Episode 1
His name was Jinnzad. Jinnzad belonged to a gang of bandits led by none other than his own father, Sardar Aman. Sardar Aman had formed a diverse group of people from various ethnicities and religions—a group that never settled in one place for long. Raised among his clan in forests and barren lands, Jinnzad emerged as a youth who had mastered the art of warfare, endurance, and cleverness. In addition, he was fluent in several languages.
Most members of the clan believed he was the best candidate to succeed his father. However, within this organized group, a conspiratorial faction also existed—one that wished to see their own man in power instead of Jinnzad.
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Sardar Aman had summoned his son, Jinnzad, to his sleeping quarters—a tent. When Jinnzad entered, his heart sank as he saw the flickering flame of his father's life dimming with each passing moment, lying ill on the bed.
"Come, my beloved son. Sit here close to me," said the old man, who had been waiting at the tent's entrance with loving eyes. He made space beside him on the bed. Obediently, Jinnzad sat near his father and gently kissed the back of his aged, wrinkled hands.
"Congratulations on becoming the new Sardar, my son," said the old man, trying to smile. A wave of sorrow surged in Jinnzad's heart. Just a short while ago, his father's face had not been this pale and withered. Even at seventy, his aura and strength had shone through. His body was as solid as a rock. But in just a brief period, Jinnzad had watched that rock crumble into weakness. Once a fierce warrior who made enemies tremble from horseback, he had been rendered helpless by a single arrow wound—an injury from which he never recovered, despite all treatments.
"No one comes to this world forever, my son. It is the Creator's law—whoever comes must also return," said the old man. "I consider myself fortunate that death has given me enough time to settle my responsibilities and hand them over to you."
Though speaking was painful due to weakness, Sardar Aman's unyielding willpower kept his words clear and strong.
"I don't defy nature's laws, Baba Jaan, but whenever I think about how someone's negligence turned a simple wound into death..." His voice softened at the word death. "My heart fills with sorrow and rage. I want to punish that healer harshly."
"Don't blame anyone, my son," the father replied calmly. "Death is a cunning hunter. It strikes on its own but places the blame on others. Hakim Haaziq has served us well for many years. His knowledge is admirable. But no human is all-knowing. If he failed to realize that the arrow was poisoned, it was not his fault—it was his ignorance."
Jinnzad fell silent at this defense. Indeed, Hakim Haaziq had always been a trusted healer. This time, however, he failed to detect the poison on the arrow that wounded Sardar Aman. The wound had initially healed, and Sardar Aman appeared to recover. But suddenly, the pain returned. Upon examination, Haaziq discovered deep infection. When he finally realized it was a rare poison undetectable through usual symptoms, it was too late—the poison had already spread throughout Sardar's body.
"My son," said the old man, "what's done is done. No amount of grieving can undo the past. The wise thing to do is to forget the pain and focus on the present, and prepare for the future. The way everyone accepted your leadership today relieved many of my worries. But before I leave this world, there are some truths I must share with you."
He tightened his grip on Jinnzad's hand and drew him closer. The conversation that followed in hushed tones became the final, secret dialogue between father and son. What secrets Sardar Aman shared before his death—only Jinnzad knew.
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"Sardar… my Jinnzad…"
He had been lying silently with closed eyes when the sudden rise of a feminine voice nearby startled him. He quickly sat up.
"I… I apologize, Sardar… for entering without permission," said the voice.
It was Mutraba, his childhood friend.
"Why this formality, Mutraba? We've grown up together. There's no need for such politeness between us."
"That childhood is over, Sardar. From now on, not just me, but everyone must address you as their Sardar," she said as she stepped closer.
"Why did that childhood end so quickly, Mutraba? I wish those days had never ended—the scent of a mother's love, the shelter of a father's care..."
"Sardar, accept reality… That time is long gone now," she replied with a serious tone.
"I had forgotten the pain of losing my mother, for I still had my father. But now that he's gone, it feels like I've lost both parents at once. I feel so alone in this world," Jinnzad confessed.
Sardar Aman's death had shaken him so deeply that he had become detached from the world.
"Pull yourself together, Jinnzad. You cannot drown so deeply in grief that you forget who you are. You now wear your father's crown. A Sardar's duties outweigh his personal sorrows," said Mutraba firmly.
Instead of getting angry, Jinnzad looked helpless. "Tell me, Mutraba, what should I do?" he asked, holding her delicate hands like a lost child.
"My Jinnzad… No one tells a Sardar what to do. That's beneath his stature. I can only say that all my services belong to you now. You can share your burdens, your pain, your weariness with me," she said with trembling emotion.
Then she came even closer and sat at his feet, resting her face on his knees. This gesture startled Jinnzad. Their childhood closeness had faded with age, and they only exchanged brief words from a distance. What emotion had brought her to him in the middle of the night?
"I don't like seeing my childhood friend at my feet. Get up, and sit here beside me," he said gently.
Her hands still held his, and when he applied slight pressure to lift her, she rose as if in a trance. As she stood, the black shawl wrapped around her slipped to the ground. Underneath, she wore a thin white nightdress… so sheer that the curves of her body were visible even in the faint glow of the lone oil lamp.
Perhaps she had come to sleep, and the thought of seeing Jinnzad occurred afterward—leading her to come just wrapped in her shawl.
"I don't have the courage to sit beside you, Sardar. I'd rather have a place at your feet and be content." Her voice trembled with emotion, oblivious to her own alluring presence.
Jinnzad may have been heartbroken and confused, but he was no fool. The sight of Mutraba's trembling body and quivering voice made it crystal clear what feelings had pulled her to his tent at this hour.
He gazed into her eyes, trying to read her soul. Mutraba, now shy, lowered her gaze and said gently, "Don't misunderstand me, Sardar. I seek nothing beyond a place at your feet. But I do want to see my Sardar strong again."
At that moment, crystal-like tears rolled from her beautiful eyes and slid down her cheeks…
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