Two years have passed since they returned to this world, trying to prevent Lynch's apocalypse. While gathering allies in the shadows, diverting key historical events, and training relentlessly... ironically, fate played a cruel trick on them: an internal conflict that had never occurred in their previous life was now on the verge of exploding. A conflict over the throne.
On one side, Prince Cyrus, now 10 years old (because time does move forward, doesn't it?). He was still the same spoiled child as always, but the two years of brutal training had transformed him. He ate strawberry ice cream under the scorching sun in the royal courtyard, his noble tunic slightly unbuttoned due to the heat. His martial aura was undeniable: defined muscles for his age, a sharp gaze, and a bearing that screamed "future emperor." In his past life, he had nearly become Shah, but back then everyone was dealing with an army of death marching toward the capital, and that experience had made him wiser beyond his years... though he still demanded ice cream as if the world weren't falling apart.
Beside him, his childhood friend: Ardeshir, or rather... Ariadna now.
All because of the "prince's stupidity." In a moment of weakness (or a cruel joke), Cyrus had asked a capricious goddess for a "childhood friend." The goddess, with her twisted sense of humor, took "friend" literally as feminine... and zap! Full gender swap. Ardeshir woke up as Ariadna.
Today she wore a very tight mint-green t-shirt, shorts that barely reached above the knee—practically shorter than shorts at this point—and light sandals. Over time, her clothing had become more revealing—and she hadn't even noticed; moreover, if anyone checked, the transition had gone from men's underwear turned into shorts to more feminine ones, and she remained oblivious.
Ariadna crossed her arms, annoyed, as sweat trickled down her collarbone.
—Cyrus, you're a huge idiot— Why the hell didn't you tell me there had been sightings of Uruk-hai movements?
Cyrus licked the spoon with exaggerated calm, glancing at her sideways.
—Relax, Ar— that was the most efficient way to say Ardeshir without saying Ariadna —the Uruk-hai weren't a problem in the past life; they only gathered a force of 10,000, and well, the entire Persian Empire and its allies were already devastated by the great famine.
Ariadna blushed furiously at the "Ar" and kicked low; he dodged purely by martial instinct.
—Shut up! This is your fault. If you hadn't made that stupid request to the goddess... we could have asked for something more useful for this —she threw some papers at him—, at least now it's said there are around 60,000 Uruk-hai, not 10,000. Without the great drought, the Uruk-hai have more resources.
Suddenly, Cyrus became serious and set the ice cream aside —Wait, what do you mean 60,000?— The memories from the previous life ended with all of Armenia in flames and the Persian Empire unable to do anything for that nation, which had become an ally of the Persians... but then, with Lynch's change, they switched flags.
...
Before us rises Greater Armenia, not entirely free, yet never fully bowed in servitude. The Persian Empire calls her a vassal and, indeed, receives from her brilliant tribute of gold, fierce-maned horses, and solemn oaths… but never the full obedience of her people. The Shah holds her seals and her trade routes; the Armenians hold the mountains. And in the ancient world, few things are more powerful than a land whose crossing depends on the permission of its guardians.
Armenia is not a land that stretches flat toward the horizon's edge, but one that rises toward it in immense, ancient folds from the treacherous waters of the Aras River in the south. The Zangezur Range and the unreachable sentinel of Mount Ararat rise one upon the other like walls forged by the gods at the dawn of time. It is cut through by unfathomable gorges, like the abyss of the Vorotan Canyon, where the echo of a voice outlasts the life of a mortal; and crowned by high plateaus in the Gegharkunik region, bordering the dark sea of Sevan, where the cold wind wounds the weak and punishes the strong.
The winding paths that traverse the Syunik province do not merely lead to cities of stone and adobe; as one ventures into the forests of Kapan or the sharp rocky labyrinths of Goris, they lead to crossroads of destiny: for dark legions, advancing through the Vayots Dzor passes means perishing slowly among cliffs and snows; retreating means confessing defeat before the very face of the land.
In the southern valleys, where the sun is kinder and pomegranates hang heavy and red like coagulated blood, Persian caravans advance under mandatory Armenian escort. No stranger crosses without hard-eyed guardians, no merchant sleeps without being counted at dawn, no envoy enters without being examined. Trade flourishes, but never with full freedom. The kingdom does not protect its borders with walls; it protects those who dare to cross them. More than once in the past, both Persians and Europeans have sunk when kings changed sides depending on who offered more, and right now the Persians have given greater gifts than the fragmented European states that destroy themselves in their wars.
The king sits on his ancient oak throne, but rules less with edicts than with the heavy balance between prudence and brutal force. A weak king would be destroyed. His burden is not so much to command as to prevent the great clans, the Nakharar, from tearing each other apart in internal disputes. Each lord possesses his fortresses carved into living rock, his towers that defy the sky, his riders and his indomitable pride. Persia may claim gold and grain; it cannot dictate how they honor their ancestors or raise their children.
The men of Armenia learn to ride before they learn to trace letters. They grow up with the icy breath of the peaks in their lungs, training on slopes that would break the spirit of other peoples, marching under the stars and fighting when the body cries for rest. Their swords are straight, broad-bladed, and sharp-pointed, designed to pierce mail and leather, meant for closed formations and brutal thrusts, not elegant flourishes. From the desert nomads they took patience and cunning: stalking in silence, observing the enemy's passage, wearing him down drop by drop. For them, battle does not begin with the clash of steel, but when the adversary becomes lost among deceptive paths.
The women are not excluded from guard duty or steel. They wear tight short pants of cured leather and dark fabric that cling to their hips and thighs like a second skin, allowing them to ride without hindrance and climb cliffs with feline agility; over them fall short, fitted tunics in intense colors—crimson, indigo, forest green—embroidered with golden threads in oriental style, open at the sides for free movement when mounting or drawing a composite bow combined with mail coats. At court they wear translucent silks and jewels that shine in the firelight, but on the borders they draw bows with the same grace with which they braid their hair tightly. Their forms remain firm under the taut fabric, and no wall remains undefended while they stand on the battlements with the wind whipping their garments and revealing the curve of their trained legs.
When a foreign army dares to enter Armenia, it first loses its scouts in the shadows of the ravines. Then it loses time in labyrinths of false paths. Then it loses water in poisoned or dried springs by the invisible hand of watchers. The mountains deny open combat, the arrows deny sleep, the cold denies will. Only then, when the enemy is already broken in spirit, do the cataphracts descend.
They emerge from the heights as if the mountain itself had come alive in wrath. Rider and steed covered in burnished steel plates, closed formation like a living wall, absolute silence until the moment of impact. They do not charge with blind fury, but with the cold certainty of an avalanche. They do not pursue flight; they conclude entire wars. When steel finally meets steel, the campaign had already been decided days before, among cliffs and mists.
Thus endures Armenia: too valuable to be razed, too dangerous to be truly subjugated. Vassal on Persian parchments, sovereign in the reality of stone and steel. She raises no empires nor conquers vast kingdoms, but decides which armies may cross from east to west… and which will remain buried forever among her eternal rocks.
…
The autumn forest of Khosrov was a living tapestry of golden, reddish, and orange leaves that crackled under the horses' hooves. The air was impregnated with the fresh scent of ancient pines, mixed with the spiced sweetness of mulled wines heated in leather wineskins and the noble sweat of purebred Nisean horses, whose manes waved like silk banners at the gallop. There was no trace of battles in this paradise: no dented shields, no torn coats of mail pierced by enemy steel. Only the joyful echo of aristocratic laughter, the enthusiastic barking of glossy-coated hunting dogs, and the occasional trill of exotic birds brought from distant Persian courts.
At the head of the retinue rode King Arshakuni, sovereign of the Armenian lands under the protective shadow of the great Persian king. The monarch, once a fierce warrior in bearing, had transformed into a mountain of soft flesh, wrapped in scarlet silks embroidered with golden threads depicting rampant lions and mythical griffins. He panted loudly with every trot of his immense Nisean horse, a jet-black beast that snorted under the royal weight, its muscles taut like bowstrings.
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Beside him traveled Marzban Darius, the Persian envoy, a man of almost ethereal beauty who seemed carved by the gods of the Avesta. His face was a study in perfection: almond-shaped eyes of intense green like Persian oases, framed by elegantly arched brows; a strong, defined jaw shadowed by a short, well-trimmed beard that accentuated his full lips and confident smile. He wore an immaculate white linen tunic, cinched to his athletic torso by a silver belt with motifs of sacred fire, and on his finely worked leather glove perched a peregrine falcon, whose sharp gaze seemed to reflect its master's cunning. Darius exuded feline elegance, with broad shoulders and fluid movements that made his horse seem an extension of his graceful body. They were a curious contrast.
Behind them, a dozen riders completed the hunting elite: young princes of the Mamikonian and Bagratuni clans, dressed in embroidered doublets with golden threads depicting mythological hunting scenes and hunting bows inlaid with mother-of-pearl and Caspian pearls. They were beautiful in their youth, lethal in tournament jousts where blood was rare, but useless in the raw carnage of real war.
Among them rode several noblewomen of the court, not as passive companions but as expert riders, half Armenian amazons, half heirs to intertwined Persian traditions in the kingdom's nobility. They wore short pants of soft leather or sturdy fabric—some so daring they resembled tight boyshorts, clinging to hips and toned thighs honed by years of riding and archery—combined with light blouses of translucent Persian silk or fine military mail that clung to their torsos like a second skin, revealing athletic strength and defined curves from training.
Many carried short, curved swords at the waist, Persian-style with jeweled hilts, but their main weapons were recurved composite bows slung on their backs or in side quivers, with vibrantly feathered arrows. Their hair—black, brown, or auburn—flowed freely or gathered in practical braids adorned with silk ribbons, and their tall leather boots reached the knees, perfect for spurring horses in rapid charges. It was a unique fusion: oriental luxury in golden embroidery and short pants inspired by Scythian or Parthian warrior women, mixed with European practicality in the mail and the firm postures of mounted archers.
Among them stood out Princess Lilit of the Bagratuni clan: black leather short pants that highlighted her long, muscular legs, a fine metallic mail blouse that clung to her generous bust and revealed olive skin glowing under the autumn sun, curved sword at the waist and bow in hand. Her musical laughter rang out as she galloped, drawing admiring glances—and something more—from the princes competing for her attention with gallant jests.
The King halted his mount at the edge of a wide clearing, where a crystal stream snaked among moss-covered rocks. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief handed to him by a foot servant—a young eunuch with downcast eyes and trembling hands—the monarch let out a laugh that shook his double chin.
“I must confess, my dear Darius,” said King Arshakuni, his voice resounding like muffled thunder as he caught his breath, “these boars run faster than my grandfather's tax collectors. Ha! I remember how my ancestor pursued them with whips instead of spears, but here we are, enjoying the hunt as if we were gods in the paradise of the thunder gods.”
Marzban Darius smiled indulgently, his handsome face lighting up like dawn in the Zagros Mountains. Stroking the iridescent feathers of his falcon with long, elegant fingers, he replied in a soft, melodious voice:
“It is peace that makes us slow, Your Majesty, but it is a delicious slowness, like savoring an aged wine under the stars. The Great King in the east, in his court at Ctesiphon, is most pleased with the tranquility of your Armenian lands. Your tributes flow like the Tigris in spring, and the border remains serene thanks to alliances such as ours.” —Of course, he did not mention that those “generous taxes” were the price of Armenian autonomy under the Persian yoke, nor how Persian spies watched every movement in these hills—. “Tell me, Majesty, does this harmony not delight you? Without wars to soil your tapestries, you may devote yourselves to more refined pleasures, such as this hunt… and admiring the skill of your archeresses, who ride with the grace of hunting goddesses.”
Princess Lilit, riding nearby, inclined her head with a coquettish smile, adjusting her bow with a fluid motion that made her mail blouse tighten slightly over her figure. “Thank you for the compliment, Lord Marzban. Our arrows speak louder than words, and our horses carry us where men fear to go. Do they not value women who shoot from the saddle in Persia?”
Darius laughed softly, his green eyes appreciatively scanning the female retinue. “In Persia, we value them as sacred fire: beautiful, lethal, and essential. But I admit your blend of styles… is unique and captivating.” —They looked at each other with a certain playful tension that no one else noticed, busy seeking the prey.
The young patriarch of the Mamikonian Clan, a lad of barely twenty-five winters with dark curls and light armor that accentuated his athletic build, puffed out his chest with pride as he spurred his horse closer. His voice was strong, full of the arrogance of one who has never seen the true horror of battle.
“It has been our men—and our women—who make enemy states fear to undermine our peace, my lord Marzban,” he declared, gesturing with a gloved hand. He was one of those closest to the Marzban after meeting three of the powerful envoy’s daughters, and clearly would not mind securing the hand of one of them. “Seven hundred armored riders quartered in our clan’s capital at Dvin, drinking fine wine from southern vineyards and fattening their mounts with Persian-imported oats. They are ready to fight at any moment, with armor that shines like the sun on Mount Ararat. We have other contingents scattered at tolls and northern fortresses, guarding the mountain passes. No bandit will dare disturb this peace we have forged with blood and steel. Isn’t that so, Princess Lilit? Your arrows have hit more targets than many of our men in the tournaments.”
Lilit laughed, her voice like bells, leaning slightly in the saddle so her hair brushed the wind. “Certainly, my lord Mamikonian. Our arrows are swift and precise… just like our glances when someone underestimates our strength.”
“And what of the infantry?” asked Darius, arching a perfect brow, his tone tinged with subtle mockery that only a Persian diplomat could handle with such elegance. “In Persia, we know a balanced army is like a well-tended garden: it needs both the strong roots of infantry and the showy flowers of cavalry… and the swift arrows of amazons.”
The King waved his thick, jeweled hand, brushing the idea aside like an annoying fly, his rings sparkling under the leaf-filtered sun. “Ah, the infantry! Peasants with crude spears, nothing more. We have a thousand footmen in the capital, yes, but they barely serve to open the city gates, load beer barrels at royal feasts, and watch that beggars don’t enter the lower town. You know our saying, Darius: ‘A kingdom is measured by the hooves of its horses, not by the mud on its servants’ boots.’ Foot armies are for low-born barbarians, like those northern nomads who swarm like locusts. Our heavy riders—and our mounted archeresses—can crush any enemy with a single charge or a rain of arrows, isn’t that true, my loyal ones?”
The group of nobles burst into laughter and nods, their voices echoing in the clearing like a chorus of approval. They lived in a bubble of Persian-forged steel, Tyrian-dyed silk, and arrogance inherited from generations. They believed that hundreds of heavy riders, lethal archeresses, and a handful of border guards were enough to dominate the world, simply because no one had dared challenge them in decades.
Then the Persian envoy’s falcon shrieked sharply, beating its wings in sudden panic, its talons digging into Darius’s glove. The hounds stopped barking abruptly, tucking their tails and retreating toward the horses with low whimpers, as if they smelled death on the wind.
The thicket crackled with an ominous sound, branches snapping like bones. The dozen noble riders—and the women archers—reached for their weapons: the men to their ornamented swords, the women to their bows, drawing strings with expert movements.
What emerged from among the ancestral oaks was not a forest beast, but a small group of exhausted cavalry, with emaciated horses barely staying on their feet. The group’s leader, a rider wrapped in the faded colors of the Siuni Clan—the southern clan, guardians of the fiery borders—saw his mount stumble on its own weak legs before collapsing onto the damp grass with an agonized whinny. In the saddle rode a battered warrior: no luxurious silks, but a torn coat of mail blackened by infernal fire soot and dried blood congealed in deep cracks. He was missing his left arm from the elbow, the stump crudely cauterized with fire, leaving an irregular, reddened scar. His companions, barely three or four, showed similar wounds: weary faces furrowed by fresh cuts, sunken eyes from terror and exhaustion, armor dented as if hammered by divine blows.
Silence fell absolute over the clearing, broken only by the dying soldier’s agonized gasps and the nearby stream’s murmur.
King Arshakuni paled, his double chin trembling uncontrollably, unable to speak at the sight of true violence bursting into his world of pleasures. It was the young Mamikonian who spurred his horse toward the fallen man, his handsome face now twisted in horror, while the archeresses—including Lilit—formed a protective semicircle, bows ready.
“Soldier!” the noble shouted, horrified by the acrid smell of burnt flesh and smoke emanating from the messenger, a stench that made the horses whinny nervously. “Who did this to you? Mountain bandits? Or perhaps Georgian raiders crossing the Kura? Speak, man, by the gods of Armenia and Persia.”
The man from the south raised a face gray with dust, ash, and pure terror. He looked at the jeweled princes, their pristine and gleaming horses, the fat King on his equestrian throne, and the women riders in their daring and lethal attire, whose beauty contrasted cruelly with his misery. A broken, desperate laugh escaped his perforated lungs, a sound that froze the blood.
“There are no bandits… they are not simple raiders,” he coughed, spitting black blood onto the noble’s golden boots, splattering the repoussé leather. “The gorge… was torn to pieces. They do not come on horseback, my lord. They are not men like us. They march on foot… they march in thousands… and they do not stop for anything. The Uruk-hai move in thousands, at least some 40,000 that could be counted, perhaps more.”
Marzban Darius, maintaining his beautiful composure even in crisis, rode closer, his voice calm but full of urgency. “Uruk-hai? The dark orcs from the deserts?”
The soldier fixed his glassy eyes on the king, ignoring the Persian for a moment. “The enemy force has crossed the Aras, Majesty. The great southern fortress of Meghri-Berd fell in a single night of flames and screams. They come from the deep south, from lands forgotten by Persian maps. They seek neither gold nor tribute… only destruction. I have ridden without pause, losing my brothers along the way, to warn… but I fear it is already too late. Prepare your armies—the Siuni Clan is mobilizing, but the Uruk-hai march.”
