Within the vast present Empire coexist several imperial princes of differing stature and backing. On one side stand those of high rank, true pillars of the dynasty, supported by families of ancient and prestigious lineage—bloodlines and surnames that still echo with legendary heroes and ancient shahs, whose nobility reaches back to nearly mythical ages, sustained by palaces, immense lands, and loyalties forged over countless generations.

  Thus rises Cyrus, the crowned prince, whose ascent to the throne was not the result of a clean and glorious inheritance, but of his mother’s implacable will. Zara is a woman of iron: cruel, cunning, and endowed with a cold intelligence that allowed her to navigate—and dominate—the treacheries of the court. Taking advantage of the chaotic events of the Great Famine that plunged the Empire into disorder—internal wars, betrayals, assassinations, destruction, and rebellions—she eliminated, with surgical precision, other nobles and high princes who stood in her son’s path. Discreet poisonings, armies that arrived too late, alliances broken at the perfect moment, accusations that shattered reputations… all executed with a lethal elegance that few could foresee.

  Zara was no ordinary noblewoman. She was born into the most powerful family of Mesopotamia, the Kavian, a clan that for centuries had amassed immeasurable wealth through the trade of grain, precious metals, caravan routes crossing deserts and rivers, and the iron control of fertile lands between the two great rivers. This enviable economic power granted her private mercenary armies, influence over temples and scribes, and the ability to purchase loyalties when force alone was insufficient. Thanks to this colossal fortune and her own ruthless cunning, Zara was able to turn her son into the undisputed heir—even if the price was a trail of noble blood that, even in this life, was painfully evident, though concealed by an era as turbulent as the five years of famine.

  Thus, Cyrus’s throne rose upon two titanic and opposing pillars, forged in fire and shadow:

  on one side, the ancient legitimacy flowing through his blood; on the other, the bottomless ambition of his mother, Zara, a living storm of flesh and intellect. With an iron hand wrapped in Mesopotamian silk, she proved that within this Empire true power is not always won with legendary swords or glories sung in ancient hymns.

  No. Sometimes it is forged in darkness, with a far vaster and deadlier arsenal:

  lies driven home like invisible daggers; bribes that buy loyalty before armies ever march; silent assassinations—sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes in crowded streets; betrayals that shatter alliances of old friends; deceptions woven with the precision of a spider’s web; half-truths more poisonous than any venom; blackmail that binds with unseen chains; intimidation that bends wills; espionage that knows secrets before their owners do; promises that turn into shackles; fabricated guilt that destroyed more than one noble house; and purchased loyalties that last only long enough to seize the crown.

  Mesopotamia, cradle of ancient empires, was one of the few regions that did not succumb to oblivion or total ruin. Its great arteries—the Tigris and the Euphrates—continued to flow with life, though capricious and constrained by scarce rains. Even so, their waters, millennia-old canals, and fertile lands were enough to sustain the Kavian as a vital power capable of supporting the Empire in its moment of weakness.

  It was precisely this resilience that Zara wielded as her ultimate weapon. Relying on her family’s wealth—the greatest when the famine struck—she combined cunning and cruelty with devastating speed. She crushed her enemies in a campaign of shadows that seemed inevitable: while they, desperate under the weight of hunger and collapsing alliances, committed fatal errors, she struck with surgical precision.

  Thus, in less than five years, her son’s rivals—powerful princes with loyal family armies, noble houses that once seemed unbreakable—fell one after another, their claims to the throne eliminated one by one.

  And yet, in this landscape, there existed at least one noble house of unquestionable power: House Mehrān, to which belonged the second most powerful prince of the realm.

  One of the oldest dynasties on the continent. Before swearing vassalage, they had been kings; before becoming nobles, warlords. Their symbol was neither a passive beast nor a sacred emblem, but the horse—thundering at full gallop, mane flaring like flames. Not for nobility, but for speed, impact, and blood.

  The Mehrān were peerless riders, born almost upon the saddle itself. They fought as they lived: head-on, without detours, without patience. Their blood ran hot, their temper brutal, their pride nearly suicidal. They were not great thinkers nor refined politicians; they were efficient, lethal—designed for war.

  A military house: they loved to fight, and when there was no war, they provoked one.

  For centuries, their name alone was enough to shatter enemy lines. Where the Mehrān rode, armies broke formation and kingdoms chose negotiation.

  And yet, even a house of such power required two full years of war before its claimant to the throne was assassinated and they finally submitted.

  For three hundred years, no member of the house had managed to place their blood within the royal harem. Three centuries of daughters married into lesser alliances, of sons slain in futile campaigns, of glory without direct heirs upon the throne. For a family obsessed with strength, it was a silent humiliation.

  Until now.

  A daughter of House Mehrān had been accepted into the harem—and with that, another Shah of their lineage would one day stand upon the throne.

  .

  .

  Rostam Mehrān stood nearly two meters tall, a colossus of flesh and steel. His body was covered in old and fresh scars—spear punctures, sword slashes, blows that would have killed lesser men. He never hid them: they were his pride. A consummate fighter, he was equally deadly with sword, spear, or mace; he never needed to choose—he simply took whatever was at hand and turned it into an instrument of death.

  “Kill them all,” Rostam Mehrān roared.

  His voice thundered through the castle corridors like a war horn. In his hand he still held the limp body of a freshly slain enemy, which he hurled against a wall without even glancing at it. He spurred his horse forward, riding straight into the castle—something only a Mehrān would dare—charging through narrow hallways while the rest of the cavalry halted behind, forced to dismount and fight on foot, running after him with lowered lances, helmets clanging against stone, crashing into the enemy with brutal force.

  There was no organized resistance that could hold. No orderly retreat for the defenders trying to flee to rooms or houses. Only annihilation.

  The defensive pockets were crushed with savage speed. Every counterattack was smothered before it could even begin. The Mehrān riders gave no time to think: they burst in, killed, and pressed forward. Rostam always at the forefront, smashing through with mace blows, impaling bodies on his lance, finishing with the sword when the space tightened.

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  The rebellion of the Transoxiana tribes was shattered with a speed that bordered on the inhuman. The Mehrān unleashed their most feared style: chained, lightning-fast assaults that never allowed the enemy to regain the initiative. They did not besiege for weeks. They did not negotiate. They did not wait for reinforcements.

  They struck the weak points of the defenses. They advanced along the least expected paths. They killed anyone who dared raise a sword.

  The air stank of copper and terror when Rostam, the “Widow-Maker,” charged at the head. His advance was a spear of metal. Each strike of his weapons echoed with the wet crunch of bones giving way beneath steel; wherever he passed, the defensive line collapsed into a chaos of choked screams. His horse, a mountain of muscle, moved as an extension of his rage: where its hooves struck, mud mixed with blood until the ground became a red swamp.

  The enemies did not flee for strategy, but out of raw survival instinct. Rostam’s presence—armor splashed with the lives of others—dissolved any remnant of courage. What should have been a battle, he turned into an open-air slaughterhouse.

  In the midst of the chaos, he reined in his mount. The horse halted, hooves skidding on the slick floor. Rostam wiped the blood that dripped from his helmet and had begun to blind him, looked at the last paralyzed pockets of resistance inside the palace before him, and spat on the ground with contempt. He was alone; as always, his men were still fighting in the lower levels.

  “Is that all you have?” he bellowed, breath ragged from adrenaline but eyes burning like fire. “Is this the best you can do? Come on—fight, damn you!”

  Fear and terror spread before he even dismounted and charged them. They were cowards for surrendering without a fight.

  Afshin entered through the main door with firm, silent steps. From his right hand hung the leader of the rebellion, held by the neck like a trophy: face purple, eyes glassy, breathing ragged. Half-alive, he had only one complete leg and one complete arm; the others dangled by thin threads of cloth and flesh, leaving an uneven trail of blood across the tiles.

  His eyes swept over the massacre that covered the hall—shattered bodies, broken weapons, dark pools—and he ignored it with the same indifference one ignores a puddle on the path. He had not come for them. His prey had been marked days ago; the rest was irrelevant.

  He stood 1.80 m tall, quiet, serious, with a cold gaze and precise movements. He loved combat, but only when it was worth it. He hunted champions, the best, the ones others feared to name. The weak did not even deserve a single blow from him.

  He released the leader with contempt. The body dropped to its knees, then face-first, coughing blood. Afshin stood motionless, waiting. Soon the first soldiers of his own army began to arrive, panting, weapons still hot. Rostam had left them far behind; he never waited for anyone.

  When he finished with the last guards—those few who tried to flee screaming in terror and were cut down from behind with clean, lethal strokes—a faint smile crossed his face. He turned toward a side door and pushed it open.

  There they were: children clinging to each other, women with faces drained of color, a few nobles still wearing crumpled silks, all trembling against the far wall.

  Afshin watched them for a single second.

  There was nothing there worthy of his sword.

  A boy raised a knife. He was terrified, but he had more courage than the others. Rostam approached. He would give him the death of a warrior.

  —Stop! —The command rang out from the entrance like distant thunder, yet laden with unbreakable authority.

  Rostam froze mid-motion. Every eye turned toward the figure advancing with slow, deliberate steps. It was Kavan Mehrān, the youngest of the three brothers, the undisputed leader of House Mehrān. Barely 1.70 meters tall, yet his presence filled the space as if he stood three meters high. His battle armor, black and etched with ancient interlaced horse motifs, creaked softly with each step. Behind him, his guards halted in perfect formation, not daring to come any closer.

  The silence was so thick that the rapid beating of hearts could be heard.

  Kavan stopped in front of the child still clutching the knife with trembling hands. The boy's eyes were wide open, a mixture of terror and childish defiance. The women surrounding him—mothers, aunts, sisters—held him in desperate grips, yet none dared to speak.

  The leader of the Mehrān slightly inclined his head, a gesture that was not reverence, but apology.

  —Forgive me —he said in a deep, calm voice, though broken within—. In these dark days… I have allowed something terrible. I have let children take up arms. I have let the men who were meant to protect their families die in vain.

  His gaze swept over the terrified women, the trembling children. Then it returned to the small boy with the knife.

  —Drop that knife, lad. A knife is too weak for a world so cruel.

  The child hesitated. His mother tried to stop him with a futile, desperate gesture, but Kavan had already drawn his own sword: a long blade of steel that caught and reflected the torchlight. He held it horizontally with both hands.

  —Take it. Take my sword.

  Slowly, with hands shaking more than ever, the boy stretched out his own and received it. The weight of the blade nearly made him stagger.

  Kavan did not smile. His face was a mask of ancient sorrow.

  —Forgive me, little one… —he whispered, and for the first time his voice cracked, just barely—. What I offer you is not a gift. It is a curse.

  He paused. A cold wind entered through the palace halls.

  —A sword cannot create life… it can only blind it. It cannot build, only destroy. And once you take it, there is no turning back. I hope one day you can forgive me.

  The silence returned, heavier than before.

  .

  Kavan stood tall, his silhouette sharply outlined against the flickering torches, his black armor still scarred from the recent war. The hall—the ancient heart of the palace—was filled with nobles and aristocrats who, just weeks earlier, had thrown themselves into rebellion. Now they had woven a web of diplomacy, deceit, and promises to erect a new order loyal to the Empire. Now, they joined the celebration.

  His eyes swept the hall like a slow flame that needed no permission to burn.

  —The war into which we have sunk… —his voice rang low, yet each syllable weighed like iron— …has been the fault of both sides. On our side, it was arrogance: ignoring them, taking them for granted, believing the steppes were mere dust beneath our boots and that their voices would never reach us. We treated them as shadows… and the shadows became armies.

  He paused. His fist closed over the empty sword sheath—the very blade he had gifted the boy weeks ago, now a symbol of union between Persians and steppe folk. The gesture was subtle, but it had won loyalties.

  —On the other side… the blind ambition of King Subotai, who dreamed of rising as the undisputed lord of the steppes, trampling everything in his path. And the poisonous promises of the Qin Empire, which offered them gold, lands, and glory in exchange for blood… blood that now stains these very stones.

  A murmur rose among the crowd. Scattered voices chanted:

  —It was the traitor's fault…

  The same voices had cheered the old king's independence weeks before. Now, the traitor was convenient.

  Kavan raised a hand. Silence returned instantly, obedient.

  —And the traitor has paid with his life —he said, without raising his voice, yet with an intensity that made several nobles lower their gaze—. Now that the war is over… peace is the highest ideal we can dream of. And with it, it is an honor to toast the new king of the Tranxonian tribes.

  Applause erupted, but it was mechanical, hollow. Goblets rose in forced toast.

  Then, an obese man—swathed entirely in Persian silks embroidered with imperial gold threads, loyal to the bone to the Empire—rose with difficulty from his seat. His face gleamed with sweat and satisfaction. He launched into a grandiloquent speech full of empty flourishes:

  —Oh, nobles of these blessed lands! What a glorious day fate has granted us! My eternal loyalty to the royal dynasty, my unbreakable love for the Empire that has saved us from barbarism… —and he continued, in a nasal, bombastic voice, praising the emperor's "eternal wisdom," the "magnanimity" of the conquest, and his own "humble devotion" that, he claimed, had been key to victory.

  —It's rare to see you smiling so much —Afshin said at his side, leaning in slightly as he watched Rostam devour an entire boar with the ferocity of a starving wolf, grease shining in his beard under the torchlight.

  Kavan turned his head slowly, a faint, almost melancholic smile curving his lips. His eyes, still shadowed by war, flickered for a moment with something akin to hope.

  —Nothing, brother —he replied softly, yet with a warmth that contrasted his black armor—. Just the thought of placing our nephew on the throne.