The news of the victory had reached Pasargadae.
But not with the clamor of horns, but with the heavy silence of the carts that brought the wounded to the city.
Mandane, who had stood in prayer on the walls of the citadel all night, felt not joy, but a deep sense of relief upon seeing the first rays of victory.
Her son was alive.
Her son was victorious.
But she knew that before the celebration, she had to face the last specter of her dark past.
With a firmness befitting the mother of a Shahanshah, she ordered her chariot to be prepared.
She was going to the camp to face her father.
Her arrival at the camp was met with silence and respect.
The Persian soldiers, upon seeing their queen, proudly cleared the way for her.
The captive Median soldiers looked at this noble woman who was the mother of their conqueror with a mixture of curiosity and fearful respect.
Mandane, paying no attention to these gazes, went straight to the tent that had been pitched for her father.
A simple tent that was leagues away from the splendor of the palaces of Ecbatana.
She stood before the entrance of the tent, took a deep breath, and pushed the curtain aside.
Azhidahak was sitting on a simple bed, staring at an unknown point.
He was no longer that proud king; he was a defeated old man with simple clothes and empty eyes.
With Mandane's entrance, he slowly raised his head.
For a moment, a spark of that same royal authority shone in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.
Before his daughter, he was no longer a king.
He was just a father who had to answer for his actions.
Mandane walked forward slowly and stood before him.
"Father."
Her voice was calm but full of a deep, ancient sorrow.
"Do you remember? The last time you looked at me like this was in the great hall of Ecbatana."
"I was a sixteen-year-old girl, and you married me off to a man you called the 'king of the distant lands'."
"You sent me into exile with a smile because you were afraid of a dream you had seen in your sleep."
These words sank into the silence of the tent like sharp daggers.
She continued, and with every word, she poured out years of suppressed pain and terror.
"Did you ever, in all these years, spend a single night thinking about how your daughter was faring?"
Her voice trembled, but not from weakness, but from the innocent grief in the heart of a daughter wronged by her father.
"And then... then he was born."
"Your grandson. Your blood."
"And you, for that same foolish dream, ordered his murder."
Azhidahak lowered his head.
He no longer had the strength to look into his daughter's eyes.
Mandane took a step closer to him.
"You do not know what I went through."
"You do not know what it feels like to wait every moment for your father's soldiers to snatch your child from your arms and throw him to the wolves."
"You took my son from me."
"You took his childhood from him."
"Instead of childish games, he learned the art of war and deception, because you pushed him down this path."
Azhidahak, who had now lost all his power, for the first time in his life, felt the true weight of his actions.
In Mandane's eyes, he saw not only a wronged daughter, but the image of all the victims of his pride and paranoia.
He remembered the grim feast of Harpak.
He remembered all the chieftains he had unjustly eliminated.
And he remembered a kingdom that he had brought to the brink of annihilation with his own hands.
His shoulders collapsed under this burden.
For the first time, he showed real remorse.
A hot tear streamed from the corner of his eye and dripped onto his white beard.
"Forgive me..."
His voice was a weak, broken wail.
"I... I was blind."
"Fear... the fear of losing power turned me into a monster that even I did not recognize."
This confession, this breaking of a steel-like pride, was more shocking than any shout.
Mandane, upon seeing her father's tears, froze in her place for a moment.
She had come for revenge, but instead, she was faced with a broken and remorseful old man.
Her anger subsided and gave way to a bitter pity.
She placed her hand on her father's shoulder.
A fragile and bitter relationship was taking shape on the ashes of an empire.