The Return of the Prince
In the year 317 of the Parsian calendar, just before sunrise, the gates of Ecbatana creaked open. Prince Arslan had returned. The palace stood cold and silent in the faint golden light. He had grown since last the city had seen him—taller, quieter, and with a resolve that pierced deeper than any blade.
His first order was simple:
"Release all slaves from duty today. Let them rest."
The servants froze. Then, one by one, eyes widened, mouths curled into disbelief—then joy. A thunder of cheers rolled through the palace corridors and kitchens.
A Question and an Answer
Among them, a young boy, recently sold into servitude, muttered, "Why do they cheer for him like he's a god?"
An older man named Malek leaned on his broom, chuckling. "He isn't a god. But he could've been a tyrant—and he chose not to be."
The boy tilted his head.
Malek continued, voice low. "When Arslan was five, he gave up his own meals so we could eat. When he was ten, he stood between a soldier and a slave who was about to be whipped. When we were ill, he sent his own tutors away and brought water himself. He treats us as if we were his brothers. That's a prince worth dying for."
A Garden of Quiet Realizations
Avoiding his mother, Queen Tahamenay—who rarely looked at him with warmth—Arslan wandered into the palace garden. There, two great eagles descended from the skies, perching on his shoulders with a grace only nature can grant.
"Azrael. Serous," he whispered. "You still remember me."
Maids screamed in the background, but Arslan didn't flinch. The birds calmed at his touch.
General Kishward arrived moments later, laughing.
"They love you more than I do, Your Highness."
Vahriz, walking behind, observed the scene with a rare smile. "The birds know what kind of man you'll become. Animals don't flatter."
Kishward added, "You may not see it yet—but you are becoming more than just a prince. You're becoming a symbol."
Arslan stared into the horizon.
"I don't want to be a symbol. I want to be a change."
The Parade of Victory—and Secrets
Later that day, trumpets blared through Ecbatana. King Andragoras returned in glory, riding a black steed armored in gold. Crowds flooded the streets, tossing petals in the air.
Behind him marched the generals—Kharlan, Kubard, Kishward. Cheers shook the city's walls.
But Arslan's eyes searched the rear of the parade. He saw the shackled Lusitanian prisoners—men, boys, some no older than thirteen. He saw the hatred in the crowd. And he saw himself in those children—born into a world that never asked for their opinion.
He turned away from the parade before it ended.
Whispers in the Dark
That evening, in a quiet war room, Arslan met with Vahriz.
"My lord," he asked, "what will happen to the Lusitanian prisoners?"
"They'll be sold as slaves. War spoils."
"And our own slaves? They'll remain?" Arslan asked bitterly.
Vahriz paused. "That is how Pars survives and prospers."
Arslan's fists clenched.
In that moment, he knew.
Pars could no longer be his home.
The Midnight Rebellion
At midnight, beneath a sky scattered with stars, Arslan walked the halls of the palace—silent, swift. He had used weeks of planning, studying guard routines, acquiring sleeping powder from a trusted apothecary, and spreading it into the guards' wine.
The soldiers fell one by one—drifting into deep slumber. The torches dimmed. The corridors fell eerily quiet.
Arslan moved to the dungeon first. The Lusitanian prisoners flinched as his key turned the locks.
"Go," he said simply. "You're free."
"Why?" one boy asked, bewildered.
"Because a nation built on chains deserves to be broken," Arslan said.
The boy knelt, whispered, "Thank you," and ran into the shadows with his kin.
Next, he entered the slaves' quarters. Every face turned to him. He didn't need to speak—the look in his eyes was enough.
Still, he addressed them:
"Tonight, you are no longer property. You are no longer forgotten.
You are the founding citizens of a new kingdom.
One with no nobles, no chains, no tyrants—only justice, freedom, and opportunity."
They rose in silence, awe in their eyes.
A Nation Without Chains
Outside the palace gates, 200 horses waited—borrowed, not stolen. The people mounted quickly. Children clung to mothers. Men held old farming tools as weapons.
Arslan looked at his people and raised his voice one last time:
"We ride for the Forest of Ashbtoom. We carve a home from wilderness.
We build a nation called England—a land where no one bows except to the truth.
And I will not be your prince—I will be your servant.
Your king—only if you accept me."
A moment of silence. Then a thunder of voices whispered:
"Long live King Arslan."