—At least stay the night, Your Grace. You need rest. The road behind you is long, since you’ve traversed a great distance. The return will not be easy—but I can provide you with a capable guide.
—You’re right. Swiftness does not always guarantee success. I must regain my strength and remain vigilant on the journey back—especially if all that you say is true.
—I’m glad to hear that, My Grace. Please, allow me to escort you to my relative’s abode.
You follow her through a maze of sinuous, lantern-lit streets, with stretching shadows and sounds of the night curling around corners. 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.
At last, you arrive at a modest yet elegant palace, its stone gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Two solemn guards stand as statues at the gate. As you step inside, a quiet hush envelops you. The moment the doors close behind you, it’s as though an invisible weight slips from your shoulders, and you feel a respite from the dangers that press in from every side.
You’re so drunk with fatigue that the rest of the evening passes in a blur. The dinner, the polite conversation with the Baroness—these rituals unfold effortlessly, like muscle memory. You go through the motions without thought, your mind half-asleep, your body acting on ingrained habits. What you do remember is the feeling: a strange, comforting ease, as though you were back home in your own palace, surrounded by familiarity instead of uncertainty. You feel a deep, almost aching gratitude toward the Baroness, who, if only for a moment, restored a flicker of normalcy to your disordered life. When she offers you a guide for the journey ahead, one of her vassals, you accept without hesitation.
The trust you place in your guide is nothing more than an extension of the trust you placed in her. But as you cross the city’s outskirts and find yourself alone with this blank rendering of a man, unease begins to creep in. Doubts stir in your mind like wind through dry leaves. Am I doing the right thing, blindly following my own path? This journey meant to uncover the truth with your own eyes—to confirm the rumors of war brewing between your uncle and the Emperor. But you remember your father’s disapproval when you mentioned it to him, his firm belief that this task should have been left to someone older, more seasoned, less impulsive. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps this is a fool’s errand.
But still—you’re no longer a child. You’re a grown heir with responsibilities, a duty to your father and your house. However trivial or redundant this mission might seem, even if reaching your uncle brings no new revelations, a voice inside you whispers that you must see it through. Because only then—and only on your own terms—can you return, ready to defend what is rightfully yours. But must you finish what you started, or is it time to call it quits?
So many questions, so many “buts,” your head spins. And only then do you notice—your guide is already riding south.
—Where are we headed first?
—To the city of Zahrabad. It’s the only path that leads safely to Zalenica.
—You mean to tell me I’ve come all this way for nothing?
—If knowledge is nothing to you, then perhaps. But here, at least, we have reliable intelligence—trusted sources with direct ties to the war. Lady Vesna knows who to listen to. Follow this route, and you’ll reach Zalenica in one piece.
‘Why would someone call the baroness by name?’ you wonder who this guide is.
—And you? Are you directly connected to the war—or to Lady Vesna?
He looks at you with a glint of humor in his eyes.
—I’m connected to Lady Vesna. And no, she isn’t involved in the war, which means I’m not either. But she holds you in high regard, and that’s why I’ve offered my help.
He pauses, then adds, more seriously:
—Let me be frank with you—this mission of yours is half suicidal, half pointless. You won’t find better intelligence than what we already have. My strongest advice? Take Lady Vesna’s counsel and return to Moravice at once.
—Then who will speak with my uncle?
—For the right price, you can send a trusted messenger to speak with him directly and secure his signet. Surely you’re familiar with such customs?
—Messages like that can still be tampered with. And I don’t even know if my uncle would be willing to say everything he needs to through letters.
—Perhaps not. But you’ll be safe—and that matters more. Believe me, you have more urgent concerns than playing the role of emissary.
You won’t be swayed by a vassal, but you ask him:
—And if I choose to go forward, to speak with my uncle myself—what then?
He glances sideways at you, his expression unreadable beneath the travel-worn hood.
—Then we ride into danger. Past Zahrabad, the land grows harsh. Patrols, informants, shifting allegiances… even the Baroness’s influence cannot reach that far. If you’re caught, no title will protect you. Not even your name.
You say nothing. The desert wind brushes against your cheek like a warning.
Then you reach for the satchel by your side—the one the Baroness pressed into your hands. Inside, tucked within layers of silk, lie the diamonds: clear, flawless, cold as winter stars — A gift, for protection or persuasion, to be used wisely.
You hadn’t questioned her motive. Perhaps you didn’t want to. Perhaps a part of you needed to believe in her goodwill, if only for one more day.
Now the truth settles in like dust: the diamonds are not simply a gift—they are a test. Or worse, a tether.
The guide watches you.
—Those stones are worth more than most men’s lives. Enough to buy your way back to Moravice, to silence your enemies before they even rise against you. Enough to hold your father’s court together while rumors of war rage far from your gates.
He pauses, then adds more quietly:
—But if you go forward… you may have to use them just to survive.
Your mind races. You see two futures stretching before you like twin roads vanishing into the horizon. You ignore his uncalled-for advice.
The wind sharpens as you ride deeper into the desert.
By afternoon, the dunes become treacherous—tall, sheer-edged things that shift with every gust. The path, once a clear line, is now lost in a sea of rolling gold. Heat wavers in the distance like a living thing.
You passed Zahrabad almost at sunset, its sandstone towers rising like broken teeth from the desert floor, glowing pale gold in the early light. From a ridge, you watched its narrow streets stir to life, traders unfurling cloth, camels groaning under fresh loads. You didn’t stop. There was no time. The guide insisted you press on while there was stil daylight, skirting the city’s edge and plunging deeper into the dunes. By evening, the last trace of civilization had long since vanished behind you. The sun dipped below the shimmering horizon, leaving the dunes awash in a ghostly silver light.
—We camp here, —your guide said simply. He unpacked a canvas roll and began setting up the tent by lantern-glow, though the moon hung bright and clear above you, casting long shadows across the sand.
Once the tent was secured, he crouched to build a fire, feeding it with dry manure he’d gathered on the way. The flames caught slowly, sputtering orange in the still air.
That’s when you noticed the silence. Not the quiet of the desert—but something sharper. Intentional.
You looked up.
You were surrounded.
Not by soldiers—but by desert mercenaries. Thin, sand-veiled men with hollow eyes and polished blades. They emerged from the dunes like spirits summoned from the earth, without noise, like ghosts—six, maybe more.
Wrapped in desert cloth, armed but not aggressive. Their leader steps forward, calm as a man greeting a guest.
Your guide dismounts slowly, his hands raised. The leader’s face is covered, but his voice is low, smooth, and sharp as obsidian.
—Your Grace, word travels faster than camels. You ride with diamonds in your satchel, and the desert is always listening.
Your hand instinctively moves to your side—but the mercenary raises his palm.
—No. You misunderstand. We are not thieves. We are businessmen, and this stretch of sand is ours to control. If you wish safe passage to Zahrabad, the price is one pouch from your satchel. Just one.
You say nothing at first. The heat makes your thoughts brittle. You glance at your guide, who says nothing.
—And if I refuse?
—Then you turn back. You’ll be left unharmed, and the desert will be free to test your luck. But if you want to pass through these sands alive, to reach Zalenica and your uncle, the price is non-negotiable. The Baroness did not pay for this stretch. You must.
A long silence stretches between you and the mercenary.
The sun dips lower. Shadows grow.
You open the satchel. The diamonds sparkle faintly in the amber light—your only true wealth, the last secure piece of your future. You could return to Moravice with them, stronger than before. You could outmaneuver your rivals, secure your house, crush the whispers that you are just a reckless heir.
Or you could spend them now, to press onward into uncertainty. The road suddenly splits—truly and irrevocably. The desert is waiting.
The guide says nothing. He knows this choice cannot be shared.
Your fingers tighten around the velvet pouch. Silence. The kind of silence that makes your heartbeat feel too loud. You look at the satchel. You remember how they shimmered in the Baroness’s hand as she gave them to you—a gesture of faith. They are your leverage, your power, your protection.
To give them up now means trusting strangers and a cause you’re no longer sure will welcome you.
To keep them means turning your back on the truth you came all this way to find.
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