The moon hung low over the desert, its pale light illuminating the rugged silhouette of a lone rider. His cloak, tattered and worn, bore faint traces of royal embroidery—symbols of a past long buried. Forty years had passed since the prince, Ardeshir, had been cast out by his uncle, Mehrdad, who seized the throne in a storm of treachery and blood.

Ardeshir had been seventeen then, a boy with fire in his eyes and rebellion in his veins. But against Mehrdad’s army of shadowy divs, summoned through dark pacts, he was no match. Exiled to the desolate lands of the east, the young prince had been left to wander the mountains, carrying nothing but his father’s broken sword and the bitter taste of betrayal.

The years hardened him. In the wilderness, Ardeshir found allies among the nomadic clans who still whispered of the true king. He trained with warriors who taught him the way of the blade and the bow. He sought the wisdom of the Magi, who revealed ancient secrets hidden in the stars. And he waited.

Now, on the longest night of the year—Yalda Night—Ardeshir had returned.

The palace, once radiant with light, now stood shrouded in darkness. Mehrdad’s divs patrolled its walls, their eyes glowing like embers. The people lived in fear, their laughter silenced, their hearts heavy under the shadow of tyranny.

Ardeshir slipped into the city under the cover of night, his face obscured by a hood. He made his way to the Temple of Mithra, where the sacred flame, symbol of truth and justice, had been extinguished by Mehrdad decades ago. Ardeshir knelt before the altar, placing his father’s broken sword on the cold stone.

“Grant me the strength to restore the light,” he whispered.

As if in answer, a warm glow enveloped the temple. From the darkness emerged the Simorgh, its feathers gleaming like molten gold. The mythical bird let out a piercing cry, and the shards of the broken sword lifted into the air, fusing together in a blaze of light. When the brilliance faded, Ardeshir held a weapon unlike any other—a sword forged of pure starlight, its edge humming with celestial power.

The Simorgh spoke, its voice echoing in the chamber. “The light of Mithra shines within you, Ardeshir. Go forth and reclaim what is yours.”

With the sword in hand, Ardeshir marched to the palace gates, where Mehrdad’s divs awaited. They lunged at him, their claws and fangs glinting, but the sword cut through their darkness like a beacon of dawn. One by one, they fell, their shadowy forms dissipating into the night.

Ardeshir burst into the throne room, where Mehrdad sat in a seat that was not his, his crown tarnished and crooked. The usurper laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the vast chamber.

“You’ve returned, nephew,” Mehrdad sneered. “But you are too late. Darkness has ruled for forty years, and it will not yield to the likes of you.”

“Then I will drive it out myself,” Ardeshir said, his voice steady, his grip firm on the hilt of the sword.

The battle was fierce. Mehrdad, empowered by decades of dark magic, unleashed storms of shadow, but Ardeshir’s light was unrelenting. The sword glowed brighter with every strike, burning away the darkness until Mehrdad fell to his knees, his powers drained.

The dawn broke as Ardeshir stood victorious. The people poured into the streets, their cries of joy echoing through the city. The sacred flame was rekindled, and the throne was restored to its rightful heir.

On that Yalda Night, the longest darkness ended, and the light of justice returned to Persia, carried by the prince who had waited forty years to reclaim his destiny.