Standing before the Sha in reality was one of the strangest things in Prince Ciro's past life as well as his present one. Few knew the true condition of the Sha—not even the closest nobles ever learned of it. He himself found out at the age of 12 when the Sha went mad and killed two eunuchs inside the harem; that was when he came to know sawdā’, that rare disease of the humors caused by black bile—all thanks to the Vizier, a genius administrator and effective in dispensing justice with an iron hand wrapped in silk. The Vizier had woven a web of silence and efficiency: decrees signed in the Sha's name, delegated audiences, falsely optimistic reports that maintained the illusion of a lucid and divine sovereign, just as a leader of the greatest empire on the face of the earth ought to be.

  The problem worsened with the onset of the great famine—the sawdā’ shifted to junūn, where he became more violent as well as melancholic.

  The crops withered under an unrelenting sun, the rivers dwindled to threads of mud, and the people began to murmur about the wrath of the Gods and blame their leaders. The Sha, who once rode through the satrapies or presided over banquets in the hanging gardens at least once a month—which helped his condition—now spent more time locked away in the depths of the royal palace. There, in marble halls scented with incense and opium, his mind fractured. The fits of madness arrived like storms: he shouted incoherent orders at ghosts, pounded columns until his knuckles bled, or remained motionless for hours, glassy-eyed and fixed on visions only he could see. Then, without transition, came the sublime moments—impromptu poems in ancient Avestan, sweet or inclusive songs, or a laugh.

  It was complicated. Dangerous. The only way to control him, to return him to a relative calm, was to take him to the most exclusive section of the harem: the inner chambers of the forbidden palace, where the walls were covered in lapis lazuli mosaics and the fountains spouted water perfumed with roses. There, amid silks and cushions, surrounded by the most beautiful and trained girls—sent daily by nobles eager to gain favor, or by the Vizier or the queen mother to maintain balance—the Sha found a kind of anchor. The concubines were not merely for pleasure; they were disguised guardians, experts in calming him with caresses, songs, opium diluted in wine, or simply silent presence. When an attack overwhelmed him, they surrounded him, touched him with ritual gentleness, and guided him back to temporary sanity. It was a secret worse kept than any plot: the empire rested on the fragile body of a broken man, and the harem was the last barrier before chaos.

  Ciro knew it. He had seen it as a child; once he made the mistake of searching for his mother—the Sha took him for an assassin, grabbed a dagger and put it to his neck. Before an unfortunate servant could tell him not to, the Sha found a new object for his rage; moments later, an innocent girl had been thrown from the second floor, and the Sha began to weep, asking why the gods sent so many assassins after his head—from then on, his mother ordered that the prince be kept at a distance from the Sha during his moments of madness. Now, as heir, facing him head-on was worse: sometimes the Sha looked at him like a stranger, other times like an enemy, and in clear moments, with genuine love, the love of a father for his son, as if he knew his lineage depended on a son who still did not fully understand the weight of the crown.

  Now he walked with Ariadna at his side, who was in full desperate mode. She had devised some thirty ways—whispered in a low voice with frantic gestures—for the empire to plunge headfirst into war and flatly deny the devastating effect of the Uruk messengers.

  All to prevent the Sha—or worse, the Vizier—from yielding ground and allowing the Uruks to conquer Armenia; the plan was obvious: avoid Armenia's fall. Ariadna was very focused, her desperate voice rising in pitch every time she mentioned the "sixty thousand" instead of the ten thousand from the past life; the famine had multiplied them, and now they were an unstoppable plague.

  Ciro, for his part, had been left thinking... about her. Ariadna... Ardeshir. His friend from the previous life, who had always been a straight, dry, pragmatic type like a palace scribe. Now, walking beside him in that tight tunic that clung more than necessary at the waist, and short hair with loose strands brushing her neck—almost like a girl's hair—something had changed. She was still a stick—slender, almost angular, without pronounced curves that screamed "woman"—but her face... the features had softened. The cheekbones less sharp, the jaw less square, the lips a bit fuller (had they always been like that, or had the years subtly plumped them?). The eyes, framed by lashes that seemed longer each day, held a shine that once was pure calculation and now mixed frustration with something... vulnerable? Feminine?

  Just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine. He had no doubts: if Ardeshir—or Ariadna, or whatever the hell she wanted to call herself now—found out he was noticing these changes, she would try to castrate him. Literally. With a curved dagger, or worse, with one of those ancient Persian rituals that left the guy alive but without a future. He instinctively reached down, as if to check everything was still in place. The gesture was quick, hidden under his cloak, but Ariadna caught it out of the corner of her eye.

  "What are you doing, idiot?" she hissed, stopping dead in the middle of the palace's cobblestone corridor. "Are you touching yourself? Now? Seriously?"

  Ciro pulled his hand back as if burned.

  "Nothing. Just... thinking about the war. And how lucky I am to be a guy. Dear friend." He cursed; he always called her "my dear friend."

  Ariadna narrowed her eyes—that look from her Ardeshir days that meant "I'm measuring you for the worst-made grave in the desert." But now, with those softened features, it seemed more like a feline warning than a scribe's threat.

  "This is your stupid wish with the goddess's fault, you fool. 'Friend' in the feminine. And now the body is... adapting. The servants put creams on me, comb my hair, dress me like one of the maids." She paused, voice lower. "Sometimes I don't even notice I'm moving differently."

  Ciro nodded, suddenly serious.

  "I know. You're Ardeshir. You always will be. Just... don't cut anything off, okay? We need that war won, not a prince without heirs."

  Ariadna snorted, but a crooked smile appeared—one that was half mockery, half something softer.

  "Fine, let's save Armenia and prevent the end of the world."

  And she kept walking, with a step that was no longer entirely that of a military scribe, but something in between: determined, yet with a subtle sway that Ciro would swear hadn't been there before.

  They advanced down a long corridor of polished marble and columns carved with reliefs of winged lions and guardian genies, where the echo of their footsteps mingled with the constant murmur of the court. Ciro greeted high- and mid-ranking nobles with precise nods: some firmly in his faction—those who saw in him the future stable Sha, not his stupid brother—others neutral, limiting themselves to courtesy with calculated smiles and empty phrases that committed no loyalties. No one openly mentioned the march of the Uruk-Hai army or their embassy that had arrived two days earlier asking humbly for an audience; the main hall was packed with nobles.

  Everything was courtesy, as if the empire weren't on the brink of breaking because of his brother; he didn't know he was trying to prevent the end of the world with his best friend... "damn friend, friend, friend."

  But then, as always, he was surrounded by girls. The same girls. A subtle but persistent swarm: daughters of lesser nobles, daughters of rising concubines, daughters of young temple priestesses who "happened" to stroll the same corridors. Dressed in translucent silks in turquoise and gold tones, jewels tinkling as they walked, and that combined scent of jasmine and sandalwood permeating the air. They approached with excuses—a scroll they "had to deliver," a question about rituals, an "accidental" brush of the hand—but their eyes always ended up fixed on him, evaluating, measuring, waiting for a sign.

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  "Prince..."

  The voice emerged from the group like a clear note amid the murmur. Sherezada. In this life—and in the previous one—she was one of the most famous girls in the palace, though in her past life they had barely exchanged more than two words. Back then she had been a distant figure: fun, lively, with a laugh that filled entire halls. She had spent a few weeks in the harem "playing," as she called it, but not like the others. Four months ago she had demonstrated an unexpected level of magic: fire spells that destroyed targets, illusions that deceived the senses, wind control that destroyed three granaries. The temple mages had cataloged her as a possible Grand High Priestess—or something superior, Great Magical Heroine—and since then she received privileged education: private tutors, access to forbidden grimoires, even permission to experiment in the inner gardens.

  Ciro remembered her suddenly, like a flash from the past life. That pretty, smiling girl with honey-colored eyes and perfect wavy black hair had been brutal. Very brutal. At just twelve years old—twelve damned years—she had launched a civil war that, though short, set the capital city ablaze. Technically a month and a half of destruction: entire neighborhoods reduced to ashes, temples looted, the Sha of the time forced to wage an internal war in a city gripped by drought and famine. Sherezada had been the nominal leader; she directed the battles, her words rallied hundreds of faithful, her magic illusions confused the guards, her fires devoured arsenals, and her voice at night turned allies into traitors. In the end, the rebellion was quelled with mass executions and exiles, but the capital took years to recover. And she... simply surrendered to the royal guard, who executed her three days later.

  Now, in this life, she approached with the same feline grace, but there was something new in her gaze: recognition. Or was it just his paranoia?

  "Prince Ciro," she said, bowing just enough for the nonexistent neckline of her tunic to reveal the lapis lazuli pendant—even she couldn't escape the desires of all the fathers: marry the prince. "I've heard the Uruk messengers bring bad news. Is it true they're threatening sixty thousand of those beasts against Armenia?"

  Her words were sweet, but the tone had an edge. The other girls fell silent, watching.

  Ciro kept his composure, though his mind raced. Ariadna—at his side, still in "desperate for war" mode—shot him a warning look: Her father had advocated not fighting the Uruks.

  "News travels fast, Sherezada," he replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes; he lingered looking at his assigned guard, Roxana, who at 14 was already a beauty turning every head. "But the empire has survived worse storms. And you? Are you still practicing those... fire tricks in the gardens?"

  She laughed, a crystalline sound that made several heads turn; for such a kid, many noted the utility of political marriages with her.

  "Only the necessary ones, my prince. The temple insists I control my 'potential.'" She lowered her voice, stepping closer. "But if there's war... well, you know I'm not afraid of flames. Neither others' nor my own."—a lost memory returned of hundreds of faithful storming the harem palace while she laughed like a lunatic.

  Ciro felt a chill. He remembered the capital in flames, the smell of smoke and burned flesh. Twelve years old. And now, with his memories, he saw this girl's lethal potential.

  Ariadna intervened then, voice sharp:

  "Sherezada, if you're so interested in war news, maybe you should talk to your father; he should support the faction to fight the Uruks."

  Sherezada smiled, unfazed.

  "Oh, Ariadna. Always so protective." Her eyes slid to the other girl's softened face. "Though I must say you look... radiant lately. The palace suits you."—they smiled, and you could feel the sparks of rivalry: on one side Ariadna because she didn't want to feel like a girl, on the other Sherezada because she wanted to get closer to the prince.

  Ariadna tensed but didn't respond. Ciro, for his part, could only think: If this girl can sway her father to our side, she could be useful.

  "I think Ariadna is right; we must fulfill our duty to the state of Armenia; we can't let these ambassadors convince us to break our agreements."

  The corridor continued ahead, but the air felt heavier. The girls dispersed slowly, but Sherezada lingered a second longer, whispering only to him:

  "Take care, prince. I'll make sure my father supports defending Armenia."

  And she walked away, with that sway that made her jeweled ankles tinkle, leaving behind a faint scent of citrus.

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  The massive golden doors of the throne hall opened with a slow, reverent thunder, announced by the clang of silver trumpets and the roll of drums wrapped in purple silk. A herald with a deep voice, resonant like a lion's roar, proclaimed with growing emphasis:

  "Praised be His Imperial Highness, the Shāhanshāh of the glorious Persian Empire, King of Kings, Shadow of the Sun God on Earth, Lord of the Seven Climes, Padishah of Iran and Turan, Emperor of the Persians, Medes, Parthians, and reborn Achaemenids!

  Conqueror of the lands of the Hindukush and Transoxiana, Supreme Lord of the steppes of Sogdiana and Bactria, Protector of Armenia and the Caucasus mountains, Dominator of Anatolia and the Black Sea coasts, Sovereign of the sands of Yemen and the gates of Aden, Lord of the Niles and the lands of Upper Egypt, King of Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, and the eternal palaces, Protector of the Hanging Gardens and the Fountains of Eternity, Heir of Cyrus the Great, Darius the Just, and Jamshid the Divine, Guardian of the True Faith, Lord of the loyal Qizilbash, King of the Kingdoms of East and West, Lord of Hidden Treasures and the Riches of the World, Sublime among the Sublimes, Invincible among the Invincibles, Eternal in His Glory!

  Let the world prostrate itself before Shah Tahmasp, the Chosen of the Gods, the Reflection of Divine Light!"

  The Sha entered then, and the entire hall seemed to hold its breath. He walked with slow, majestic steps, flanked by eunuchs in white tunics and Immortal guards with turbans red as fresh blood, their curved swords gleaming under the crystal lamps' light. The air filled with sandalwood and amber incense, and rose petals fell from the balconies like perfumed rain.

  His attire was a display of opulence that blinded the eye and affirmed his earthly divinity: a long tunic of Persian silk brocade in deep crimson, embroidered with gold and silver threads forming intricate patterns of winged lions, radiant suns, and intertwined verses with lotus and cypress motifs. The neck and cuffs were edged with pearls from the Persian Gulf the size of hazelnuts, and over his shoulders he wore a pure white ermine mantle lined with black satin and adorned with iridescent peacock feathers that captured the light like living jewels. On his head, a tall turban of the finest white muslin, wrapped with impeccable precision and topped by a central jewel: a ruby the size of a dove's egg, flanked by emeralds and diamonds that sparkled like fallen stars. From his belt hung a ceremonial dagger with carved ivory handle and scabbard inlaid with sapphires, symbol of his absolute power. Every movement made the gold chains adorning his chest tinkle subtly, and the scent of his perfume—a blend of damask rose, musk, and diluted opium—enveloped anyone who approached.

  His attractiveness was undeniable and almost supernatural: tall and erect, with a slender yet regal build, olive skin smooth as if lit from within, a well-trimmed black beard in the Safavid style framing a noble, symmetrical face. His eyes, large and almond-shaped, deep black with serene intelligence glints, gazed with a calm that seemed divine; arched eyebrows gave his expression a mix of poetic melancholy and unshakeable authority. His lips, thin and well-defined, curved in a subtle smile conveying ancestral benevolence and wisdom. His jet-black hair, visible beneath the turban, fell in controlled waves, and his posture—straight back, open shoulders—exuded the grace of a lion at rest. In those clear moments, his voice was soft and resonant, like a poem recited in ancient Avestan, and his laugh, when it arose, filled the hall with unexpected warmth.

  Because of things like this—that aura of impeccable majesty, that regal beauty seemingly carved by the gods, that attire screaming divine power, and that entrance making the palace columns tremble—no one in the court, not even the closest nobles or the hakims who treated him in secret, could conceive that beneath that glorious facade lay a fractured man. His illness remained hidden behind layers of silk, gold, and endless titles; the empire saw the eternal Shāhanshāh, not the broken mortal who murmured to invisible shadows in the palace's darkness.