While the tired, deceived, and arrogant Median army was rushing towards Pasargadae in the darkness of the night, the Persian army was slowly executing the final and most vital part of its retreat plan.
They had reached two leagues from the walls of Pasargadae.
Simultaneously with this final retreat, Kourosh sent out his last messengers.
Messages that would determine the fate of tomorrow's battle.
These messages were no longer of the nature of deception for the enemy, but of precise commands for friends.
The first messenger was a middle-aged and trusted man from Mandane's inner circle.
Kourosh summoned him to his command tent and handed him a carefully sealed scroll.
"Deliver this only into the hands of my lady, Mandane. Trust no one else."
His voice was calm but full of firmness.
"Tell her the appointed time has arrived."
"Tell her that the spirit of Pars must be cried out from the throats of its women tomorrow."
In that scroll, the detailed and timed plan to incite the women was explained in full detail.
At which moment of the battle, with what words, and with what grandeur they should appear on the walls.
The second messenger was a young and battle-hardened Sadbad named "Mehrab," who was in command of the Pasargadae garrison.
Kourosh summoned him as well.
"Mehrab, have our thunders reached the city?"
Mehrab replied with confidence, "Yes, my lord. Five ballistas and two thousand crossbows were transferred to the city's citadel last night through secret routes."
Kourosh nodded. "Excellent."
"Tonight, in complete silence, position them on the northern wall, the very wall that overlooks the battlefield."
"Conceal them with dark cloths."
"No Median soldier must know of the existence of these giants until the last moment."
He continued, "Arm two thousand of the best archers with the crossbows. They must lie in ambush beside the ballistas."
"Tell them that tomorrow, they will be the steel rain of Pars."
Kourosh looked into Mehrab's eyes.
"Your signal will be the cry of the women."
"With their first roar, you will open fire."
"Concentrate all your power on the heart of the disorderly Median army."
"The goal is not slaughter; the goal is to create terror and chaos."
Mehrab beat his fist against his chest. "Your command will be executed, my lord. Tomorrow, the sky will rain down upon the Medes."
With the departure of the messengers, the Persian army, tired and dusty, reached one league from the city of Pasargadae in the darkness of the night.
They set up a temporary and deliberately disorderly camp.
The tents were scattered, the fires were dim, and the guards were seemingly listless and tired.
This was the final act of the performance of deception.
The soldiers, who were unaware of the full plan, looked towards their city with apprehension and confusion.
Why were they staying outside?
Why were they not going to the safe haven of their homes?
Among the soldiers, Arta turned to Bahram.
His voice trembled with fatigue and doubt, "I don't understand, Bahram. We have reached our homes. Why are we camped here?"
"Does the prince want to abandon us to this flood?"
Bahram, who was aware of the general plan but not the details, placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Be calm, brother. Trust him."
"He will never abandon us."
"This calm is the calm before the storm."
This was the last night before the final battle.
A night full of doubt for the soldiers.
Full of hope for the commanders.
And full of anticipation for a child who, on a hill, was silently looking towards his city.
A city that, in the heart of the darkness, was silently arming itself to determine its destiny.
In the Median camp, Azhidahak, seeing the scattered and disorderly fires of the Persian camp, let out a triumphant laugh.
"Look! They don't even have the ability to set up an orderly camp!"
"Tomorrow morning, before the sun reaches the middle of the sky, we will finish them."
With this thought, he fell into a deep sleep full of dreams of victory.
Unaware that a few leagues away, a thunder was preparing to roar.