Time: The seventh month of the army's training, one week after the conversation between Cambyses and Kourosh
Location: The central command tent, Anshan camp
Night, heavy and silent, had cast its shadow over the Anshan camp.
Outside, thirty thousand soldiers rested in the calm before the storm.
But in the central command tent, the war had already begun; a war of wisdom, intelligence, and strategy.
The flickering light of several torches made the long shadows of the key Persian commanders dance on the tent's cloth walls.
Cambyses, with a resolute face, sat at the head of a large table on which detailed maps were spread.
Arash, Bagpat, and the other young Hezarbods stared at the maps in silence, their eyes shining with excitement and anticipation.
They were reviewing the final logistical details; the grueling details that would decide victory or defeat.
Cambyses traced the route of the supply caravans on the map with his finger.
"Aban has reported that the grain depots along the route to the border are full."
"But drinking water in the dry plains is our biggest challenge. We must ensure that each corps has enough waterskins."
Arash replied, "Do not worry, my king."
"The logistics group (the future Construction Corps) has dug several wells along the route in the past two weeks and marked them with stone piles. We will not go thirsty."
These precise conversations were a sign of a machine that now worked with flawless order.
A machine that was no longer based solely on courage, but on logistics and planning.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the tent was broken by an unexpected sound.
The sound of rapid, anxious fluttering outside.
And then the guard's shout: "Urgent air message! Make way!"
The curtain of the tent was hastily pulled aside.
A young soldier entered, a tired white dove perched on his leather gauntlet.
The dove was panting, and its feathers were ruffled, a sign of a long and relentless journey.
All conversations stopped.
All eyes were fixed on the small bird.
This was the fastest and most secret communication method of Fariborz's network.
A method used only for the most vital messages.
An intelligence officer who had been standing silently in the corner of the tent stepped forward with quick strides.
With a skill born of much practice, he gently took the dove.
He untied the small scroll that was fastened to its leg.
The scroll was made of the thinnest type of New Persian paper and was covered with tiny, cryptic letters.
The officer placed the scroll on a small table.
He took out the small "Key" book for the code from his leather pouch.
An invention of Kourosh that only a few people in the entire kingdom were able to use.
The silence in the tent was now so deep that the sound of the officer's pencil writing on another piece of paper was clearly audible.
With incredible speed, he was converting the coded letters into New Persian words.
Cambyses and Arash stared at his hands with bated breath.
After a few minutes that felt like a century, the officer finished his work.
His face was pale.
He rose, gave a short bow, and handed the paper to Kourosh.
Kourosh had been watching until that moment in a calm-filled silence.
Kourosh took the paper.
His eyes moved quickly over the words.
His expression did not change, but the commanders who knew him could see a cold fire igniting in the depths of his gaze.
He handed the paper to his father.
Cambyses took the tablet and, with a voice that tried to be firm, read the message for everyone:
"The storm has been unleashed."
"Azhidahak has moved from Ecbatana with all the forces of Media."
"They will reach the border in a month and a half."
A collective gasp of shock and tension was drawn in the tent.
The news, though predictable, placed a terrifying reality before them.
A month and a half.
Only forty-five days until the confrontation with one of the world's largest armies.
Arash, with a calmness he had learned from his master, only looked at Kourosh.
All eyes, all hopes, and all fears now weighed on the shoulders of that ten-and-a-half-year-old child.
Kourosh slowly rose from his seat.
He walked towards the large map, and the commanders made way for him.
With his small wooden staff, he pointed to the Median capital, Ecbatana, and then drew a straight line to the border of Pars.
For long moments, he just stared at the map.
As if he were calculating the movement of thousands of soldiers, the logistics of hundreds of caravans, and the fate of two nations.
The silence in the tent was so heavy that one could hear the beating of hearts.
Finally, he turned.
He swept his gaze over each of his commanders, and lastly, over his father.
There was no longer any trace of childhood on his face.
This was the gaze of a king; a king who had challenged destiny.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm but powerful, and in the silence of the tent, it echoed like the roar of thunder:
"The appointed time has come. We move at dawn."
The first rays of the sun shone on the red flags of the Persian army.
Red flags on which the image of a roaring golden lion was depicted.
The massive gates of the camp open.
And the first corps, with coordinated and pounding steps, begins its historic march towards the Median border and its destiny.
The storm was on its way.
But the Persians, too, were another storm.