With the first trembling rays of the sun, the day after the truce began.
But this dawn was different from all other dawns.
In the Median camp, the sound of horns for the morning assembly was heard.
But from the other side, from the Persian fortress, a deathly silence was their only response.
The Median spies who had cautiously approached the walls of the fortress were faced with an unexpected scene.
The fortress gates were left half-open.
No guards were seen on the walls.
The news quickly reached Azhidahak.
With disbelief and a little hesitation, he ordered Mazares to send a group for reconnaissance.
The Median riders cautiously entered the fortress and found it empty.
The Persians had fled.
They had run away in the darkness of the night, like cowardly thieves.
In the courtyard of the fortress, the half-extinguished fires that were still smoking, the broken equipment, the shattered shields, and even a few abandoned flags on the ground displayed the image of a hasty and terrified flight.
This scene erased the last particles of doubt from Azhidahak's heart.
His triumphant laughter echoed across the plain.
"They fled! That arrogant child has finally tasted fear!"
But a few leagues away, among the dusty hills, the truth of the matter was something else.
The Persian army, this time with a new purpose and a different morale, was on the march.
This was not a flight; it was a grand and deceptive performance.
The night before, after the wounded and non-combatants had been safely sent to the mountains, Kourosh had ordered his soldiers to prepare the stage for this show.
They had carefully left the fires burning and scattered worthless and broken equipment in the area to create the image of a chaotic retreat.
Now, the soldiers were no longer ashamed of defeat; they were actors in a grand play.
That empty and hopeless look of yesterday was no longer seen in their eyes.
It was replaced by a glint of intelligence and a dangerous cunning.
They looked at each other, and a secret smile appeared on their lips.
They were part of a great secret; a secret that was destined to bring the greatest army of that time to its knees.
Arta, the Pasargadaean warrior, marched beside Bahram and said in a low voice, "I never thought I would one day enjoy running away so much."
Bahram replied, "This is not a flight, Arta. This is casting the net. We are luring a big fish after us."
Their strategic march towards the heart of Pars and the Pasargadae trap began.
Every step they took, every breath they drew, was part of a precise and calculated plan.
They were no longer that arrogant army that had come to the field for a quick victory.
They were now patient and ruthless hunters, slowly guiding their prey towards the slaughterhouse.
Kourosh, mounted on a horse, moved beside his father, who was being carried on a litter.
His face was calm, but his mind was thousands of leagues ahead, on the plain of Pasargadae, arranging the final details of his trap.
Cambyses looked at his son's face.
He no longer saw that terrified child of yesterday.
He saw a commander who had risen from the ashes of defeat like a phoenix.
He asked in a low voice, "Are you sure he will fall for our deception?"
Kourosh replied without taking his eyes off the horizon:
"Father, pride is the most potent poison that blinds a king's mind."
"Azhidahak has now drunk so much of this poison that he is no longer able to see the truth."
"He will follow us. Not out of logic, but out of contempt."
"He wants to bring us to our knees in the center of our own land, and that is exactly what we want."
The path of retreat was a long and arduous one.
They passed through dry plains, narrow valleys, and small villages.
At every stop, they left behind more signs of a collapsing army.
Rumors of rebellion and insubordination among their army were spread to the ears of the Median intelligence network by their own spies.
Every piece of news was another nail in the coffin of Azhidahak's kingdom.