I am Ciro, son of Darius, heir to the throne of the vastest empire human eyes have ever beheld. They have repeated it to me since I first gained understanding: the earth trembles beneath the march of our armies, the Great King rules from dawn to the dusk of the known world’s borders, and I, one day, will wear that same crown of gold and diamonds. They say I am the future Shah of Persia, lord of twenty-seven satrapies, master of the tributes of Babylon, of the pearls of the Gulf, of the cedars of Lebanon, and of the silk that winds its way from distant Qin. And yet…

  And yet there is a hollow here, right beneath my ribs, an emptiness that not even molten gold could fill.

  I have tasted everything a man could desire before reaching twenty-five winters. I have had women with gazelle eyes brought from the hanging gardens of Babylon, ebony-skinned dancers brought in chains from Kush, Greek courtesans who recited Sappho while slipping out of their saffron-colored tunics. I have eaten pheasants stuffed with pomegranates and pistachios, bathed in pomegranate and saffron sauce; I have drunk Shiraz wine from cups carved from a single piece of rock crystal; I have listened to the finest lutenists of Media until their fingers bled on the strings. Jesters juggling torches, acrobats who seemed to defy gravity, poets improvising odes to my magnificence… and all of it vanished by dawn.

  Like the mist of the Tigris River.

  In the mornings I wake up and the emptiness is still there, patient, almost kind. I sit on the edge of the ivory bed and look at the city spreading below my terrace: Persepolis, the city that should not exist, built to prove that even the gods envy the King of Kings. And I think: what more could I ask for? What is left to conquer when everything is already mine?

  I can order oysters from the Black Sea and have them fresh on the third day. I can command that a philosopher from Athens be brought in chains if I wish, and in a few weeks he will kneel before me, debating time and form. I can point to any maiden at a banquet and that same night she will be mine, willingly or not. Everything is so… simple. So inevitable. So unbearably predictable.

  And then Ardeshir appears.

  Ardeshir, son of a lesser Darius, a noble of the second rank whose father holds one of those endless-titled positions on the council (Minister of the Royal Granaries? Of the irrigation canals? Honestly, I never bothered to learn or remember). A young man with restless eyes behind those lenses, an easy laugh, and comments that are far too honest.

  He shouldn’t be my friend. There is no political advantage in it. His house brings neither armies, nor gold mines, nor fleets. And yet…

  It was his right hand that caught me.

  The first time I noticed was during a game of chaupar in the private gardens. As he moved the ivory and lapis lazuli pieces, I saw the calluses: thick, hardened, deep grooves in the palms and at the base of the fingers. Hands of someone who wields wood and iron every day, not of one who merely leafs through parchments and debates Parmenides.

  I asked. Discreetly, casually. The spies brought me the report in less than three days.

  Ardeshir trains in secret.

  Every morning, before the sun rises over the Zagros Mountains, he slips away to a forgotten courtyard behind his house. There, alone, with a training sword far heavier than his slender frame should bear, he repeats the same sequences again and again: high cut, low thrust, spin, parry, feint. Sweat, dust, bruises. Day after day. Year after year.

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  He wants to become a legendary swordsman.

  The problem—the terrible, ridiculous, tragic problem—is that he has no talent.

  None.

  His guard is slow, his wrist weak, his left foot always drags a moment late. The veteran instructors who have watched him in hiding say he is diligent, even brave… but that he will never be more than mediocre. The sword will never be lethal in his hands. The steel will never recognize him as its own.

  And yet he persists.

  Every dawn. Every dawn since he was ten years old.

  While I sleep until midday because no one dares wake me, while I yawn through audiences with foreign ambassadors and wonder if it’s worth pretending to care, Ardeshir rises in the darkness and strikes again and again against an enemy he will never defeat.

  And I… I envy him.

  Because he has something I will never have: a struggle worth losing. A dream that hurts. A purpose that cannot be bought with gold nor decreed with a royal seal.

  So I keep him close.

  The truth is, there are only two people in this world I truly envy.

  The first is Ardeshir. I envy his constant hunger, that almost sacred obsession with becoming a master swordsman. He rises before dawn, trains until his hands bleed. He doesn’t do it for glory… he does it because he feels that only through steel can he become someone worthy. And I admire him for it. He is disciplined, quiet, but when he fails he grows frustrated before trying again. He is magnificent in his own way.

  And the second… the second is that legendary madman.

  Zamir. The Hero of the Claw.

  He was born in a forgotten village among the black mountains, a place so insignificant it didn’t even appear on the kingdom’s maps. There he grew up with Jasmine, his only true friend, the girl with sky-colored eyes who always made him laugh even when there wasn’t enough food.

  Until the night the giant ogre arrived.

  The beast was a colossus seven meters tall, skin gray as ancient stone, curved fangs, eyes red as embers. It destroyed the village in minutes. Wooden houses flew like leaves. Screams. Fire. Blood. Zamir and Jasmine were the only survivors, hidden beneath the rubble of the old chapel.

  From that day, something broke inside him.

  Weeks later, Jasmine was captured by slavers on the southern routes. She was sold to a minor noble, then to a more powerful one, until her beauty—hair black as a moonless night, golden skin, a gaze that seemed to hold stars—caught the eye of the imperial eunuchs. She ended up in the Great Harem of the Sultan, just one more jewel among hundreds of prisoners.

  Meanwhile, Zamir turned wild.

  Captured as a slave and sold to a band of mercenaries. He survived massacres, cruel winters, battles where men fell like wheat. He rose through the ranks with suicidal courage and raw talent. He became a soldier. Then a captain. His name began to be whispered: “The madman of the claw,” because he fought with a gauntlet bearing a griffin’s talons.

  Until the day he saw her.

  It was a procession of new prisoners. Twelve chained girls, dressed in transparent rags, being led toward the palace’s back gates. Among them was Jasmine, thinner, paler… but alive. Their eyes met for a single second. She trembled. He felt the world stop.

  That same night, Zamir committed the greatest madness of his life.

  He infiltrated the harem disguised as a eunuch. Silently killed three guards. He found Jasmine in the lotus-flower chamber. He embraced her as if she were a dream. “I’m getting you out of here,” he swore.

  They almost made it.

  But the alarms sounded. Elite guards surrounded them in the inner courtyard. The chief eunuch ordered: “Kill the girl first. Let him watch.”

  When the executioner raised the scimitar over Jasmine’s neck and it fell, ending her life, Zamir let out a scream that didn’t sound human. It was a roar of pure pain, of shattered love, of rage accumulated since the destruction of his village.

  And then he awakened.

  The power of a True Hero.

  A golden aura burst from his body, he grew taller and stronger. His eyes turned golden. He killed thirty-seven elite guards in less than a minute. He shattered walls. He tore steel like paper. He carried Jasmine in his arms and tore through the palace like a living storm.

  I was there that night.

  I was in the south tower. It caught my attention that someone had managed to enter the harem and survive… until I saw the blood-soaked figure of Zamir emerge, with the unconscious Jasmine in his arms, surrounded by that heroic aura that lit the night like a second dawn. The sultan ordered the entire army after him… but no one could stop him.

  He became a legend that very week.

  And yes… I envy him. Having a best friend, that sounds good to me. I imagine a friend who would want to be with me—that would be something truly wonderful.