With the first trembling rays of the sun that colored the plain of Pasargadae with saffron and blood, the morning of the battle began.
A thin, silver mist was spread over the ground like a veil.
An eerie silence reigned over the plain.
A silence that was soon to be shattered by the roar of fifty-five thousand fighting men.
On one side, the vast and disorderly sea of the Median army, like a many-headed beast awakened from a deep slumber, made the earth tremble with their clamor and the roar of their drums.
Their bronze armors and colorful tribal flags displayed a canvas of a wild and untamable power.
In contrast, on the strategic hill of the "Eagle's Nest," the twenty-five-thousand-man Persian army stood with an imposing silence.
They were arranged in orderly and uniform ranks.
Their lapis lazuli blue and purple clothes shone in the soft morning light like the promise of a new dawn.
Their uniform round shields formed a steadfast and steel-like wall.
They waited in silence, like a sharp blade ready to pierce the heart of this giant beast.
This contrast was the clash of chaos and order.
The clash of pride and strategy.
Kourosh, mounted on his small horse, passed through the ranks.
He looked at the faces of his soldiers and saw the doubt and fatigue in their eyes.
He knew that their faith in him was fading.
But this, too, was part of the plan.
In the heart of the Median army, Azhidahak stood on his royal chariot, looking at this small army with contempt.
He turned to his commanders and said with a triumphant laugh:
"Look!"
"Those mice don't even dare to come down from their hill!"
"Today, we will turn this hill into their graveyard!"
He issued the first charge command with a shout that trembled with pride.
On the other side, Kourosh watched this scene from the top of the command hill with a cold calm.
He looked at his father, who stood beside him with a resolute face, and nodded with confidence.
Then, with a gesture of his hand, dozens of Persian horns sounded with a coordinated, sharp, and penetrating tune.
This tune was the response of order to chaos.
The response of will to pride.
The final war, the battle that was to decide the fate of an empire, began with the roar of the Median war drums.
Thousands of Median infantry, with shouts that made the earth tremble, charged towards the breathtaking slope of the "Eagle's Nest."
Among the Persian soldiers, Arta looked at Bahram, who stood beside him.
"Are you ready, brother?"
Bahram replied with a firm smile, "I was born for this day."
They gripped their cast-iron spears tightly and leaned against the wall of their comrades' shields.
Azhidahak, seeing this charge, had a smile of satisfaction on his lips.
He saw victory as certain.
But Kourosh, with the same cold calm, looked at Arash, who was commanding the center.
"According to the plan, Arash."
"Let them get close."
"Let them taste Persian steel again."
Thousands of Median soldiers surged up the slope like a roaring flood.
And the Persians stood in wait for them like a silent rock.
The bloody dawn had begun.
And history was waiting to be written.