The plain of Pasargadae had turned into the final scene of a great tragedy.
The great Median army had been reduced to scattered streams of terrified men.
They were searching for an escape route from this hell of steel.
While the Persian corps were ruthlessly reaping the last of the resistance, a thousand-man unit of Median horsemen broke away from the main body of the battle.
They were not thinking of slaughter or plunder.
They had one goal.
One hunt.
At the forefront of these men, Harpak was charging.
His face, which had been hidden for years under a mask of loyalty, was now a mask of cold and ruthless revenge.
He paid no attention to the defenseless fugitives.
His eyes were fixed on only one point in the distance: the command hill.
Where the royal horse of Azhidahak stood out like a stain of shame on the slope of the Persian victory.
They charged straight towards the heart of the Median royal guard like an arrow released from a bow.
On the hill, Azhidahak was witnessing this collapse with shock and disbelief.
His mind could not process this catastrophe.
How?
How had this invincible army been so completely shattered in a few hours?
He was shouting, giving commands, but his voice was lost in the clamor of defeat and flight.
Suddenly, amidst the dust, he saw a unit of horsemen who, contrary to the direction of the flight, were charging straight towards him.
For a moment, a glimmer of hope sparked in his heart.
Perhaps these were his loyal guards coming to rescue him.
But as the riders got closer, he recognized their flag.
The flag of one of his most loyal generals.
And then, he saw the face of the rider who was charging at the head of them all.
A face that he had looked upon for years with contempt and pity.
The face of Harpak.
In an instant, the entire truth struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Betrayal.
This was not the magic of that child; this was the poison of a betrayal that had been festering in the heart of his army for years.
The royal guards, a group of the best Median warriors, quickly formed a ring around their king upon seeing this charge.
But they, too, had lost their morale.
They stood no chance against a thousand determined and angry horsemen who were fighting for revenge.
The battle was short but fierce.
Harpak's loyal guard descended upon the royal guards with an anger born of years of humiliation.
After a few moments of bloody conflict, the remaining guards threw down their weapons and surrendered.
The path was open.
Harpak galloped his horse to the top of the hill and reined it in a few steps from Azhidahak.
The horse reared up on its hind legs with a loud neigh.
For a moment, only the sound of the two men's heavy breaths and the howling of the wind was heard in the deathly silence of the hill.
Harpak dismounted.
He walked slowly towards his king.
In his eyes, there was no longer that usual respect and fear.
Only the cold fire of a revenge that had awaited this moment for days was burning.
He looked at the king who had once intended to feed him his own son in a grim feast.
He looked at the man who thought that by breaking his pride, he had turned him into a loyal dog forever.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm, deep, and full of a deadly poison.
"Azhidahak. Is the taste of my son's flesh still between your teeth?"
Azhidahak, in absolute shock and disbelief, could only whisper his name:
"Harpak..."
This one word was an admission of all his defeats.
Defeat in battle, defeat in judgment, and defeat in understanding the depth of the hatred he himself had planted in the heart of his most loyal general.
Before he could utter another word, Harpak's soldiers pulled him down from his horse.
They took the crown from his head.
And they tied his hands behind his back.
The hunt for the king was over.