Night, heavy and silent, had fallen upon the Persian border camp.
The sky was clear and cloudless, and the full moon cast a cold, silver light on the thousands of tents scattered across the silent plain.
Unlike the previous nights, tonight a silence full of tension and anticipation reigned.
Only the sound of the wind rustling through the dry grass and the distant cries of the guards broke this silence.
Small fires were lit throughout the camp, and soldiers had gathered around them in small, silent groups.
In one of these circles, Arta, the proud Pasargadaean warrior, sat beside Bahram, the young Dehbod from the Dai tribe.
Arta was carefully sharpening the edge of his short cast-iron sword with a whetstone.
The scraping sound of metal on stone was the only sound that broke the silence between them.
Bahram asked softly, "Are you afraid, Arta?"
Arta stopped his work for a moment and stared at the dancing flames of the fire.
"Fear? A Persian is not afraid of war."
Then he sighed. "But... this is different."
"This is the first time I am fighting for something bigger than my tribe."
"For the first time, the fate of all of Pars depends on the tip of your sword and mine."
Bahram nodded. "I feel the same."
"But when I think of Prince Kourosh, when I think of his plans, his weapons, this order he has given us... my fear turns into confidence."
He looked around. This feeling was surging throughout the entire camp.
The soldiers were talking to each other, sharing their bread, and helping each other prepare their armor.
The tribal walls had crumbled.
At that moment, Kourosh, accompanied by his father, came out of the command tent to inspect the defensive lines.
They walked in silence among the ranks of soldiers.
Their presence, especially the presence of that small, resolute figure, spread a wave of calm and strength among the soldiers.
The soldiers would rise upon seeing them and beat their fists against their chests.
Kourosh responded to each of them with a calm smile and a piercing gaze.
He saw in their eyes not fear, but a steel-like resolve.
When they reached the end of the camp, Cambyses stopped and looked at the dark plain before them, where the Median army was asleep.
"Tomorrow, this plain will be red with blood," his voice was calm and cold.
"Kourosh, I believe in you and your plan. But a father's heart is always worried."
"You are only ten and a half years old and you carry a heavy burden on your shoulders."
Kourosh looked at his father.
"Father, age is just a number that counts time. But wisdom is measured by experience and knowledge."
"In these ten years, I have lived for a hundred."
He paused.
"Do not worry about me. Worry about these men."
He gestured to the soldiers. "They have trusted us. We must not disappoint them."
"Tomorrow, we fight not only for victory, but for the future of these men's children."
These words, this maturity and wisdom, erased the last particles of worry from Cambyses's heart.
He smiled and placed his hand on his son's shoulder.
"You are no longer a child, Kourosh."
"You are a king who has not yet worn a crown."
He then said with a voice that now had the firmness of a commander, "Now go and rest. Tomorrow you will need all your strength."
Kourosh bowed his head in obedience and returned to his tent.
But he did not sleep.
He bent over the map and, for the last time, reviewed all the details of his offensive plan.
He believed in his victory.
But in a corner of his mind, a small voice of doubt whispered.