My name is Firozeh, born in the heart of Persia a millennium ago. I pen these lines with hands trembling from the weight of time, carrying memories spun across ten centuries. If you are reading this, know that I have walked my final steps in the corporeal realm and have set forth into the boundless ether, the ultimate mystery that awaits us all.
It was in the year 1023, a time when the stars of the heavens were closer to us than the earth beneath our feet, that my life was forever altered. In the city of Shiraz, a jewel that glittered amidst the sands, I was born, the seventh daughter of a poor cobbler. There was no ostentation in my life, only the endless dance of leather and thread that filled my father's humble workshop.
Yet I yearned for more, a thirst unquenchable, leading me down paths less travelled. It was at the Great Library of Shiraz where I stumbled upon a hidden truth, an ancient tome tucked away in the forgotten corners of the library. It was named "Kitab al Azif," known now as the Necronomicon, a book of shadows and secrets whispered to a mad Arab by the Old Ones themselves.
Its language was not that of man, but of the cosmos, symbols and sigils that danced before my eyes, each a key to doors best left closed. Driven by a hunger for the unseen, I dedicated my life to this arcane study, and slowly, I began to decipher its language. My first spell, conjured in the stillness of night, was a simple thing: a flame sparked from nothing, flickering in the dark. But the implications were staggering, I had called forth energy from nothingness, I had taken the primal step towards mastering the hidden reality that existed beyond our senses.
Years passed, and with each turning season, I delved deeper into the arcane arts, the book guiding me, shaping me. Elixir of Life, the fabled potion of immortality, was the most potent of all the secrets I gleaned. And so, I drank, and the relentless march of time paused for me.
Yet, there was a cost. Each time I pulled from the ether, the universe pulled back. Magic, I learnt, was not a tool, but a contract with powers far beyond our comprehension. A contract always demands a price, and my price was solitude. To watch the world change around me as I remained unchanging, to see empires rise and fall, to lose those I held dear to the ravages of time while I was caught in the cruel snare of endless life, was a torment I had not anticipated.
In the 19th century, I left my homeland, travelling across the globe, hoping that new sights might ease my loneliness. The Americas, a land of promise and new beginnings, beckoned me. Here in California, I found a semblance of peace. Magic became a quiet companion rather than the all-consuming pursuit it had been. I used it sparingly, only when necessity demanded, living as a healer, a guide, a silent observer of the human drama.
As I lay here, with death's hand gently beckoning, I am ready to pay the final price my magic demands. I leave this confession not as an apology, but as a warning and a beacon for those who might follow my path. Magic is not a gift, but a negotiation, a balancing act between man and the unseen cosmos.
Seek not the power that you cannot control, nor the knowledge you are not prepared to understand. For in the realm of the arcane, ignorance is not only bliss, it is survival. Seek wisdom, not power. Seek understanding, not dominion. For in the end, we are but fleeting shadows dancing on the stage of time, and all our power and wisdom cannot change that essential truth.
With these words, I, Firozeh of Shiraz, the last of the ancient Persian mages, lay down my pen and step into the great unknown, one last mystery to unravel, one last journey to undertake. Farewell, dear reader, and may your path be filled with light.