By the winter of 530 BCE, Cyrus the Great had fashioned himself a King of Kings. Over the past several years he had been carving the greater part of Central Asia out to found his beloved Persian Empire. Dozens upon dozens of native tribes had fallen to his military prowess. The conditions were kill or be killed, that is until the aging tyrant ran across a formidable foe. Tomyris was the young Queen of the Massagetae tribe. Raised in her father's shadow, she was all the talent of a man, with the unsuspecting drive of a woman. Tomyris would not allow her tribe to fall to the hands of a smooth-talking usurper. When she refused Cyrus' hand in marriage, the Persians attempted to take the Massagetae by force, but their ten thousand conscripts couldn't quench the fire in the hearts of five hundred loyal tribesmen. It was clear Tomyris was going to put up the fight of her life to protect her people, but Cyrus was no longer in the prime of his youth. He didn't have the time to wait out the local queen. His health was failing, and questions of his legacy were on the forefront of his mind. As the thunderstorms rolled in and the gods picked their victor, whose blood would it be to forever stain the red sands of Khorasan?