair,

glittering, unmoving.

“…It’s coming.

…it truly is coming.”

The trembling voice of Elder Kabir echoed through the soundless space.

The beggars pressed their foreheads against the stones they had polished,

their teeth chattering uncontrollably from sheer tension.

That trembling became a subterranean rumble,

shaking the very foundation of the bazaar.

2. Compressed Colors and Heat

At the entrance to the market stood Cyrus and Shahin.

The dry heat of the desert clashed with the damp heat of the bazaar,

colliding at the plaza gate and rising as visible waves of shimmering air.

Cyrus clutched the neck of his camel tightly.

The muscles in his arms had hardened like stone,

determined not to miss the prophesied moment.

“…Shahin.

Do you see it—

that shadow?”

“I do, Captain.

A storm more terrifying than any desert gale—

a storm of blinding color.”

From deep within the market,

the moment itself began to seep outward.

It was the shadow of the blue palanquin bearing Princess Nilfar.

Yet its full form remained hidden.

As if savoring anticipation,

the wheels crept forward, slowly, relentlessly,

their grinding against stone—

“…gii… gii…”—

echoing at even intervals like the beating of a massive heart.

3. The Dark Inhalation: Shahab’s Fingertips

Within this裂け目—this fissure in silence—

only the snake charmer Shahab moved with intent.

His eyes were those of a hunting beast.

His flute hovered mere millimeters from his lips.

His fingers did not cover the holes—

they were drawn tight like a trigger,

compressed to the very edge of release.

At his feet, the king cobra reared to its full height,

hood spread wide, tongue flickering.

“…Wait.

Not yet.

Do not release it—

not until the princess’s shadow overlaps the fountain’s surface…”

A single bead of sweat slid down Shahab’s brow,

traced his jaw,

and struck the ground.

That tiny sound,

in this sharpened air,

resounded like thunder.

4. Palace Chill and the Princess’s Gaze

And then—

the scene from the painting.

The curtains of the blue palanquin fluttered faintly

in the desert breeze.

The maid Inji squeezed the princess’s hand.

Her palm burned with a heat that was neither fear nor joy—

but both.

Consort Irem lifted her chin proudly,

certain that this parade—

into which she had poured every ounce of her pride—

would be completed flawlessly.

Guard Hossein tightened his grip on the hilt of his shamshir,

thumb nudging the guard ever so slightly upward.

Click.

The sound rang out like a signal for war.

Inside the palanquin,

Princess Nilfar slowly—

so very slowly—

raised the eyelids she had been about to close.

Her gaze pierced the golden air

and seized the market.

Within her vision:

The bent backs of beggars clinging desperately to life,

The faces of merchants who had crossed death itself in the desert,

And the crowd waiting for her—

their love twisted into something bordering on madness—

All of it surged toward her as a single, overwhelming vortex.

“…Ah…”

The princess’s lips parted slightly.

At that very instant—

The second hand of the halted clock

leapt forward as if explodi