The golden light of the Persian sunset bathed the columns of the great audience hall in Pasargada in shades of gold and amber. The air smelled of frankincense, freshly baked bread, and the damp earth that—after five long years—was finally drinking water again.

  She stopped in front of the empty throne and the Shah spoke aloud: “Well… we did it. We saved the Persian Empire from five years of famine and drought that have already evaporated. Never again will there be a rebellion over a stale crust of bread. We saved the world. We saved everyone.”

  A low, familiar laugh echoed behind her.

  Cyrus, her prince, her best friend, and companion through a thousand battles and a thousand nights of planning under the stars, approached with that half-smile she had always found dangerously charming.

  “But it’s a shame…” he said, almost with feigned regret, “…that you won’t be a boy again, that you’ll stay in this form.”

  Ariadna turned slowly.

  And then she felt it.

  It wasn’t a gradual change. There was no pain. Simply… it was there. A version of herself from the future—or what she saw in her dream.

  There stood an adult Ariadna. The accentuated curve of her hips pulling at the fabric of her tunic. The brush of her extremely long hair, black as a raven’s wing, falling nearly to her waist. The narrow waist that made everything else seem even more exaggerated.

  She looked down.

  Two firm, round C-cup breasts pushed against the thin fabric, clearly outlining her nipples hardened by the cool evening air. A flat abdomen flowing into wide, goddess-like hips. And between her legs… nothing. Only the soft, obscene promise of a smooth, shaved vulva that was already beginning to grow wet without her permission.

  She raised her eyes to Cyrus.

  He watched her with a mixture of hunger and strange sadness, like someone gazing at something breathtakingly beautiful that both belongs to him and hurts him at the same time.

  And she smiled.

  A slow. Perverse smile.

  “I suppose…” she said, her new velvety voice coming effortlessly, “…that now I will be your beloved sex slave, my lord.”

  Ariadna knelt before him with a feline grace she had never possessed when she was Ardeshirt. The movement made her heavy breasts sway beneath the open tunic. She licked her full lips, painted in a dark red she didn’t remember applying.

  “Let me show you just how grateful I am… for saving the world with me.”

  Her expert hands (since when were they expert?) untied the cord of his royal trousers. Cyrus’s member sprang free, already hard and throbbing.

  And then she took it. First she caressed it with her cheeks, letting the warmth of her skin envelop him. Then she ran her flat tongue slowly from base to tip, as if savoring victory itself.

  At that moment the dream ended.

  Ariadna sat up abruptly, cursing under her breath. Her mouth was flooded with saliva.

  Ariadna bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding so violently it felt like it was trying to burst out of her chest. The room was pitch dark, lit only by the faint bluish glow that slipped through the half-open curtains.

  “Shit… shit… shit…” she whispered through clenched teeth, pressing both hands to her mouth as if she could somehow erase the burning taste that still coated her tongue. In that final moment of the dream, she had been the one performing the blowjob — in first person, feeling every sensation herself.

  Her mouth was flooded with saliva. Too much. Too thick, too hot. Every time she swallowed, the viscous liquid reminded her with excruciating clarity of exactly what she had just done in the dream: the way her lips had stretched around Cyrus’s cock, the obscene devotion with which she had sucked him, the muffled moans that vibrated against his shaft as her throat clenched eagerly, hungry for more.

  She tried to discreetly spit toward the side, but all she managed was for a thin thread of saliva to escape the corner of her mouth and slide slowly down her chin. Furious with herself, she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” she muttered. Her voice still came out hoarse, still carried that velvety, sensual timbre it had held in the dream.

  She looked down at her body. It was still the same one she’d always had: lean, strong, masculine… or at least that’s what she told herself. But for one cursed instant, she swore she felt the phantom weight of those firm C-cup breasts swaying with her every movement. She swore she could sense the nonexistent flare of wide hips pulling at the fabric of her sleep pants. She swore there was a treacherous wetness between her legs that didn’t belong to her current anatomy.

  And the worst part: a small… very small, very dark, very dangerous part of her… didn’t hate it.

  For a single second the thought slipped through her mind, clear and uninvited:

  Maybe… it wouldn’t be so bad to have that body.

  .

  .

  Ariadna—or rather, Ardeshir's mind trapped in this body that was still flat, alien, and too damn light—didn't sleep a wink for the next two weeks. She had dark circles under her eyes so deep they looked like they'd been drawn with cheap Persian kohl, the kind that runs with sweat and leaves you looking like a ghoul cursed by the desert sun.

  The polished copper mirror reflected an image she still couldn't fully accept: the face of an eight-year-old boy, which, ironically, seemed much better than that prophetic dream where she was an impossible beauty. At least this way, she retained some dignity.

  She devoted all her time to plundering knowledge.

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  The Great Royal Library of Persepolis, with its eternal stone columns and high ceilings that smelled of old incense, sacred dust, and damp parchment. The private libraries of the nobles, where books were richly bound but poorly understood. The dusty archives of the magi, filled with warnings in microscopic script and marginal notes scribbled by lunatics convinced they'd deciphered the order of the cosmos. Even the second-hand book stalls in the bazaar, where half-torn scrolls were sold alongside spices, fake talismans, and even more dubious promises.

  All of this thanks to the persistent—and dangerously enthusiastic—collaboration of Prince Cyrus, who saw it as an entertaining intellectual adventure, without realizing that his life, literally, hung by a thread.

  Fifteen days later, sustained only by Persian coffee so thick it could dissolve a spoon, dried dates, and the finest quality milk—having the prince nearby had certain logistical advantages—Ariadna unrolled a massive papyrus scroll across a low table. The surface was littered with crumbs of nan-e barbari bread, black and red ink stains, and small scorch marks from forgotten candles, mercifully prevented from turning into a fire by servant girls and slaves far more alert than their mistress.

  The outline was chaotic but legible. Brutally honest.

  She had boiled the disaster down to three unique ways to undo it:

  First: That the goddess herself revoke her wish. Unlikely. It would mean Narian admitting a mistake... or Cyrus apologizing for his outburst of insolence. Both options were, statistically speaking, pure fantasy.

  Second: That another more powerful god annul the wish. In the current pantheon, only a dozen divinities could aspire to rank above Narian... and none would do it for free. After all, gods only interfered when something amused them.

  Third: The "simple" option. That the wish be fulfilled without needing the wish itself. In other words: that the universe determine some girl already existed as the prince's best friend, guardian, and emotional support. That the cosmic system check the "wish fulfilled" box and, with a bit of luck, undo the change. It was a way of not interfering directly with fate. Ugly. Elegant. Possible.

  Narian, the goddess of desires, was comfortably ranked among the thirty most powerful gods in the known cosmos. Rumors placed her at seventeenth, with a clear upward trajectory. She had been granted the right to toy with days and nights, to fold time like a poorly hung sheet, to rewrite the past, present, and future...

  But even she had rules.

  Fate was a tough bone to gnaw, and the "minimum collateral effect" was a sacred law that not even gods could ignore.

  And the minimum collateral effect, in this specific case, had been brutally clear: the best option was to turn him into a girl; their minds remained intact.

  Ardeshir—now Ariadna—stared at the ceiling adorned with golden frescoes of the sun king, solemn and arrogant, and thought with the dangerous serenity of someone on the verge of plotting divine murder:

  "Seriously, Narian? A girl? Exactly a girl? Did Cyrus have no friends? No cousins? Not even a single childhood playmate to sword-fight with or throw stones at the slaves? Why the hell am I the best option available?"

  She massaged her temples and noticed, with a shiver of horror, how soft her own hands felt. They were still her hands... but they no longer seemed like it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and began reviewing Prince Cyrus's childhood—not as a memory, but as a formal accusation.

  Cyrus at five years old, sleeping face-down in the middle of the royal courtyard, completely alone, while the other noble children played war, trade, or heroism. Not him. He had decided the ground was comfy, the sun gave nice warmth, and life could wait. Mouth open. Drool sliding slowly. A servant tried to wake him once; Cyrus rolled over like an offended seal and kept sleeping.

  Cyrus at eight, devouring half a roasted lamb by himself, greasy hands, sauce-smeared face, and a smile of absolute satisfaction, while foreign guests murmured things like: "Is... that healthy? "Does that boy even breathe between bites?"

  Cyrus at twelve, waking up at eleven a.m. because—and he said it with total seriousness— "The sun before that hour is unnecessarily aggressive." Then showing up in court dragging his feet, hair like he'd lost a fight with an eagle, tunic inside out, asking if it was time to go back to sleep.

  Cyrus at fifteen, in martial training. Sword in hand. Stance... acceptable. Intense concentration for exactly seven minutes. Seven. Minutes. Then dropping the sword like it weighed a mountain, walking to the nearest shade, drinking rosewater with a tragic expression, and declaring: "I think I've got the technique now. The spirit of combat is inside me." Dramatic pause. "Tomorrow we continue." Tomorrow never came.

  Sleep. Eat. Complain about the sun. Avoid responsibilities like the plague. Repeat.

  Ariadna sat up abruptly and clapped her hands to her face.

  "By all the sacred fires! Seriously? That was your childhood? Strategically napping and existing on inertia? You didn't make even one friend? Not a single one? Not even by accident? Didn't you stumble into someone and say 'oh, hi' and call that social bonding?"

  She stood up and started pacing the room, gesturing wildly.

  "You're a prince! Prince! There were daughters of nobles, generals, governors, half the empire coming to see you with rehearsed smiles, and you... you were asleep. Or eating. Or offended by the weather."

  She collapsed back onto the cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it were directly responsible for her misery.

  "Really, Cyrus... It's not that you had no friends. You actively dodged the entire concept."

  She sighed.

  "And now here I am. Turned into a girl. Sleepless. Because you decided existing was a full-time hobby... and then decided you needed a childhood friend."

  She stared at the sun king's fresco, waiting for a divine sign, an epiphany, or at least a mocking laugh from the universe.

  Nothing.

  .

  .

  A moment later, he slowly sat up. It was true: there had been four young women toward whom the prince had shown genuine interest. He never managed to speak to any of them. Shame, doubt, and the weight of his position paralyzed him. And, as if fate were mocking that indecision, all of them ended up engulfed in irreversible tragedies.

  The first was the one who was supposed to become the High Priestess. Her lineage was revered, and her magical talent was unprecedented: an almost divine affinity that made even the clergy tremble. However, her father made an unforgivable mistake. In the midst of the chaos of the Great Famine, blinded by desperation, he called the Shah an idiot in front of the entire court. The sentence was immediate and brutal: public execution.

  The daughter, broken but not defeated, ignited a rebellion among the faithful. Those who believed in her raised swords and spears. The empire responded without mercy. The rebellion ended in an exemplary massacre. Her name was erased from the records.

  The second was the daughter of the Emir of Yemen. Proud, intelligent, and born to command, she took control of her father’s fleet when he declared independence. She waged war against the Persian Empire and, for ten long years, kept the Shah in check at sea. Blockades, ambushes, port burnings—her war was as effective as it was humiliating for the empire.

  In the end, the Shah decided to recognize the independence… only to crush it afterward. The emir and his daughter were killed under the pretext of treason, and the fleet—the true objective—was absorbed by the empire. That was how the rebellion ended: with an act of cruel diplomacy and a victory stained with blood.

  The third emerged from the desert. She was neither noble nor priestess, but a bandit who became a legend among the Arab tribes. For years she led constant attacks against the empire, stealing grain, caravans, and supplies in times of scarcity. To her people she was a protector; to the Shah, a constant humiliation.

  The response was merciless: a bounty was placed on her head. Village after village was razed in retaliation. Massacre after massacre. In the end, she understood that her fight would only lead to the extermination of her own people. She turned herself in voluntarily. Her execution was public. The desert remained silent for generations.

  The fourth was a European princess: blonde, blue-eyed, brought to the harem as part of a distant treaty. She was not naive. She had been trained as a warrior and retained a dignity that clashed with the silks and rituals of the palace. She understood all too quickly what the harem did to strong wills: it eroded them, twisted them, emptied them.

  Rather than allow that to happen, she chose death. She took her own life quietly, without speeches or rebellion.

  I remember that the prince once made a list of the girls he had always been interested in getting to know. Ironically, he only truly “met” them when they were eliminated.