As a portion of the dark night waned, Kay Khosrow, the ideal monarch of Iran, reached a clear and mystical spring. Having accomplished his worldly duties and avenged Siyavash, his soul yearned solely for the divine presence. In the crystal waters of the fountain, he washed his head and body, softly reciting holy prayers from the Zand and Avesta in silent adoration of the Almighty. Turning to his faithful heroes and wise companions—among them Fariburz and Giv—he spoke his final farewell: 'Be departed with everlasting peace. When dawn's light raises its golden spear above the mountain rim, you shall behold me no more save in your dreams. Turn back from these barren sands and linger not, even should the clouds rain scent and musk. For a fierce and icy tempest shall soon descend from the mountains, rending boughs and foliage; heavy snows will cloak the earth from dark clouds, obliterating every path back to the Iranian realm.' Heavy-hearted and filled with profound grief, the champions sank into a troubled sleep. When the morning sun cresting the peaks illuminated the earth, King Khosrow had vanished from sight—taken up alive into the heavenly realm. Desperate and bewildered, the heroes scoured the desert sands, seeking any trace of their sovereign in vain. Devastated and weeping, they returned to the sacred spring, each pouring out blessings upon the departed King. Fariburz recalled Khosrow's final injunctions and suggested they rest by the waters for the night, given their utter exhaustion. Gathered at the spring, the lords recounted Khosrow's incomparable deeds, marveling at the mystery of a living champion ascending into the presence of Yazdan. Giv spoke in solemn awe, praising Khosrow's unmatched valor, justice, divine glory, and noble countenance—a king who raged like a war-elephant in battle and shone like a radiant moon upon the throne.