"A kingdom is not held by walls or armies alone, but by wisdom and justice."

In the chaos of the third night, while steel sang against steel and fire painted the sky in shades of vengeance, Parisa moved like a shadow through the palace corridors. The youngest of eight, she had grown up watching her brothers' every move—learning their strengths, their weaknesses, their secrets. But it was Farid who had taught her to read the ancient texts when others thought a princess should only learn poetry. Together they had pored over histories of war and empire, while he braided her hair and she corrected his battlefield diagrams.

Now, as Hormoz's carefully laid plans crumbled around him, Parisa enacted her own strategy. For days, she had played the dutiful sister, the delicate princess more interested in her songbirds than statecraft. All the while, she had been gathering allies among the palace servants, the merchants' wives, the forgotten women who saw everything and were seen by none. Through them, she learned of every hidden passage, every secret door, every weakness in Hormoz's defenses.

The battle outside reached a fever pitch. Hormoz had unleashed his final gambit—a cavalry charge of five thousand riders through the main thoroughfare, meant to split Farid's forces like a sword through silk. The thundering of hooves echoed off the ancient walls as horses and men crashed together in a maelstrom of steel and flesh.

But even as Hormoz watched his cavalry drive into his brother's lines, Parisa was opening the palace gates. Not the grand entrances that Hormoz had triple-barred, but the small servants' doors, the hidden passages used by kitchen maids and stable boys. Through these humble portals slipped hundreds of warriors—not dressed in gleaming armor but in servants' garb, their weapons hidden under baskets of bread and jugs of wine.

They were Farid's most trusted men, chosen for their ability to move unseen, to strike without warning. Led by Parisa herself, they moved through the palace like a poison through veins, systematically taking control of key positions. The princess who had spent her childhood memorizing every corner of these halls now used that knowledge like a master player moving pieces across a shatranj board.

When Hormoz finally realized the danger, it was too late. He turned from the battle maps to find his own guards laying down their weapons, their families having been quietly escorted to safety by Parisa's network of allies. The servants he had ignored as beneath his notice now stood revealed as warriors, their humble robes falling away to reveal the crimson of Farid's army.

But Parisa's masterstroke was not in military strategy—it was in understanding her brothers' hearts. As Hormoz reached for his sword, ready to fight to the death as befitted a prince of Persia, Parisa stepped forward. In her hands she held not a weapon, but a scroll—their father's last proclamation, hidden away by Hormoz's conspirators but found by one of Parisa's handmaidens in a forgotten archive.

"Brother," she said, her voice carrying the weight of all their shared history, "before you choose death over defeat, read what our father wrote with his own hand."

The scroll revealed a truth that shattered Hormoz's certainty like glass. Their father had indeed chosen a successor—but it was not him. Instead, he had decreed that Rostam, his third and most observant son, should rule until peace could be restored among his brothers.

As the battle raged through Babylon's streets, Parisa's hands trembled as she held the scroll—not from fear, but from the weight of its truth. The royal seal was unmistakable, the words written in their father's own hand. While Hormoz and Farid had torn the empire apart in their blind ambition, their brother Rostam had been fulfilling their father's greatest duty: protecting Persia's borders.

The scroll revealed that Rostam, the third prince, had been named heir months ago. While his brothers plotted in gilded halls, he had been holding the eastern frontiers against waves of invaders, commanding armies with a brilliance that echoed the legendary warrior whose name he bore. The Shah had seen in him something his other sons had forgotten—that a true king's first duty was to his people, not his ambitions.

Hormoz's face drained of color as he read the words. "Impossible," he whispered, but the tremble in his voice betrayed his doubt. "Where did you find this?"

"In the very library where you spent your nights studying war," Parisa answered, her voice sharp as truth itself. "Hidden among the scrolls of ancient battles—the ones you were too proud to let anyone else touch. Our father knew your pride would blind you to what lay before your eyes."

Outside, the battle reached its crescendo. Farid's forces had pushed deep into the city, while Hormoz's cavalry fought desperately to maintain control of the central districts. Neither brother knew that at that very moment, dust clouds were rising on the eastern horizon—Rostam was coming, his armies hardened by frontier battles, drawn by urgent messages Parisa had sent weeks ago through her network of loyal servants and merchants.

But Parisa wasn't finished. From her sleeve, she drew a second document—a letter in Rostam's own hand, delivered by a merchant woman disguised as a fruit seller. It detailed how he had spent the past months not just defending the borders, but building alliances with the very tribes that had once threatened Persia. He had turned enemies into friends through wisdom rather than warfare, expanding the empire's influence through diplomacy instead of bloodshed.

The sound of horns cut through the night—not the war-horns of either brother's army, but a deeper, more ancient call. The Horn of Cyrus, an instrument used only by the true Shah of Persia, echoed across the city. Rostam had arrived.

As his armies flowed into Babylon like a river of steel and righteousness, the fighting began to stutter and stop. His banner—the white wolf of the eastern provinces against a field of royal purple—flew alongside battle standards that bore the marks of a dozen different tribes and nations. He had not come alone, but with a coalition of allies united not by fear, but by respect.

When Rostam entered Babylon, he came not as a conqueror but as justice incarnate. His armor bore the scars of real battles—not the polished gleam of Hormoz's ceremonial plate, nor the proud crimson of Farid's forces. At his side rode warriors from every corner of the empire: Turkic horse-archers, Bactrian mountaineers, Arab desert riders, even reformed raiders from the steppes. Each bore the mark of the white wolf alongside their own tribal symbols.

The scene in the palace throne room crackled with tension like the air before a storm. Hormoz stood by the Lion Throne, his hand still on his sword, while Farid's forces held the chamber's perimeter. Parisa stood between them, the ancient scrolls laid out on a marble table before her.

Rostam's entrance silenced the room. He removed his helm, revealing a face weathered by sun and wind, his beard shorter than court fashion dictated—a warrior's practical trim. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, took in his siblings with a general's calculating gaze.

"So," he said, his voice carrying the weight of mountain stones, "while I bled alongside common soldiers to protect our people, you two played at kingship like children fighting over a toy."

Hormoz drew himself up. "Brother, I held this city against—"

"Against our own blood," Rostam cut him off. "Against our father's peace. Tell me, Hormoz, while you sat in your borrowed throne, did you ever wonder why the eastern borders stayed quiet? Did you think the raiders and warlords simply decided to give up their ambitions?"

Farid stepped forward, "Rostam, I fought only to prevent—"

"To prevent what, Farid? The collapse of an empire? And how many Persian lives did you spend in the effort?" Rostam's words fell like hammer blows. "While you two fought over who would wear the crown, I was out there learning what it truly means to rule."

He strode to the table where Parisa had laid out their father's proclamation. "Our little sister understood what you both forgot. A kingdom is not held by walls or armies alone, but by wisdom and justice." He placed a hand on Parisa's shoulder, a rare smile softening his stern features. "She was the only one who wrote to me of the people's suffering, who saw past the game of thrones to the real cost of your war."

In the throne room, Rostam's justice fell like autumn leaves. "Hormoz," he addressed his eldest brother, "your ambition has cost thousands of lives. You will take the black and serve at our eastern borders, defending the empire you nearly destroyed." He turned to Farid, his voice softening slightly. "And you, brother, though your cause was just, your methods were not. You will rebuild what this war has broken, starting with Babylon itself."

Parisa watched her brothers, noting how Hormoz's shoulders stiffened with barely contained rage, while Farid's head bowed in acceptance. But something tugged at her awareness—a memory of old maps she had studied with Farid, of whispered rumors from the western traders.

In that moment, a servant burst into the throne room, face pale as moonlight. "My lords—riders approaching from the merchant roads. They say—" he swallowed hard, "They say the desert itself moves."

Rostam's expression hardened. He strode to the western window, Parisa close behind. In the distance, dust clouds rose like approaching storms. Then came the sound—a howling that raised the hair on the back of their necks, followed by whistles that seemed to speak in some ancient tongue. Finally, a horn blast echoed off the mountains, so deep it seemed to shake the palace foundations.

"No," Rostam breathed, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Navid."

As they watched, riders emerged from the dust—not in hundreds, but in thousands. Their horses were lean as wolves, their riders wrapped in indigo robes that rippled like water in the desert wind. At their head rode a figure on a white stallion, his black cloak catching the dying sun.

"The King in the Desert," Parisa whispered. She turned to Rostam. "Brother, the merchants spoke of him gathering tribes, but they said—"

"They said he was months away," Rostam finished grimly. "It seems our royal squabble provided him the perfect opportunity."

Behind them, Hormoz let out a bitter laugh. "So, brother, how does it feel to inherit an empire only to lose it in the same hour?"

But Farid had gone very still, his military mind already racing. "Rostam," he said quietly, "there's something you should know about the western water reserves. Something I discovered while planning my siege."

Before he could continue, another horn blast shook the air. On the distant ridge, Navid raised his hand. Like a wave of midnight, his horde began to move.

Rostam watched the approaching army, his face unreadable. Behind him, the City of Kings lay vulnerable, its defenders exhausted from civil war, its walls bearing fresh scars from brother fighting brother.

The sun touched the horizon, and in its dying light, the desert riders came for Babylon.

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