As the azure veil of night dissolved into the golden radiance of dawn, Shideh—the fiery prince of Turan and son of Afrasiab—mounted his warhorse, his heart inflamed with the pride of youth and battle. Clad in armor of steel with a royal helm upon his head, he advanced between the opposing lines like a hunting leopard, brandishing his banner.
When word reached Kay Khosrow, the King of Iran smiled and called for his own armor. He raised the majestic banner of Iran, donned his golden helmet, and entrusted the royal standard and command of the host to Rohham, son of Goudarz. The Iranian warriors wept in anguish, begging their monarch not to risk his divine person in battle. But Kay Khosrow commanded his host to stand firm under Rohham's command, reminding them that the wheel of fortune elevates at times and casts down at others.
Mounting Shabrang Behzad, the peerless black steed that once belonged to Siyavash, Kay Khosrow rode forth. Upon meeting between the armies, Shideh sighed and addressed him: 'O wise son of Siyavash, had you heeded wisdom, you would not have brought this war upon yourself. If you seek combat, let us ride far from both armies to a place where no reinforcements can reach us.' Kay Khosrow replied: 'I am the grief-stricken son of innocent Siyavash, and I have come to this plain not for crown or jewels, but for vengeance.'
Bound by their solemn pledge, the two champions rode deep into the arid wastes of Khwarazm—a desolate wilderness so bleak that no eagle flew across its sky nor leopard set paw upon its parched rocks. There, like ravenous wolves, they clashed. First they charged with long spears until the tips shattered and the horse-trappings ran with sweat. Then they wielded heavy Roman maces, razor swords, and lethal arrows, turning the desert air dark with swirling dust.