The command tent, which hours before had been the beating heart of a great victory, had now transformed into the stage for a silent and tense family drama.
The flickering light of the torches danced the long shadows of three figures on the cloth walls.
The atmosphere was heavy and full of unspoken words.
Azhidahak, who no longer wore the humiliating chains but felt the weight of a crushing defeat on his shoulders, stood in the center of the tent.
Still in shock from his grandson's unexpected pardon, he looked at this strange scene with bewildered eyes.
On one side of the tent stood Cambyses; like a wounded lion pacing restlessly in a cage.
His eyes burned with a suppressed rage that had been building in his chest for years.
His right hand, involuntarily, rested on the hilt of his cast-iron sword.
He was looking at the man who was not only his wife's father, but the nightmare of his life.
On the other side, in stark contrast, Kourosh sat on the command throne.
His eleven-year-old frame was lost in the largeness of the chair, which was decorated with a bearskin.
But the cold and impenetrable calm on his face filled the entire space of the tent.
He was not looking at his grandfather, nor at his father, but at the map that was spread on the table.
As if this tense confrontation was just one of the insignificant variables in his grand equation.
This heavy silence was finally broken by Azhidahak's trembling voice.
He looked at Kourosh, not as a grandson, but as his conqueror.
"Why?" his voice barely came out of his throat.
"Why did you not kill me?"
"History teaches us that a conqueror never leaves the root of his defeated enemy alive."
"This is weakness. This is folly."
Before Kourosh could answer, Cambyses's suppressed rage exploded.
He took a long stride forward and stood before Azhidahak.
"Folly?" he roared, his hand clenching his sword.
"You speak of folly?"
"If it were not for my son's command, if there were not a shred of his wisdom in my being, your severed head would now be on the highest spear on this plain, food for the crows!"
"You are alive because he willed it so, not because you are worthy of life!"
These words landed like a whip on Azhidahak's face.
He collapsed into himself for a moment.
All that royal majesty faded in the face of his son-in-law's pure rage.
The guards outside the tent, hearing this roar, put their hands on their swords but remained in their places.
The tension in the tent had reached its peak.
Personal score-settling was on the verge of replacing logic.
Suddenly, a calm but authoritative voice broke this wave of anger.
"Father."
Kourosh spoke, without taking his eyes off the map.
This one word, just one word, was enough to make Cambyses freeze in his tracks.
Panting, he took a step back, but his eyes were still burning with anger.
Kourosh raised his head and, for the first time, looked directly at his grandfather.
"He is right, King."
Kourosh's voice was cold and emotionless.
"It is folly. If this were to be a personal score-settling, you would not be alive now."
He rose from his seat and slowly approached the two of them.
"But this is no longer just a family dispute."
"This is the birth of an empire."
With a calm beyond his years, he guided the discussion from the level of personal revenge to the level of grand strategy.
And he prevented the meeting from ending in disaster.