The battle was over.
The plain of Pasargadae, which had seen a bloody dawn, now witnessed the sunset of a kingdom.
The sun was sinking into the horizon.
Its crimson light shone upon the thousands of abandoned shields and helmets, scattering them across the expanse of the plain like great drops of blood.
The clamor of war had given way to a heavy and imposing silence.
A silence broken only by the faint moans of the wounded and the sound of the wind whistling through the defeated Median flags.
Tens of thousands of Median soldiers now sat as prisoners in large groups on the plain.
They stared at their unknown fate with empty eyes.
Amidst this epic and sorrowful scene, a path was cleared.
Harpak, his face calmed from revenge, brought Azhidahak in chains, on foot and covered in dust, before Kourosh and Cambyses.
Behind them, Harpak's loyal guard moved with silence and firmness.
Thousands of Persian and Median soldiers watched this historic scene in silence, with eyes full of astonishment, fear, and respect.
This was not just the surrender of a king.
This was the death of one kingdom and the birth of another.
Harpak brought the last king of the Medes to his knees before Kourosh's feet like a worthless gift.
"Shahanshah, I have brought you the old lion," his voice was calm but full of a deep pride.
Cambyses, with eyes in which a mixture of anger, pity, and victory surged, looked at his father-in-law.
He looked at the king before whom he had once bowed his head.
He took his sword in his hand, as if he wanted to end all the years of humiliation and fear with a single blow.
But a glance from his son stopped him.
Azhidahak, amidst the dust of defeat, raised his head and looked at his grandson.
He no longer saw that arrogant child he had seen in the war council.
He no longer saw that cowardly boy he thought was fleeing.
He saw a king in whose eleven-year-old eyes an ancient wisdom and a calculated ruthlessness surged.
A king who had defeated him with an intelligence and deception beyond his comprehension.
He now understood that this whole month, all these retreats and apparent defeats, were only part of a grand and deadly performance.
In that gaze, Azhidahak saw the entire truth.
He understood that this child was not only the heir to his throne, but the heir to all the power and wisdom that he had never attained.
He had not been defeated by a man.
He had bowed before history itself.
All that pride, all that power, shattered like thin glass in the face of this crushing truth.
Kourosh took a step forward.
He looked at his grandfather, at his defeated enemy, at one of the last remnants of an ancient era.
In his eyes, there was no sign of the joy of victory, no trace of the thirst for revenge.
Only a cold, deep calm could be seen.
The calm of a chess player who, after a long and complex game, has checkmated his opponent.
Before the astonished eyes of everyone, especially the Median soldiers who were expecting a ruthless execution, he bowed.
Then he took the key to Azhidahak's chains from Harpak.
And with his own hands, he opened the locks.
The sound of the chains falling to the ground echoed in the silence of the plain like the roar of thunder.
Kourosh rose.
He extended his hand towards his grandfather.
"Rise, King of the Medes. Your place is not on the ground."
This act, this unexpected pardon, was beyond everyone's comprehension.
Among the Median soldiers, a whisper of hope and disbelief arose.
They were witnessing not only the power, but also the mercy and magnanimity of their new conqueror.
This was the end of a kingdom based on fear.
And the beginning of an empire based on compassion, wisdom, and forgiveness.