As dawn broke and bent back the dark veil of night, Prince Manuchehr arose from the central core of the Iranian vanguard, encased in heavy armor, bearing a sword at his side and topped with a polished Roman helmet. The vast army of Iran let out a unified war cry, hoisting their glinting spearheads into the very clouds. With brows furrowed in righteous anger, they advanced in tight formations over the trembling ground. Manuchehr arrayed his host—flanks, center, left, and right—with supreme kingly skill. Under the crushing tread of war-elephants and armigerous cohorts, the earth quivered like a ship tossing on violent seas. Brass gongs resounded from the backs of great elephants, and the blare of war-horns and trumpets turned the battlefield into a roaring arena. The two massive hosts collided like moving mountains, turning the desert into a boundless sea of blood until it seemed wild crimson tulips had sprouted across the land, and the legs of war-elephants stood stained like columns of carnelian. Throughout the day's brutal carnage, victory belonged decisively to Manuchehr, whose presence filled the hearts of his realm with warmth and hope. When pitch night settled over the sky and hid the radiant sun, the clash subsided—a stern reminder that Fate dispenses sweet nectar at one moment and deadly bitter poison at the next. Yet inside the dark hearts of Tur and Salm, defeat brewed vengeance; they huddled in the shadows to plan a desperate midnight raid, though come the morning light, terror held them back and they chose instead the recourse of cautious delay.