Shapur opened his eyes. He stood in the middle of the throne room where he minutes ago issued his orders to his men to move.
He looked back at the ornate chair with the long back raised atop the dias, positioned so it was always bathed in the sun rays, no matter the time.
The throne.
The seat of power.
Yet, Shapur could see it for what it was. A fancy chair covered in the blood of those who fought for it.
And soon, he would taint it more by his own hands, with the blood of his cousin, and sit on it to reign over Pars.
Many would think it an honor to sit on the throne, to experience, even for a moment, the feeling of having control over a country, over the fate of its citizens, and with proper preparation, even those outside its borders.
But Shapur didn't.
It was truly the kind of forbidden power that would lead a man astray.
Many a king lost their mind sitting on a similar throne, like Jamshid.
