Prince Of Persia — The Rogue
“You saved my life,” Reza said, not a question.
And somewhere in the darkness, Cyrus smiled. The threads of fate shivered. He pulled one.
Cyrus smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Brother, when the vizier’s coup comes—and it will, on the third moon of next year—remember who warned you. Remember who you exiled for ‘unpredictability.’”
They said he stole into the Forbidden Archive at midnight and replaced the royal lineage scrolls with satirical poetry. They said he taught the harem’s parrots to recite tax evasion codes. They said he once dagger-danced with a visiting Kushan ambassador and won—then gave back the wager, laughing, because gold bored him. The Rogue Prince of Persia
“No,” Cyrus said, stepping onto the parapet’s edge. Wind clawed at his tunic. “I threaten clarity. Treason is just history written by the winners. I intend to write my own.”
Not magic, not quite. But when he stepped onto a balcony, he felt which stone would crack a year from now. When he looked into a courtier’s smile, he saw the betrayal already curdling behind their teeth. And when he moved—daggers spinning, wall-runs fluid as water—he wasn't dodging the present. He was sidestepping the future.
The King, old and tired, only sighed. “He unravels because he sees the knots before we tie them.” “You saved my life,” Reza said, not a question
“Come back to the palace,” Reza said quietly. “Father will forgive the… the fire in the astronomy tower.”
And then he was gone. Not a jump—a step. A step into the dark, into the maze of moonlit rooftops and forgotten aqueducts where the Rogue Prince was not a prince at all, but a ghost.
His name was Cyrus. And he could see the threads. He pulled one
They would hunt him, of course. They would call him traitor, madman, viper. But in the alleys below, a street child looked up and saw a figure silhouetted against the stars—a figure who had once paid off her mother’s debt with a sapphire the size of an egg.
The vizier, a man named Khorasani with a voice like oiled steel, hated him most of all. “He destabilizes the fabric of order,” Khorasani hissed to the King one evening, as peacocks screamed in the courtyard. “He unravels every thread we sew.”
They stood in silence. A scorpion skittered between their boots. Cyrus didn't kill it. He had seen it, in a dream, saving a child’s life two summers from now. You didn’t kill futures. You defied them, or you rode them.
“I delayed your death,” Cyrus replied. “Not the same.”
He was not the heir. He was the spare, the splinter, the sand in the eye of destiny. His brother, Prince Reza, was the golden sun around whom the empire orbited. Strong, steady, beloved. The Rogue Prince? He was the eclipse.