Esfandar moved through the thick of the battle, his sword striking against the city’s defenders and pushing forward towards the walls. The men of his unit were scattered about around him, each absorbed in their own fights, their own struggle to stay alive through the chaos. He couldn’t spare the effort to focus on them now. all of his energy was dedicated to keeping enemy blades from stabbing him in the gut or slashing across his throat.

The battle had been going on for hours now, though was still no end in sight. Esfandar’s forces pushed forward relentlessly, but the Shirazi forces were holding their own. Their soldiers were outnumbered, but they had something that Esfandar’s men did not: desperation. It was an unpredictable element in battle, that feeling of having nothing left to lose. And the men of the Shirazi troops were proving just how much it was worth.

Esfandar grit his teeth and ducked to the side. He narrowly missing the slash of a knife but couldn’t avoid a sharp kick to his stomach from a bloodied man dressed in the dark gray and blue uniform of Shiraz. Esfandar groaned in pain, straightening up and engaging the man in battle. The man roared and charged him again. Esfandar easily slipped out of the sword’s path, spun around and embedded his blade in the enemy soldier’s back. The man let out a wordless gasp and collapsed to the dirt as Esfandar withdrew his blade from the body and kept moving.

Esfandar was not the strongest of warriors. Nor was he the fastest, or the bravest, or even the wisest. But when he had a sword in his hand, Esfandar became not a general or a usurped prince, but a dancer.

He wove through the battlefield as if it were a stage, moving with precision and grace through the chaos. And perhaps it was a stage. Perhaps, up above in the heavens, the gods were watching this very battle, this very moment, and marveling at the performers below.

The sounds and smells of war began to overwhelm Esfnadar’s senses. Every few seconds a deafening crash would ring out in the air as Esfandar’s catapults slammed into Shiraz’s walls. The projectiles were even more deadly, as they were covered with red-sand powder, the most explosive substance known to man, and set ablaze. As a result, the scent of smoke and melted metal permeated the field, and the cloud of dust covering the battlefield was tinged a dark red color.

Esfandar coughed as he breathed, nearly choking on his own spit. Red-sand powder had an unpleasant, musty smell to it, like wood that had become old and started to rot. Esfandar spit on the ground and tried to breathe through his mouth more.

The walls of Shiraz were taking a beating, but they still held. They were ancient structures, created by some of the most talented alchemists in all of history. It would take days of consistant barrages to even begin to make an opening, and Esfandar couldn’t afford to expand those resources so early in the game.

Instead, he’d instructed his troops to focus the catapult fire on their one chance in this battle: the Eastern gate to the city. This was the one chink in the city’s armor. The gate was completely made out of hard wood rather than metal, and wood could be destroyed. The gate was relatively small, and it would be difficult to get a significant force through even when they came down. Still, it was the best chance they had.

Esfandar spared a hopeful glance towards the gate- it was beginning to crack, but it wasn’t down yet. He cursed to himself. Every second longer this battle raged, he lost valuable soldiers that he wouldn’t be able to replace so easily.

The frenzied scream of an attacker brought Esfandar’s mind back into focus. A large man with blood running down his face charged, his sword raised above his head to attack. Esfandar twirled outside of his slash and stabbed the man in the gut. He went down without a sound. Either that or Esfandar couldn’t hear his dying breaths over the roar of the ongoing battle.

Men were dying and fighting all around him. The ground was already littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, and blood seemed to flow through the earth in a stream. Not far in the distance, he heard the enraged trumpeting of elephants, and the horrified screams of men being crushed to death. Cavalrymen and charioteers raced ahead of the infantry, desperately pressing forward towards the gate.

Esfandar dodged an axe’s edge. He grabbed the attacking soldier by his wrist, making him drop the weapon. The man’s eyes widened as Esfandar’s sword slashed across his throat.

Gita fought as well, never far away from him. Her daggers were deadly, and any man who got too close discovered it only too late. One thought to grab her braid and yank it in order to distract her while he attacked with his sword. Instead, the tips of one of her knives pierced his left eye, sinking to the hilt. Gita removed the blade and the body slumped to the ground.

Esfandar breathed hard, his senses on full alert. He was bruised, sweating, and bleeding from several wounds, but he was still up and fighting. It would take more than that to take him down.

Suddenly, he heard several loud screams coming from the east and whipped around towards the sound. A man moved seamlessly through the mob, cutting down Esfandar’s men left and right. The lines of his face and graying beard betrayed his age, but he moved like a man in the height of his strength. His skill was impeccable, and his aim deadly. Clearly, he was not a mere foot soldier. Esfandar adjusted his grip on his own blade and moved towards him.

The man turned and saw Esfandar approaching him. He slashed his blade, slitting the throat of a young soldier who’d thought to make himself a hero, and moved forward to meet him.

As Esfandar and the old soldier moved towards each other, Esfandar got a closer look at him. He wore beautiful army inlaid with shining pearl and jade, his chest bearing the insignia of House Aspabadh: the simple black outline of a scorpion, its tail poised above its head as if to attack.

Esfandar immediately realized who he was facing. This could be no other than General Vishtapa of House Aspabadh, the man in command of the city and the leader of the entire northern district of Parthia. Only the highest ranking members of the royal Houses had the right to bear their insignias in battle, and Vishtapa was the only high noble in his house with the courage and strength to fight on the battlefield himself. He had a fearsome reputation as a crafty and daring fighter, a reputation that hadn’t diminished even as he’d aged.

Esfandar adjusted his grip on his sword and ran faster towards him. The soil had turned to mud hours ago, and Esfandar’s feet sunk into the ground with every step. It would make his movements slower, clumsier. The only consolation was that his opponent would also have to deal with the difficult terrain.

Vishtapa seemed to recognize Esfandar for who he was as well; after all, Esfandar’s own house insignia, the three-pronged flame of House al-Hassan, was proudly emblazoned on his chest plate. Vishtapa’s eyes narrowed as they closed the gap between them, his gaze determined and merciless.

Esfandar and the old man attacked each other at the same time. Their swords clanged against one other in the space between them before Vishtapa slid his blade up and moved in for another attack. Esfandar twisted to block him. He grit his teeth and dug his feet into the mud, trying to withstand the impressive force of his opponent’s blade.

Vishtapa’s face was concentrated as he pushed forward with all his strength, his gray hair flying about his face. With a grunt, he gave a harsh shove with his blade and simultaneously kicked out.

Esfandar felt his feet give out from under him and he fell down into the mud. As soon as his body hit the ground he rolled to the side. He felt the swoosh of Vishtapa’s sword as it embedded itself in the mud right where Esfandar’s neck had been a moment ago.

In the second it took for him to pull out his sword, Esfandar got back to his feet. He took a much more cautious stance, circling his opponent warily. Time slowed down as the old fighter turned to Esfandar once more. He swung his sword around in his hand intimidatingly as he moved forward. Esfandar’s eyes darted around, examining his surroundings.

To his left, the looming walls of the city of Shiraz rose, casting their shadow upon the battlefield. To his right, men fought and bled and died on the flat plain. The scent of death and decay already hung heavy in the air, the cries and screams of battle ringing out from all around.

His eyes landed on an overturned chariot, the wood smashed and bent as it lay on its side. His charioteers had been amongst the first wave sent in the attack and had made a strong offense despite their heavy losses. The Parthian army’s chariot technology was amongst the best in the world, after all, and one of their strongest advantages in battle.

Meeting his enemy’s eyes briefly, Esfandar dashed towards the fallen chariot.

He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Visthapa was running after him. His scowl deepened in anger at the thought that Esfandar was trying to flee from their battle.

Esfandar climbed atop the overturned chariot as soon as he reached it, scrambling over its splintered wooden side. He held out an arm for balance as he felt his body about to fall for a moment. His boots were still slippery with mud and they glided dangerously on the wooden hull. He secured his stance, trying not to make any dangerous steps.

He heard a thump and felt the chariot move. He turned around to see Vishtapa climb up onto the chariot after him, breathing hard and baring his teeth in rage.

“No more running away, boy,” he growled out. It was the first time he’d spoken over the course of their fight. His voice was thick with blood and rage. He seemed to want to finish this fight quickly.

Vishtapa lunged forward with his blade, and Esfandar blocked him. They began an exchange once more, Esfandar jabbing and Vishtapa blocking. Both pushed each other with all their might. They were each much more cautious now, more reserved in their strikes as a single wrong step could send them slipping off the chariot’s side.

Esfandar knew he was losing once again. He was being mercilessly pushed back, his defenses growing weaker and weaker. Sensing victory, Vishtapa pushed further.

Esfandar blocked a strike, sweat pouring down his face. The pain of all his cuts and bruises flared and his muscles screamed at him to stop. It was time. He turned to the side-

And felt the impact of a strong fist punching straight into his jaw, sending his brain rattling in his skull. His footing slipped, and he went sliding down the side of the chariot.

Somehow, he still had enough wits about him to carry out what he had to do- as he fell, he reached out and grabbed the wooden lever on the front of the vehicle.

He shouted as he pulled it with all that remained of his strength. He prayed to the gods that the chariot’s weaponry hadn’t been damaged as the lever turned with a sharp clicking sound. Esfandar let go and fell to the ground at the same time that a metallic thwick rang out in the air. Breathing hard, Esfandar lifted his face out of the mud to see. It seemed like the gods had chosen to answer his prayer.

The large metal blades of the chariot had still been functional. Normally used to help the chariot move through thick underbrush or alternatively cut down enemy soldiers, the blades in the machine’s side had plunged straight through Vishtapa’s chest, stabbing him through the heart.

Vishtapa glanced down at the giant blade protruding from his chest, then down to Esfandar with a sort of shocked expression. The look of surprise never leaving his face, he lurched back, and his body fell heavily to the ground.

Esfandar shuddered out a breath of relief before his own head fell back into the mud and his vision went dark.