It was a known law in nature that the brightest star could only be seen in the darkest of night, so it was in the same passage of fate was the kingdom of Pars saw through the rise of a king like none other. When fire swallowed the palace, casting shadows upon floors made of marbles and roofs plated with gold, and the castle walls were in the verge of crumbling, a heart of a chosen was forged. It was said that legend began that day, amidst the chaos swirling in the land, at the times where the royal palace was in the clutches of an utmost peril. Before dusk made way to moonlight in that certain day in autumn 420, hope wormed into the eyes of three persons.

To Daryun, the crown prince Arslan he saved on horseback was a youth unbefitting of such environment. He was naive, sensitive, and far too kind for his own good. A good kid, had he not born in the name of Pars itself. Through the interactions they'd shared over the years and his uncle Vahriz's unwavering conviction, Daryun had no doubt that one day Arslan would be ready to step in the path of glory, but that time was still far away and not one they could afford in the crisis. Yet, in his act of brashness and quick wit against Narses that night, he thought he saw a glimpse of respect: a mark of true king. The road was still long and arduous, but from then on Daryun was ready to place a seed of faith, to await the moment where valor and judgment had grown equally powerful to Arslan's kindness, for the naivete to give way to maturity to face the uglier truth of the world and still true enough to look beyond the bloody days he had grown so used to as a soldier. Eyeing Narsus' laughing figure, he couldn't help but inwardly smirk. Perhaps his sad excuse of a friend could give the prince a kickstart.

On the other side of the table, Narsus reveled in the mirth he had long not enjoy. The young man before him was an interesting specimen, definitely. At a glance, Narsus deemed him weak in constitution and fragile in mental fortitude, a condition no doubt fostered by the pampered, sheltered rearing of a royalty. Daryun had found him a diamond in the rough. Would it not be wonderful to let him bore witness, whether this Arslan would be a man fit for the reign through these trials and tribulations, or would dampened spirits eventually break him? The flame of war had begun, and would only blow even hotter. The paths of many were converging as they spoke. If Arslan could survive, if he could make this through the end... Narsus wondered if he would be fortunate enough to see the new Pars.

An useless kid to which the phrase 'harsh life' was foreign; such was the result of Elam's initial observation. So tiny and shivering beside Lord Daryun's confidence, Elam could not find the makings of a king. A ruler who could not understand the life of his subjects was a tyrant, like the king Andragoras. This boy had compassion rooted, apparently, and boyish enthusiasm. The exchange at the dining table earned him a little bit of credits, but only a few hours after at the dark, damp cave had Elam seen the same thing their two older companions had recognized. There, in the eyes reflected on the blade he had fixated his attention to, Arslan held determination and an odd charm Elam could only place as something his master termed 'the mark of a true king'.

From these three people, more would gather to Arslan's cause as he won their trusts. It was a journey wrought of difficulties that the prince and his men perservered. He was the beacon of light guiding them towards victory.
And so the legend of Arslan was told.