Ariadna lingered in front of the mirror a moment longer than necessary. She still felt small, like a man, a warrior, or a scholar—and honestly, a very bookish one.

  She studied herself for a long while. Not out of vanity—that still felt strange to her—but out of sheer astonishment.

  What she saw wasn’t just a new silhouette; it was a collection of decisions, techniques, and symbols… that she actually understood. Truly understood. The layers, the tension in the fabric, the exact weight of each ornament. And that unsettled her even more than her own body did.

  Before, when she was a boy, clothing had been purely functional. Almost invisible.

  Now, however, her mind recognized textures, seams, balance, even colors and combinations, contrasts.

  And the most disturbing part was knowing that she had learned it easily and understood it naturally.

  She remembered the girls—all those maids and seamstresses.

  She recalled with a grimace—half resignation, half irony—those two days of suffering. Hours on her feet, turning, raising arms, enduring tugs, pins, abrupt corrections, and comments about “aesthetic education, the importance of color combinations, or the forty types of fabric in the empire.” She had finally been allowed to rest.

  “If you don’t know how to wear clothes, your future rivals will outshine you,” they had told her.

  She hadn’t understood it back then because she didn’t care. But her mind remembered every stupid detail. She cursed inwardly.

  The skirt she wore was short, exactly at knee level, but not uniformly. The asymmetrical cut broke the traditional line and forced the eye to follow it, creating movement even when she stood still. The lapis lazuli blue silk wasn’t just any blue: it had depth, as if it held shadow inside. Under the light, the golden embroidery didn’t shine too brightly; it conveyed authority, not ostentation. She even remembered explanations about the utility and mental power behind each garment.

  Among the golden motifs appeared small but strategic details in garnet red, placed where the eye didn’t look for them… and that’s precisely why it found them. Ariadna recalled their purpose: that red wasn’t decorative—it was a reminder of power, of blood, of lineage.

  The short white blouse crossed over her torso, revealing just enough. It wasn’t direct provocation; it was control. The crossing guided the gaze toward the belt—thick, elaborately worked, with a central medallion where a stylized sun dominated the design. Not a friendly sun, but an ancient, geometric one: a symbol of command and legitimacy.

  From that medallion hung delicate chains that swayed when she walked. Each ended in small symbols: lions and eagles, alternating with clear intent. Earthly strength. Dominion of the air. Ariadna felt a shiver as she realized they weren’t there for beauty—they were there to tell a wordless story. She was dressed like a living emblem of the heavens, her clothing the sky itself, with its stars and sun.

  The shoes were comfortable sandals, designed for walking, not for display. They fit the foot well, allowing both firmness and lightness at once. Women could choose comfort too, not just 10 cm heels… Wait—how the hell did she know about heel types? 8, 10, 15, platforms…

  Her gaze settled on the accessories, and that was where the surprise hit hardest.

  The choker didn’t strangle; it was comfortable, made of cotton, no pressure.

  The bracelets—several of them—weren’t heavy or tight; they barely stayed in place, giving her an almost childish look.

  The anklets, discreet but present, though slightly neutral—she had always thought of them as feminine, yet they were comfortable and she kept forgetting she was even wearing them.

  And finally, the short cape in the same deep blue as the skirt, resting over her shoulders. It didn’t conceal, didn’t warm: it proclaimed. It was held by a delicate chain—fine enough to seem ceremonial, strong enough not to break.

  Ariadna exhaled slowly.

  For a single second—just one—she thought she still looked like a boy. Or at least she wanted to believe it. The face remained angular, the jaw firm, the nose straight. But the hair… the hair was different. It fell longer than she remembered, dark and heavy over her head, layered? As if it had decided on its own to claim more space—wait, layered? She shouldn’t even know that word. She should just say “short.”

  “I must be paranoid. It’s probably just the clothes,” she murmured, mostly to calm herself.

  Today was the birthday of the crown prince.

  Prince Ciro.

  Her friend. Her best friend.

  A stupid, impulsive prince with more charisma than common sense… and the direct reason Ariadna was now trapped in this female body.

  She pressed her lips together.

  Yes, Ciro had screwed her over. Plain and simple. But compared to what she knew was coming—the reign of King Lichn, his methodical cruelty, his brutal invasion—this was almost… bearable. A lesser evil. For now.

  It wasn’t the time to think about that.

  She felt movement behind her.

  When she turned, her sister appeared in the doorway, as if she had stepped out of an entirely different scene. The contrast was immediate.

  Intense red hair, gathered only halfway. Green eyes, alert, too awake for someone who insisted on sleeping in impossible positions with weapons propped against the bed. Her body grew more sensual by the day in an almost unbelievable way, yet she seemed unaware… or simply didn’t care.

  As for herself, she had always preferred books. Always books—but lately, the sword too.

  Although Ariadna knew that many nights her sister simply fell asleep on top of her books. The martial training sessions were becoming more and more exhausting, and what she used to finish reading in an hour now took two days.

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  Her eyes returned to her sister.

  Her outfit was unusually covering, even by court standards.

  She wore a low-slung pelvic-cut sarong, tight and functional, held by an elaborately worked golden metal belt with geometric motifs. Beneath it, filigree panties could be glimpsed—fine, covered in tiny metallic ornaments that caught the light with every movement.

  Her chest was covered by a rigid, reinforced bra-like top, and over it a short bolero jacket that barely covered what was necessary, leaving arms and midriff free. This wasn’t clothing designed to seduce, but to move, to fight, to withstand heat, sweat, and tension.

  A tight choker circled her neck. On her arms, upper arm cuffs that emphasized muscle; on her legs, bracers and anklets that jingled softly with each step. Every piece had weight, intention, function.

  A veil covered her mouth, hiding her expression but not her gaze. Fine chains fell through her hair, attached to a central piece resting on her forehead—more ritual symbol than ornament.

  And resting against her back, the bow. Not an accessory, but a natural extension of her body.

  Ariadna watched her in silence.

  “Ready, little sister?” Roxana said, stretching. “You look really pretty.”

  .

  .

  In the heart of the Achaemenid Empire, the great festivals were not mere banquets of pleasure, but grandiose spectacles of divine power and royal legitimacy. When a crown prince first emerged as a figure of importance—generally designated by the Great King as his successor—the entire kingdom prepared for a cycle of celebrations that always took place on his birthday. All royal princes had their most important festivities occur for the first time at age 12, but for Cyrus, his birthday was always the grand feast. Merely recalling his 12th birthday was something simple, just one day, but in a world without the great famine, perhaps his mother’s original plan of 12 days of celebration could have been possible in the future.

  Imagine the scene in Pasargadae or on the imposing terrace of Persepolis, under the starry sky of Persis. The prince, not yet wearing the full crown but already invested with the official title and the kitaris (the tall royal tiara), had to demonstrate before nobles, satraps, magi (priests), and delegations from the subject peoples that he possessed the divine grace of the Sun King and the earthly power inherited from Cyrus the Great.

  Each annual festival or those in key cycles was a meticulously staged performance. It could not be a vulgar or improvised celebration; it had to exude grace (the serene elegance, the regal bearing that reflected cosmic harmony) and power (the incontestable force, symbolized in the taming of lions in reliefs, in the procession of Nisaean horses with golden manes, in the display of the Immortals with jeweled spears).

  The prince entered the Apadana or the great audience hall dressed in purple tunics embroidered with gold, girded by a jeweled belt that represented the union of the peoples. He walked with measured steps, head held high, without haste or hesitation, while the magi intoned hymns to the Sun King, father of the empire’s founder, and the sacred fire burned on raised altars. Delegations from Egypt, Babylon, Lydia, India, and the Scythian lands brought tributes: adorned elephants, chained lions, gold ingots, incense, and spices. All was offered not to the prince as a man, but to him as the future incarnation of the x?a?a (the empire), the divine order on earth.

  In the afternoon the feast reached its peak. Endless banquets with royal vintage wines, pistachios, dried figs, and roasted meat from bulls sacrificed to the gods. Persian warrior dances, music from harps and drums thundering like storms. The prince would rise, raise the golden cup, and deliver a speech that echoed in multiple languages: “By the grace of the Sun King, I, Cyrus son of the Great King, shall maintain this empire vast as the sky, just as the sun, strong as the lion.”

  It was not mere ostentation; it was a message etched into the collective memory: the heir was not a spoiled child, but a king in formation, anointed by the gods, capable of uniting nations and states under a single yoke. Any sign of weakness—a stumble, an ill-timed laugh, an uncertain glance—would have been interpreted as a lack of farr (the divine royal glory), and the rumor would spread like wildfire through the satrapies.

  Thus, during those 12 years of progressive festivities, the prince invariably showed himself with grace and power: serene before grandeur, imposing before the multitude, always remembering that the throne is not inherited by blood alone, but by the ability to embody the eternal splendor of Persia.

  But all the power resided in the hands of the mighty Shah.

  And who was the Shah?

  Shah Tahmasp, mighty sovereign of the largest nation on earth, began his reign as a pious and reflective monarch, barely a child raised to the throne after the premature death of his father Erxamenes. For decades, his rule passed in relative calm, sustained by the delicate balance of the Qizilbash—the warrior tribes that had enthroned him—and by a palatial system of pleasures and rituals that kept their occasional outbursts in check.

  The court physicians, versed in the tradition of Ibn Sina, diagnosed in him periodic episodes of sawdā’ (predominant black bile): a deep melancholy that turned into sudden rage, accompanied by unfounded suspicions and visions of betrayal. In his young years these attacks were rare and controlled; the shah would withdraw to pray, compose Sufi poetry, or surround himself with calligraphers and miniatures that soothed his spirit. The strongest Qizilbash amirs—such as Husayn Khan Shamlu or the Ustajlu—knew how to manage his delusions without confronting him directly, redirecting his anger toward external enemies: Arab tribes, Armenian rebel chieftains, or internal dissenters.

  He lived with a peaceful empire for all those years, even marrying several wives and fathering several royal sons, ultimately granting the son of his favorite the honor of being named his royal heir.

  But the great famine arrived like a divine punishment—indeed, the Shah himself never would have learned what had angered the powerful Rukh until they came to present their grievances. The granaries emptied, the price of bread multiplied, and revolts broke out in the northern, southern, eastern, and western provinces. The shah, now in his maturity, saw the hand of invisible traitors in every uprising. His sawdā’ worsened into what the hakims called junūn (madness): constant paranoia, insomnia, and impulsive decisions made without consultation.

  Suddenly, without a word or proof, he ordered mass executions. After an altercation in his royal tent in Hamadan, he ordered the beheading of dozens from the Takkalu tribe in what the chronicles called “the plague of the Takkalu”—a bloodbath that decimated one of the empire’s military pillars. Then, in private, he wept bitterly, flagellated himself in penance, and begged forgiveness from the gods.

  The final blow came when, in a fit of paranoid fury, he ordered the execution of his most loyal friend—the man who had been like an older brother, religious advisor, and leader of the magi. The magus’s head rolled by direct order of the shah, without trial, solely because of a rumor of suspicious correspondence regarding rebellions. The shah repented instantly: for days he locked himself in his chambers, refusing to eat, weeping and beating his chest while repeating that he had killed the only man who truly understood him.

  That execution unleashed the final storm. The beautiful daughter of the magus—his favorite, with eyes like emeralds from Badakhshan and a will of steel—could not forgive him. Supported by discontented factions of the Qizilbash and by nobles who saw the shah as a danger to the empire, she raised the standard of rebellion in the northern lands. Her proclamation was clear: “The shah has been driven mad; because of him the famine arrived, and he must be expelled from the throne; his hand no longer obeys reason or divine justice.”

  From then on, Shah Tahmasp became unpredictable to the core. He would smile warmly at a courtier in the morning and, by evening, order him flogged to death because “he looked at me strangely.” He beat concubines over a misinterpreted gesture, then covered them in jewels in a fit of guilt. His eyes, once serene, now burned with an erratic fire; he spoke to himself, muttered against imaginary traitors, and the hakims no longer dared to diagnose him: it was junūn mustawlī (dominating madness), they whispered.

  His indiscriminate massacres exhausted the army, alienated the tribes, and emptied the treasuries. When he finally died—ultimately against King Linch and his army of the dead—the empire was so fractured that it could not muster even a muscle of resistance.

  Thus, Shah Tahmasp—pious at first, benevolent on the surface, but eaten away from within—became one of the principal architects of the empire’s slow decline.