Kourosh stood between the two men.
One, a father burning with the fire of revenge.
And the other, a grandfather trembling from the cold of defeat.
He turned to Azhidahak.
With the same cold and ruthless logic with which he planned his battles, he explained his strategic reasons for pardoning him.
"You asked why you are alive, King."
"The answer is simple: because you dead are more dangerous to me than you alive."
These words were so unexpected and cold that even Cambyses fell silent in astonishment.
Kourosh continued, "Killing you makes you a martyr."
"The Median poets will write elegies for you. Their Magi will elevate you to the level of the gods."
"Your name will become a symbol of resistance against the 'Persian conqueror,' and their sons will grow up with the dream of avenging your blood."
"This is a war that will never end."
"This is a wound that will forever remain on the body of my future kingdom and will rot it from within."
He then took a step closer to Azhidahak.
"But your being alive... your being alive tells a different story."
He gestured with his hand to outside the tent, to the vast camp of the Medes who were now prisoners.
"Your presence beside me legitimizes my rule in the eyes of the Medes."
"When they see that their former king is not only alive but respected, what will they say?"
"They will understand that this is not a brutal conquest, but a union and a transfer of power."
"You will no longer be the king of the Medes."
Kourosh's voice was firm and unwavering.
"But you will be the father of the queen and the grandfather of the Shahanshah."
"You will become a symbol of the bond between two nations."
"Your presence assures all those proud Median commanders and soldiers that they can serve the new empire without fear of revenge."
"Instead of being a symbol of a bloody resistance, you will become the bridge to a stable union."
"This is the reason for your being alive."
Azhidahak, in absolute shock and disbelief, listened to this political maturity, to this ruthless and calculating wisdom.
He had expected anything but this.
He had expected to face the rage of a conqueror or the pity of a grandson, not the cold logic of an empire's architect.
He felt humbled before this eleven-year-old child.
He understood that he had lost the war not to new weapons or a grand deception, but to this peerless mind.
Cambyses, who had listened to this political analysis with his mouth agape in astonishment, finally calmed down.
His anger had subsided and was replaced by a deep admiration.
He understood that his son had not only won the war, but was in the process of winning the peace.
He sheathed his sword. And fell silent.
Azhidahak stared at his grandson in silence for long moments.
He saw the future in Kourosh's eyes; a future that no longer belonged to him.
He slowly bowed his head in submission.
"I... I accept."
These words came not from fear, but from a respect he felt for the first time in his life for someone other than himself.
Kourosh nodded and returned to his command throne.
"Good. From tomorrow, our work to build the empire begins."
He stared at the map again.
As if this fateful conversation was just one of the predicted stages in his long path.
The game was over.
And now, it was time to arrange the pieces for a bigger game.