**Scene: The Blood-Stained Throne**
Ghazni's great mosque trembled with the voices of ten thousand men. The morning sun blazed through stained glass, casting fractured light over the marble floors where the empire's warlords, scholars, and foreign envoys knelt in uneasy silence.
Mahmud stood before the pulpit, clad not in battle-worn mail but in a robe of black silk threaded with gold—the color of kings. His hands, still calloused from the grip of his scimitar, rested on the hilt of the ceremonial sword of Ghazni, its pommel shaped like a falcon's head.
**Ayaz** (whispering, from behind him): *"They are waiting, Sultan."*
Mahmud's gaze swept the assembly. He saw the faces of his *ghulams*, their loyalty hardened in fire. The mullahs, their eyes sharp with judgment. The Persian viziers, their smiles thin as dagger cuts. And the foreign emissaries—Karakhanid spies, Buyid observers, even a lone Hindu raja from the frontier, his presence a calculated insult.
All waited for the word that would make him not just a conqueror, but a crowned king.
**Grand Mufti Abdul Karim** (raising his hands for silence): *"In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate…"*
The murmurs died. The Mufti, an old man with a beard like snow, unrolled a scroll bearing the seal of the Abbasid Caliph.
**Mufti Abdul Karim:** *"By the decree of His Eminence, Caliph Al-Qadir bi-llah, Commander of the Faithful, and by the will of the nobles and warriors of Khorasan, we recognize Mahmud bin Sebuktigin as Sultan of Ghazni, Defender of the Faith, and Sword of the East."*
A breath. A heartbeat. Then—
**The Crowd:** *"Allahu Akbar!"*
The roar shook the mosque. Outside, the city erupted in celebration—drums, horns, the clash of cymbals. But Mahmud did not smile.
**Scene: The Weight of the Diadem**
The coronation was held in the palace courtyard, beneath the open sky, so that even the heavens might bear witness.
A slave approached, bearing a cushion of crimson velvet. Upon it rested the *taj*—the iron crown of Ghazni, forged from the swords of Mahmud's enemies, its jagged points shaped like a falcon's outstretched wings.
**Ayaz:** *"The crown, Sultan."*
Mahmud took it. The metal was cold, heavier than he expected.
**Mahmud** (murmuring, to himself): *"Not gold… iron. Fitting."*
He raised it high, letting the sun glint off its cruel edges. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowered it onto his own head.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. No man had ever crowned himself in Ghazni. Kings were anointed by clerics, blessed by caliphs. But Mahmud was no ordinary king.
**Mahmud** (voice cutting through the silence): *"Hear me! This crown is not a gift from Baghdad. It is not the whim of priests or the favor of nobles. It was taken. By the edge of the sword. By the blood of my enemies. By the bones of my warriors."*
He turned, his gaze like a blade, sweeping over the assembled lords.
*"Let the Caliph keep his titles. Let the poets sing of his grace. But know this—*I* am the law in Ghazni. *I* am the hand that strikes. And any man who forgets that…"*
His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword.
*"...will be reminded."*
**Scene: The Feast of Blades**
The coronation feast was a spectacle of power. Wine flowed, though Mahmud drank little. Dancers spun in silks, though his eyes did not follow them. Instead, he watched.
At the high table, the Karakhanid envoy, a sly fox of a man named Orkhun, raised a goblet.
**Orkhun:** *"To Sultan Mahmud! May his reign be as long as his… ambition."*
A pause. A challenge veiled in honey.
Mahmud set down his cup.
**Mahmud:** *"Orkhun. Your master in Samarkand—does he still lick his wounds from Balkh?"*
The hall stiffened.
**Orkhun** (smile tightening): *"The Karakhanids do not forget, Sultan. Nor do we forgive."*
**Mahmud:** *"Good. Then you will carry a message back."* He leaned forward, the iron crown casting a jagged shadow across his face. *"Tell your khan that Ghazni's borders stretch where I will them. And if he dares test me again…"*
He flicked his fingers. A slave hurried forward, bearing a small chest. When opened, it revealed a human hand, severed at the wrist, the fingers still clenched as if in death.
**Mahmud:** *"...he will receive more than his governor's head next time."*
Orkhun's face drained of color.
**Scene: The Falcon's First Decree**
Later, in the private chambers, Mahmud stood at the balcony, the crown now resting on a table beside him. Ayaz entered, bearing a scroll.
**Ayaz:** *"The first petitions, Sultan. The nobles seek lands. The mullahs demand stricter laws. The merchants beg for lower taxes."*
Mahmud scoffed.
**Mahmud:** *"They think a crown makes me soft."*
**Ayaz:** *"And your answer?"*
Mahmud turned, lifting the iron diadem again, studying his reflection in its polished surface.
**Mahmud:** *"Tell the nobles their lands are mine to grant—or take. Tell the mullahs I will burn heresy where I find it, but their sermons do not command my armies. And tell the merchants…"*
He set the crown back upon his head.
*"...that Ghazni's wars are expensive. Their gold will feed them."*
Ayaz bowed and turned to leave, but hesitated.
**Ayaz:** *"And India, Sultan?"*
A slow, cold smile spread across Mahmud's face.
**Mahmud:** *"India will wait… but not for long."*
Outside, the wind howled through the mountains, carrying with it the distant cries of war drums.
The Iron Falcon had been crowned.
Now, the true hunt would begin.
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