The Baroness smiles, a flicker of relief softening her usually guarded features. The arrangements are made without delay. You watch as she beckons one of her vassals and presses a small velvet pouch into his hand. He nods subtly, then discreetly gestures for your guide to follow him. The two slip away into a shadowed corridor, exchanging hushed words you’re too preoccupied to hear. Your attention is caught by the Baroness’s steady, appraising gaze.
She draws you into polite conversation—her tone warm, but precise. She asks about your journey, about the desert’s cruelty, and commends your resolve in terms that manage to be both gracious and shrewd. Only when your eyes drift back to the room do you realize: both your guide and the velvet bag are gone, vanished as if they were never there.
That night, you stay at the home of one of the Baroness’s kin—an elegant villa in Dahranjia, a sun-bleached jewel set at the hem of the Syrian desert. The city hums with heat and incense. Inside, however, the house is a sanctuary of cool marble and shadowed halls. Rosewater perfumes the air, silk curtains flutter like whispers, and soft music drifts from hidden corners—melodies that sound like half-remembered lullabies from childhood.
At dawn, a guest arrives.
He wears the plain garb of a merchant or wanderer, but carries himself like a man accustomed to command. The Baroness introduces him simply as —an old friend— but there’s something in the stillness of his gaze that hints at a life sharpened by secrets.
After the formalities—tea sweetened with honey and pistachios offered in delicate bowls—he leans closer.
—I know what happened to you,— he says quietly. —Abandoned. Betrayed. Left in the dunes by those who smiled at your table. The son of Voivode Drevanyn. And Lady Margaret of Velhradus. I saw them, no more than two days past. At a caravanserai north of Al-Mazir. They were laughing.
You narrow your eyes.
—How do you know who I am?
—News travels faster than camels in this land,— he replies, swirling his tea. —But unlike sandstorms, it lingers. I hear things. I remember faces. And I never forget betrayal.
You remain silent, waiting.
—There’s talk,— he continues, lowering his voice further. —Of a deeper plot. This isn’t just abandonment—it’s orchestration. A forged letter has reached Moravice. Orders, written in your hand, commanding actions you never took. Your name is already being questioned in court. Your absence… is not misfortune. It’s design.
The room contracts around you, suddenly too still.
—I don’t mean to frighten you,— he adds, studying you carefully. —But those you thought were loyal have moved on. Too quickly. As if they knew you wouldn’t return.
You stare.
—You’re certain?
He nods. —I stake my life on what I saw.
A silence hangs between you, brittle as glass.
—I can help you find them,— he says. —But not alone. You’ll need men who work in shadows, who ask no questions. They don’t come cheap. Loyalty is a currency with a steep rate in these parts.
You hesitate. His words strike too close to truth—truth you don’t want, but cannot ignore.
—You’re unsure,— he observes.
—I don’t know if I want revenge,— you murmur, mostly to yourself.
—It’s not revenge,— he says. —It’s revelation. You want to reclaim your name, your land? You need to understand who’s tried to take them from you—and why.
You turn away, to the billowing curtain and the breath of wind beyond.
—And if I don’t?
—Then go back blind. And when you reach Moravice, your castle may already wear another’s banner.
He stands, draining the last of his tea.
—I’ll return before dusk. If you choose to act, be ready to ride. Our path will be swift and silent—through lands where names are forgotten and bodies unclaimed.
He bows slightly and leaves, his scent lingering—cardamom and danger.
You’re still staring at the door when the Baroness enters.
—I know what he offered,— she says gently. —And I know what you lack.
You nod, weary.
—I have no coin to pay him,— you admit. —But if he helps me reach my friends—if he uncovers the truth—he will be paid. Either with their gold, or mine, once I return to my place.
She studies you.
—Then let your word be your currency,— she says. —But make certain the man you hire honors promises—not just payment.
She exits quietly, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Dusk drapes the marble halls in shadow. The distant music has faded. All that remains is silence… and choice.
As the last light dims, the Baroness returns once more. She places a porcelain cup of tea on the table before you, and, with a glance at the satchel beside it, says:
—Drink, Your Grace. It may steady your mind.
She leaves without another word.
You move to the table. The diamonds—your inheritance, your burden—glint faintly beside the tea. You hold them in your hands. Cold. Solid. Indecisive.
Then, footsteps return.
He stands in the doorway, framed by fading light. The man. The would-be ally. His eyes flick to the satchel, then back to you.
—Fate waits for no one,— he says. —Have you made your decision?
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