The memories crowded into his mind like a dark tide crashing against the walls of his present. There was no order to them, only sharp fragments stabbing one after another. To think that since his return he had not come back to this place—his life had been lived in the harem and on his outings outside.

  The royal palace, which he had once felt as a refuge, now felt so little protective, so little safe. It remembered the last days, after the death of the Shah and his powerful armies: it had ceased to be a place of marble and gold to become a boiling cauldron of voices, hurried footsteps, clashing armor, and half-shouted orders. The air smelled of sweat, lamp oil, dried blood, and fear. Above all, fear.

  He was supposed to lead an empire. He was supposed to.

  Some called him Shah with restrained reverence, others still called him “prince” without realizing that by right he was no longer prince… and yet not quite Shah either. There was little time for a formal coronation, for a solemn oath under the midday sun, for incense and trumpets. The throne was no longer a seat: it was a responsibility that weighed like a slab of rock on his shoulders and didn’t even allow him to sit up straight.

  The fall of the northern zone had happened… how long ago? Ten minutes? Twenty? Time had become viscous ever since the alarm horn sounded for the third time that dawn. Messengers arrived gasping, eyes wide, words broken. “The line broke at the Kharzad pass.” “The banners have fallen.” “The fires are no longer ours.” Each report was a knife sinking a little deeper.

  The defensive armies had tried to hold with desperate effort on every front. The enemy had split their army of millions into dozens of smaller armies, leaving cities destroyed and conquered in days.

  The soldiers had defended with valor until their last breath. It wasn’t a pretty phrase to tell later at banquets. It was literal. Until the very last breath. He saw them—or thought he saw them—in his mind as he pressed his fists against the map table: men and women with faces blackened by soot and blood, broken lances, notched swords, shields split in two. Some still tried to form a square when there was no square left to form. Others charged alone, screaming, against the rising tide.

  They launched a desperate attack against the dead. And against the creatures of the lineage of death.

  Zombies that no longer felt pain, fear, or fatigue. Ghouls that crawled with unhinged jaws and nails turned into black iron claws. Vampires that did not come to drink blood for pleasure, but for pure military efficiency, moving like shadows through the mist they themselves summoned. And then there were the others, the ones that didn’t even have names in the ancient bestiaries: beings of twisted flesh and exposed bone, silhouettes that changed shape depending on the light that touched them, creatures that seemed made of the same darkness that swallowed the torches.

  He had watched them advance from the battlements, in the last hour before they forced him down to the war room. A pale, endless tide that did not shout victory because it didn’t need to. It simply advanced. And wherever it passed, life went out like a candle under a cold breath.

  In his head still echoed the last cries of the captains: “For the Shah!” “For the empire!” “To me, damn it, to me!”

  And then, silence. Not the silence of peace. The silence when there is no one left who can scream.

  Now he was here, in the center of the hall. His ninth birthday. He remembered that for the next five years his birthdays would be limited to much more relaxed and quiet social events. This was a macro-event. He had forgotten these parties. After the end of the famine, it took the empire a long time to regain its strength, but its celebrations eventually returned to this level of splendor.

  The great audience hall of the royal palace was more crowded than ever—not even in the last hours of the empire, when it emptied and only the most loyal of the loyal remained. The torches burned fiercely and the marble columns seemed to tremble under the weight of so many gazes and so many armors.

  There they were—the guests.

  At the front, dominating the right side of the hall, the Vahramazda formed a living wall of blood-red and gold. Their cloaks bore the embroidered winged bull with horns of fire, a symbol that seemed to move with the flames of the torches.

  To their left, the Ardeshiran stood in perfect formation. Black and silver. On their shields and breastplates shone the black lion crowned with stars.

  Further back, near the windows overlooking the night garden, the Spandarmad wore emerald green and white. The stylized cypress with intertwined roots waved on their banners.

  The Mihragan, wrapped in deep purple and old gold, occupied a darker corner. The solar disk with hawk wings gleamed on their brooches and on the rings they wore on every finger.

  The Rustamzadeh could not stay still. Crimson and bronze. Crossed maces wreathed in flames decorated their surcoats and the pennons hanging from their lances.

  The Parthava arrived late, as always. Midnight blue and pale silver. They bore the embroidered Parthian composite bow and broken arrow on their cloaks.

  The Anahitan were the most silent. Turquoise blue and pearl. The lotus flower with water droplets appeared on their veils and on the bracelets of the women leading the group.

  The Kayanian were present, even though no one had officially invited them. Bright white and turquoise. The winged crown with the central eye remained their mark, even though they no longer had a throne.

  And at the back, almost in shadow, the Drujvanda. Ash gray and dark red. The serpent devouring its own tail embroidered on shreds of black cloth.

  The Bahramgur were not sitting. Fire orange and charcoal black. The cheetah with a golden collar ran embroidered on their light tunics.

  The Atarpatakan occupied the place closest to the throne. Golden yellow and crimson. The eternal flame inside a burning circle blazed on their tunics and in the censers they carried.

  The Suren arrived with pomp and noise. Dark green and ancient bronze. The war elephant with tower on their standards.

  He could go on for a long while before jumping to the mid-ranking and low-ranking nobles—a collection of regions from Elam, Media, Armina, Katpatuka, Sparda, Yauna, Skudra, Arabaya, Mudraya, states like Egypt, emirates of the Levant, or regions like Hindush… not to mention the foreign emissaries and ambassadors from where the King of Lynch would eventually emerge.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He looked carefully at them, slowly from one side—the Franks—to the other—the Germans—kept far apart; more than once they had lost composure and come to blows with their fists.

  .

  .

  The crown prince, Cyrus, the crowned prince and heir of the Shahanshah, stood on the elevated balcony of the Great Dining Hall, his gaze fixed on the human tide filling the lower gardens of Persevalis. The air smelled of burnt jasmine, myrrh incense, and the roasted meat already arriving on enormous trays carried by servants in gold-embroidered linen tunics.

  The ceremonial part had finally ended.

  The blessing of the magi, with their long braided beards and their monotonous voices reciting the ancient hymns to the Sun King, had felt eternal. Then came the ritual fires: torches lit in perfect spirals, bonfires forming the symbol of the winged lion, flames that danced without consuming wood thanks to enchanted oils. All very beautiful, very sacred… and terribly boring for someone who had already seen about thirty imperial birthdays. He wanted to wallow in his misery and sleep—even though it was the first time he was still awake.

  Now came the part that, in theory, the guests were supposed to enjoy: the generosity.

  Because in the Persian Empire, when the sovereign or the heir celebrated his birthday, it was not he who received gifts. It was the opposite. The nobles, the generals, the high magi, the foreign ambassadors, even the chiefs of the vassal tribes—all waited with tense smiles and bright eyes for the prince to hand them a gift. The more valuable it was, the more evident the power of the royal house became. It was a display of wealth, control, memory: the prince had to remember exactly who each person was, what rank they held, and what they had given (or not given) in previous years.

  His mother, the Great Queen Mother Zara, had handled these events for years with surgical precision. She decided which jewel, which weapon, which trained slave, which spell scroll, or which divine-blooded stallion went to each one. Ardeshir only had to smile, extend his hand, and pronounce the ritual words.

  So now, while the first carts of gifts were already being arranged in the central courtyard by the royal stewards, Ardeshir observed more closely than ever those who arrived. He looked at her—now she really looked like a girl—and kept the thought to himself, or they would kill him.

  “I’m so fucking bored…” he muttered under his breath while making another desperate attempt not to give in to his most primal instincts. If he fell asleep now, Ariadne would castrate him—she was still angry about being a girl.

  Many of those nobles had already gone to hell in the previous life when they had the slightest chance to act with decency… and they didn’t. Others simply surrendered before the real massacre even began. Cowards. Greedy. Useless.

  For the next war against Lynch—second chance—he had sworn that at least he would make them fight a little longer, release more resources, stop behaving like rats hoarding grain while the scythe was already grazing their necks.

  “Damn it… my friend had a much clearer idea of this shit than I did,” he growled, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. “At least he didn’t have any illusions about this scum.”

  The order was given by a bell from his mother when all the guests were ready, and so the parade of gifts began. As always: a mixture of ostentation, disguised bribery under the guise of courtesy, and pure political calculation.

  Sometimes it was done directly—the noble in question approached, Cyrus greeted with words, and then the noble received his bribe wrapped in silk. Other times it was more general: the servants circulated like well-trained ants carrying trays, chests, and cages.

  Magical objects that in theory changed lives (and in practice caused internal conflicts in the houses). Enchanted weapons that half these idiots wouldn’t know how to use before killing themselves with them. Purebred horses, trained falcons, white leopards with golden collars that would probably bite their new owner within a month. And of course, the inevitable “beautiful slave girls”—young, perfumed, with empty or trained-to-pretend-devotion gazes. All very useful, of course. For those who measured usefulness in terms of status, fear, or arousal.

  His mother, Queen Mother Zara, left nothing to chance. She had the most efficient spy network in the empire: she knew exactly what weakness, what vice, what greed, or what fetish each guest had. The perfect gift was not the most expensive; it was the one that made the recipient feel understood… and therefore bought.

  The most exclusive gifts—the truly dangerous ones, the ones that could change or break alliances—were not handed out in the main hall. Those were reserved for the more private event the following day. Only those who really mattered (or those who needed to be threatened up close) received a personal invitation from the heir. That is: from him. But his mother did all the work.

  He fell silent. Suddenly he realized he had been hearing strange noises coming from the capital for a while. Distant shouts, mismatched bells, the echo of a crowd running en masse, something that sounded like military drums. It wasn’t the normal night bustle. It was something else.

  His mother only frowned when a slave girl whispered something in her ear. A tiny gesture, but on her it was equivalent to someone having royally screwed up.

  “Damn it…” Zara muttered between her teeth. “Prepare space. Now.” The servants began readying an area to receive someone.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked—Ariadne had no idea either. To her left stood Roxana, who looked beautiful in her attire, her red hair against the green dress, but he decided to ignore her. He remembered she would become his father’s concubine.

  The servants continued moving as if nothing was happening, surgically carving the roasted elephant and the whole ox prepared for the feast. Huge platters went out in procession toward the guests who were still smiling and applauding, oblivious to the disaster brewing outside the palace walls.

  He looked with interest. His mother had managed to get several animals for dinner. A cooked elephant. A whole ox. Hundreds of nobles drooling over a piece of exotic meat while the city began to burn (or riot, or both at once).

  And his mother, with that glacial calm she wore when she had already decided who was going to pay for whatever was happening.

  “I guess someone decided tonight was the perfect night to fuck everything up,” Ariadne murmured. “Your mother is going to be very angry,” she added while they watched a servant carve an entire elephant leg and carry it on a silver platter as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  The noises inside the palace suddenly concentrated toward the main entrance.

  Some nobles received warnings from their aides and slaves and turned their heads even before the doors fully opened. The murmur grew sharper, more anxious. Everyone wanted to be the first to show the right face: surprise, admiration, unbreakable loyalty.

  From the main hall’s position—with its open windows to the inner garden—the entrance staircase was perfectly visible. And there they arrived.

  The Mehrān.

  The brand-new, victorious, immaculate generals of the war against the rebels.

  At the front, as expected, Kavan Mehrān. Tall, wearing polished armor that looked more decorative than functional after a real campaign, perfectly trimmed beard, the gaze of someone who knows everyone present already owes him something, confidence and a smile. The man had won the war while the others were busy counting coins and sleeping in their harems.

  And at his side, walking with the rehearsed posture of someone who has spent ten years being educated to look important…

  Prince Xerxes.

  Ten years old. Princes are only supposed to officially leave the harem to other regions of the empire at twelve, but the Mehrān had made their move.

  He hadn’t fought a single second. He hadn’t even stepped in battlefield mud. When he arrived at the front, the war was already over. The rebels were dead, surrendered, or fleeing with their tails between their legs. But there he was, with his cloak, the ceremonial sword hanging like an expensive toy, and that expression that tried to be solemn but only managed to look like a child who knows he’s being watched and doesn’t want to disappoint mommy.

  The entire hall held its breath for a few seconds. Then it exploded into applause. Loud, enthusiastic, almost hysterical applause. As if they had just seen the hero of the epic enter through the door instead of a crowned kid who arrived after the blood had already been cleaned up.

  “How lovely,” Zara growled between her teeth. “The mighty Kavan, who curiously could have arrived a week ago but chose today.”

  He glanced sideways at his mother. Zara was not clapping. Her face was a mask of icy courtesy, but her eyes shone with that cold calculation he knew all too well. She was measuring. Not the prince. Kavan. And all the nobles who were now bowing deeper than necessary, shouting “Glory to the Mehrān!”

  PRESENTATION!