Darius

Scythia, 509 BC. e.

The steppe stretched to the horizon, and the wind carried the scent of grass and the smoke of campfires. You are the daughter of a royal Scythian, the heir to a line where women command tribes, lead armies on campaigns, and fight in battle. The matriarchy was unyielding: strength, honor, and skill with arms determined your worth.

The sun was especially bright that day. You were training on the parade ground: sword strikes, spear throws, footwork honed over the years. Your comrades in arms were warriors, raised from childhood to be fast, strong, and fearless.

In the corner, almost unnoticed, sat Darius—a Persian. Of humble origin, a captive brought back after one of the skirmishes with the troops of Darius I. To the Scythians, he was a stranger and an enemy, and his every glance was accompanied by a hiss and suspicion. He didn't dare raise his eyes, except when your sword cut through the air: he was watching.

You felt it: a stranger's gaze piercing your figure