Khosrow Derian's life, once bound by chains of harsh servitude, was a tale of torment and sorrow. Born upon an estate in the lands of Armenia, he knew not but the weight of labor, his family reduced to naught but tools for the whims of the land's wealthy lords. The cruel yoke of poverty crushed his soul, and the toils of daily drudgery bent his weary frame. Yet, in him there burned a fire—a flame that not even chains could douse. From his earliest years, Khosrow had heard whispers of a sage, a man named Epictetus, whose teachings of self-control and mental fortitude beckoned as an escape. 'Twas the spark that lit a fire within him—a fire that would lead him to the realms of stoicism.

"Freedom lieth in how thou dost respond to thy lot," Epictetus's words rang in his mind, and with each passing day, Khosrow's spirit grew ever mightier. Though his world sought to break him, he turned inward. His mind became his weapon; each drop of sweat, each welt of pain wrought in servitude, was a step toward mastering his soul. He learned that it was not the suffering that defined him, but the manner in which he met it. His strength grew not only in body but in mind. When opportunity came, Khosrow seized it, rising through the ranks—he became not only a warrior but a master strategist. From the lowest rungs, he clawed his way upward, proving that no force could subdue his will.

In time, Khosrow became known as one of Armenia's fiercest generals. His victories in battle became legend, and soon, the great King Hydarn IV himself took notice. Hydarn, a monarch ever hungrily seeking strength, summoned Khosrow to his court. When they met, the king was not only struck by Khosrow's prowess on the battlefield but by the wisdom that marked his countenance. He saw in Khosrow not merely a soldier, but a man fit for leadership. Over time, their bond grew strong, and Khosrow was made Hydarn's personal advisor.

Yet, with this newfound power came a change in Khosrow. The years spent struggling in servitude, striving to uphold the stoic ideals that had once sustained him, now seemed a distant memory. As the king's favor bloomed, so too did Khosrow's lust for control. The man who had once ruled his own emotions now sought dominion over others. Where once he had been measured, now he ruled with an iron hand. His army quailed before him, and his subjects trembled at the very mention of his name. He had become the very tyrant he once despised—a ruler whose might was borne not of wisdom but of cruelty and fear.

Khosrow's reign became known far and wide for its brutality. He was the most feared general in all Armenia, his shadow casting a long pall over the battlefield. His victories were not only won by sword and shield, but through the terror he instilled in the hearts of his enemies. The name "Khosrow" was spoken in hushed tones, and even the bravest men quaked before the mere thought of him. His ruthlessness became the stuff of legend, and in many ways, it was his very identity.

One day, an envoy from an enemy kingdom arrived at Khosrow's camp, bearing an urgent message for King Hydarn. The messenger, weary from travel, had braved many dangers to reach the camp. Yet upon his arrival, he was intercepted by none other than Khosrow himself. Trembling, the messenger spoke.

"I must... I must deliver this to King Hydarn! It is of grave import!" His voice faltered, hands shaking as he offered the letter.

Khosrow's piercing gaze fell upon the trembling man. "Thou shalt speak to me first," Khosrow said, his tone low and cold. "Deliver the message. If it be fit for the king, he shall hear it from me."

The messenger, his knees trembling, glanced desperately toward the palace, before he stammered, "The enemy... they march towards thy borders, My Lord. We... we seek peace, to end this bloodshed."

Khosrow's eyes remained fixed, emotionless, as the messenger's voice grew ever more strained. "Our king desires... peace, My Lord, he seeks... a truce..."

As the messenger spoke, his words grew increasingly frantic. Sweat poured from his brow, his breath shallow, his words twisted by fear. Foam gathered upon his lips, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably, as though possessed by some unseen force.

In a final desperate gasp, the messenger collapsed upon the earth. His body struck the ground with a sickening thud, and the letter he carried fell from his hand, forgotten. The man did not rise again, having succumbed to the terror of Khosrow's presence.

Khosrow stood over the fallen messenger, unmoved. He had witnessed death many times, yet this... this was something different. The messenger had not died from battle or injury, but from the sheer terror that his proximity to Khosrow had inspired. And in that moment, something within Khosrow stirred. The power he had once used to control his own soul had become a tool of oppression, and the lives he had claimed seemed not victories, but sacrifices to an insatiable hunger for domination.

Yet Khosrow did not regret his rise to power. His ascent had been inevitable, for what else could a man do when he had reached the pinnacle of his existence? But as he stood over the fallen messenger's body, a hollow ache gnawed at him. His victories, once so sweet, had turned to dust, and the fear that had once been his weapon now weighed upon him. In the end, Khosrow saw that his power was but an empty shell, and the cost of his tyranny lay not in the bodies of the fallen, but in the fear that now reverberated through every soul.

And so, the days of Khosrow's reign were numbered. The arrogance of his power had blinded him to the fragility of life, and he marched forward with the same certainty that had brought him victory. His army, ever prepared for battle, set camp within a forested clearing, where they planned to rest before the coming conflict. The tents rose, and the firepit burned brightly in the evening air.

Yet, even in this moment of calm, danger lurked, unseen and poised for action. From the shadows of the forest, the enemy struck. A sudden roar split the air as seventy spears flew from the trees, aimed at the mighty general. The battle that had yet to begin came to them in an instant.

The spears struck with precision. Khosrow, surrounded by his men, could not evade the assault in time. Fifteen of the spears found their target—one pierced his shoulder, another his thigh, and the others tore through his chest and abdomen. He cried out, but it was the cry of a man faced with his own mortality. His life began to fade, his body crumpling to the earth, blood pooling beneath him as his vision dimmed.

His horse, untouched by the attack, reared in panic. It bolted, galloping wildly from the scene, driven by terror. The beast ran for two days—through forests and fields, across rivers and mountains—its terror propelling it ever onward. It ran until it could run no more, collapsing at last in a village, where peasants found it. Blood stained the saddle, and the men knew only that the great general had fallen.

As for Khosrow's army, they were unharmed. Upon his death, the enemy forces, having seen their greatest foe felled so quickly and unexpectedly, lost their will to fight. The soldiers, their courage shattered, fled from the battlefield, leaving the camp silent and abandoned.

Khosrow Derian's death spread swiftly across the land, becoming the stuff of legend. The once-feared general, who had risen from the depths of slavery to wield power as a tyrant, now lay cold in the earth, his life snuffed out not by the sword, but by the caprice of fate. His reign had ended, and with it, the land soon forgot the name of the man who had once ruled with such fear.

And the horse, still bearing the trace of Khosrow's final journey, wandered on—a silent testament to the end of an era of tyranny.