—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. 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. The sun starts dipping below the shimmering horizon, leaving the dunes awash in a ghostly silver light.
You ride deeper into the dunes, each step of the dromedary a slow rhythm against the breathless silence of the desert. The sands stretch endlessly under a chalky sky, and the wind whispers like a warning.
The guide says little. He rides ahead, expression unreadable, as the sun sinks lower. By the time the horizon has swallowed the last of the light, you’re far from the city, far from safety. The desert begins to change at night—not colder, not quieter, but sharper. A place that feels like it remembers every footstep and every lie.
—We camp here,— your guide says, and dismounts. He moves with practiced ease, setting up the tent by lantern-light, the canvas snapping softly in the breeze. You watch him work, uneasy.
Then he builds the fire—carefully feeding it dry dung and a twist of oiled cloth. The flame stutters, then catches, casting flickering gold across the sand. He crouches beside it, hands open to the warmth.
That’s when you hear it.
A crunch of sand, too soft to be wind. A presence behind the flame, not beside it. You straighten and turn.
They’re already here.
Six—no, more—veiled men, faces covered, blades at their sides. Not soldiers. Mercenaries. Desert-born and silent, like they grew from the dunes themselves. Their leader steps forward, wrapped in ochre and gray, face shadowed beneath his scarf. His voice is like stone rubbed smooth by time.
—Your Grace,— he says with mock reverence, —you travel without escort. And yet, word of your passage carries far. Some say you ride with treasure.
You do not flinch.
—If that’s what you’ve come for, you’ll be disappointed. I carry no diamonds.
He pauses. The guide says nothing.
—Then I’m afraid your journey ends here,— the man says. —These dunes belong to us. Zalenica lies ahead. You will not reach it without our blessing. And our blessing has a price.
You feel the fire’s warmth on your back, the cold bite of fate before you.
—I have nothing to give you,— you say quietly.
The mercenary tilts his head.
—Then you have two choices.
He raises one finger.
—First: you turn around. You go back the way you came, with your life intact. A gift. Rarely offered twice.
You wait for his second finger to rise—but it doesn’t. He holds your gaze instead, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. It’s as if he’s daring you to choose the second option, teasing you in silence.
The fire crackles between you. Your dromedary snorts behind you, impatient.
You could buy time with words. But you’ve seen the look in his eyes. He means it. No bluff, no second offer.
You feel the leather reins still wrapped loosely around your wrist. You look toward your guide, who won’t meet your eyes.
Your voice is iron.
—No deal! Let me pass!
The mercenary watches you. For a moment, no one moves.
One Comment