The next day, dawn had not yet cast its first trembling rays upon the hills surrounding Anshan when Kourosh left the palace.
The air was cool and damp. The morning silence was broken only by the sound of his horse's hooves and those of his two loyal guards.
He was riding towards a secret workshop, the place where the beating heart of his revolution worked in silence.
The printing workshop, which had been only a mud hut five years ago, had now transformed into an orderly complex of wooden and adobe buildings.
A gentle smoke rose into the air from the paper-drying kilns.
The rhythmic, soft thud of the hand presses echoed through the valley like a hidden heartbeat.
Upon entering the compound, a smile of satisfaction appeared on Kourosh's lips.
The workshop was much larger and more organized than his last visit.
"Borzou," the workshop's loyal supervisor, quickly came to greet him upon seeing Kourosh.
"My lord, good morning. Your presence at this hour gives us strength."
Kourosh dismounted and warmly placed his hand on Borzou's shoulder.
"It is you and your companions who give me strength, Borzou. Now that I come here after five years, I see astonishing progress."
"The quality of the paper, the precision of the type, everything is beyond my expectations. You are not just the workers of this workshop, but the architects of the future of Pars."
Borzou's face filled with pride at this praise.
"My lord, we are but tools in your hands. It is your wisdom that has turned old wood and cloth into wings for knowledge. We are loyal to you and this great dream to the death."
Kourosh walked towards the main printing room.
Several large hand presses were arranged in neat rows.
He went to a table where the two original scrolls lay: the letter to the Elamites and the cry for justice to the people of Media and Pars.
He turned to Borzou and asked, "Did the orders from last night reach you? Are you ready?"
Borzou replied with certainty, "Yes, my lord. As soon as your manuscripts arrived, I woke my best typesetters. They have worked all night. The first printing frames are ready."
Kourosh walked towards the main press.
With a gesture, Borzou summoned two strong workers. They carefully placed the first typeset frame of the "Cry for Justice" onto the machine.
Then, one of them, with a leather roller, gently spread a thick, black ink over the raised letters.
Kourosh himself picked up a sheet of the finest linen paper.
He placed the paper on the frame with his own hands.
A heavy silence fell over the room. All the workers had stopped their tasks and were staring at this historic scene.
Kourosh signaled to the two workers.
With all their strength, they turned the heavy lever of the press. The sound of creaking, compressed wood filled the air.
After a moment's pause, the lever was turned back.
Kourosh gently took the corner of the paper and lifted it from the type.
The first copy of the letter that was destined to shake a great kingdom was born.
Kourosh's fiery words, in the beautiful New Persian script, were lined up like black-clad soldiers on the white expanse of the paper:
"From Kourosh, son of Cambyses and Mandane... to all my brothers and sisters..."
Kourosh gave the scroll to Borzou.
His voice was no longer that of a child, but the command of a king.
"Thousands of copies. Of both letters."
"Work day and night. Forget rest."
"Tell my workers that every strike of your press is a hammer blow upon the foundations of Azhidahak's throne."
"Your speed will determine our fate."
Borzou, his eyes shining with excitement, bowed and shouted, "At once, my lord! The wheels of this press will not stop until the tyrant king is overthrown!"
A few days later, at sunset, two groups of messengers prepared to depart from the outer courtyard of the Anshan palace.
The first group consisted of soldiers dressed in the fine robes of Elamite diplomats. Each of them carried several beautiful scrolls of Kourosh's letter.
But to honor ancient traditions, one copy of the same letter had also been carved onto a heavy clay tablet to be presented to the ruler of Susa.
At the same time, a larger and much more diverse group was also preparing.
These were Fariborz's men; spies disguised as merchants, shepherds, and ordinary travelers.
Their saddlebags were filled with common goods, but in their hidden layers, hundreds of copies of Kourosh's "Cry for Justice" letter were concealed.
Their mission was to spread these fiery words in all the cities and villages of Media and Pars.
They were the soldiers of a silent war; a war whose weapon was not the sword, but words.
From atop one of the palace towers, Kourosh watched them depart into the darkness of the night.
He had entrusted the seeds of his revolution to the wind.
Now, he had only to wait for the storm he would reap.