The Baroness smiles with something like relief, and the arrangements are made without delay.
You see the Baroness beckon one of her vassals and hand him a small, velvet bag. The vassal nods subtly, then discreetly motions for your guide to follow him. They step aside and exchange a few quiet words. You’re too preoccupied with the Baroness’s piercing gaze to catch more than a glance. She questions you about your journey—speaking in polite, measured tones—and commends your courage in the face of danger. When you finally look around again, both your guide and the mysterious bag have vanished without a trace.
You stay the night at her relative’s abode in this city, Dahranjia—a sun-bleached jewel perched on the edge of the Syrian desert. The heat outside is merciless, but within the cool marble halls of the house, you find refuge. Rose water perfumes the air, silk curtains whisper in the breeze, and quiet music floats from distant rooms like fragments of a half-remembered dream.
In the morning, a guest arrives—a man of plain dress and sharp bearing, introduced only as “an old friend” of the Baroness. But something in the weight of his glance tells you he is more than he appears.
After polite greetings and a tray of sweet tea and pistachios, he leans in and lowers his voice.
—I know what happened to you,— he says. —Abandoned in the dunes by those you trusted. Hiacynt—son of the Voivode Ignacjusz of Drevanyn—and Lady Margaret of Velhradus. I saw them myself not two days ago, passing through a caravanserai north of Al-Mazir. Unbothered. Laughing.
You narrow your eyes.
—How did you learn about it?
He leans back slightly, fingers tapping the rim of his glass.
—News traverses the desert faster than sandstorms. And unlike sand, it sticks where it lands. I’d wager I know more about your situation than you do.
You say nothing, waiting for the last blow to hit you.
—There’s talk,— he continues, lowering his voice. —Of a plot. Not just the betrayal in the dunes—but something larger. Whispers that your name is being dragged through the courts of Zalenica. That a forged letter from your hand has already arrived in Moravice, bearing false orders. That your absence is no accident—it’s part of a careful erasure.
The room seems to contract around you.
—I don’t say this to frighten you,— he adds. —But the people you thought were allies? They’ve moved on without you. Quickly. Too quickly. Someone wanted you out of the way. And now you are.
You sit still for a moment, heart slow and heavy.
You stare at him.
—You’re certain?
He nods.
—I don’t forget faces. Especially not ones that leave people behind to die in the sand.
The words land with force. Silence pools between you like shadow.
—I can help you find them,— he continues. —But it won’t be clean. You’d need men who don’t ask questions—men who know how to dig. That kind of loyalty comes at a price. But I hear you’ve got means.— His gaze shifts briefly to your satchel.
You glance down at it. The leather is weather-worn, soft from use. Inside: the diamonds the Baroness gave you. Enough to see you safely to Zalenica—where rumors of revolt are beginning to thrum—or to pay for blood and secrets.
And so the choice forms in the stillness:
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