When Shiruye ascended the throne, fear and trepidation cast a heavy pall over the Sasanian court. Those who had conspired to depose Khosrow Parviz lived in day and night terror of a reversal of fortune. Shiruye was young, timid, and inexperienced; the very throne he sat upon felt like a deadly trap. The astrologers foretold that the sun of the ancient grandees was swiftly setting.
The rebel chieftains gathered before Shiruye and declared ominously: 'Two kings cannot dwell in a single realm—one upon the throne and the other beneath it! Should reconciliation blossom between father and son, it is the heads of us servants that will roll first. You must resolve this matter once and for all.' Frightened and helpless in their grasp, Shiruye yielded, instructing them to secretly seek someone who could bring an end to Khosrow's life.
Yet no honorable man or warrior in the empire possessed the audacity to shed the blood of Khosrow Parviz, for taking the life of so formidable a monarch felt like hanging a mountain around one's neck. At last, the conspirators chanced upon an infamous, vile figure along the road—a hollow-bellied, dark-skinned wretch with pale blue eyes, dry hairy skin, and a ragged frame whose name none knew. This wretched creature went to Zad-Farrokh and pledged to perform the dark deed in exchange for food and gold. Zad-Farrokh handed him a pouch of dinars and a blade forged like water.
When Mehr-Hormozd entered the royal chambers with drawn dagger, Khosrow Parviz trembled at the sight of the sinister assassin, tears streaming down his face. Realizing his hour had arrived at the hands of the lowest of men, Khosrow commanded his young page to bring a golden basin, clean water, fine garments, and holy perfumes. The fallen emperor washed himself, held the sacred Barsam twigs, chanted the Zand prayers in hushed reverence, repented before God, and drew a fresh veil over his head so that he might not behold his killer's face. Mehr-Hormozd locked the doors, stepped forward swiftly, stripped the veil, and plunged the blade straight into the emperor's heart. Khosrow writhed, let out a icy sigh, and breathed his last upon his robes.
As news of Khosrow's assassination spread, the ruthless rebels rushed the royal prisons, slaughtering fifteen of Khosrow's innocent captive sons. When Shiruye learned of his brothers' massacre, he wept in secret, rendered powerless by the lords. He could do no more than dispatch twenty guards to protect the remaining women and children of the slain princes. Thus vanished the incomparable majesty, treasury, and glory of King Khosrow Parviz, offering a solemn reminder of the fickle nature of the mortal world.