—Then you don’t pass. Not tonight. Not ever.—
A flick of his hand. The mercenaries surge forward. Your tent is torn down in seconds. The fire is snuffed beneath scoops of sand. One of them seizes your horse’s reins and jerks it hard, forcing the beast to turn back. The leader’s voice is like iron in snow.
—Back to Zahrabad. Now. You don’t belong out here.
Your guide throws you a glance—empty of expression but heavy with meaning—then walks. You follow in silence, herded like cattle back toward the glimmer of city lights on the horizon. The satchel at your side feels heavier with every step, the diamonds inside now less like fortune and more like a curse.
While you are headed to Zahrabad, you speak to your guide.
—Do you know of another way to Zalenica?
He shakes his head slowly, almost apologetically.
—No. But… there may be a way to slip past them unseen. The desert has old paths—dead trade lines, smugglers’ routes. But if they catch you, it won’t be threats this time. It will be a blade through your ribs. And I… I won’t die for any sum of coin.
You press him further. —There must be something. Some way.
He sighs. —At this point, it is useless to insist. You would need an army to pass through those men—and you haven’t even glimpsed the perils ahead. There may be more. Trust me: return to Moravice. Tend to your urgent matters.
—I can’t,— you say, jaw tight.
He studies you. Then, after a moment:
—A compromise, then. Let’s ride for Moravice… slowly. Perhaps we find someone on the road. A warrior, loyal to your bloodline, willing to fight by your side. Otherwise… you’ll walk to your death alone.
—Let’s spend the night and let me sleep over this heavy decision.
The two of you ride to Zahrabad to rest, letting the night cradle your aching limbs. You seek the inn of the woman who offered you shelter before. It’s late, but she is still awake.
Her eyes widen when she sees you. —You… you’re back. Come in.
Over warm tea and the clatter of the market echoing in the street, she leans forward.
—I’ve heard things. About Moravice. Incidents. Rumors of soldiers switching sides, of unrest.
You stiffen.
—I must tell you something,— you say carefully. —I’m second in line to the Duchy of Moravice.
She nearly drops her cup. —Gods help us. Then you have no time. They say there’s a coup… in motion. To unseat the Duke.
—Where did you hear this?
She hesitates. —A man. Robert. Stayed here a few nights ago. Looked like a wanderer, but sharp-eyed. He said strange things. I saw him at the market yesterday. He may have moved to… less dignified lodging. One of those places that accepts women of ill repute.
You pay for a night’s stay, thank her, and head into the streets. The bar reeks of sour ale and old secrets. By chance or fate, you find Robert at the counter of a bar, drunk. The air is thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale, the kind of place where memories drown and truths slip out with liquor.
You approach cautiously, pulling your hood a little lower.
—Robert,— you say quietly, testing the name. He stirs, barely.
You take a slow breath.
—I don’t mean to trouble you, sir, but… I was told you might know something. Something important.
He blinks at you, glassy-eyed.
—I need to know what you heard about Moravice.
He blinks slowly, eyes glassy. —I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you want to go there?
You clench your jaw. —To save my land!— you blurt, too loud, too fast. Regret coils instantly in your gut.
You leave before more can be said, heart hammering. The streets of Zahrabad blur past in shadows and flickering lantern light. You reach the inn with hurried steps, mind spinning.
But just as you approach the door—
He’s there.
Standing at the entrance. Waiting.
Sober.
The sword at his side is sheathed, but unmistakably present. His posture is calm, but his eyes are sharp now—focused, aware.
You freeze.
—You weren’t drunk,— you say, low and accusatory.
He offers the faintest nod.
—I guessed the landlady told you about me. I haven’t spoken to anyone else about my reasons for being here.
You stare at him, chest tight.
—Why the charade?
—Because I didn’t know if I could trust you… Your Grace.
The title lands heavy in the silence between you. There’s no more pretending now.
He studies you, reading your face for any flicker of betrayal.
—I wasn’t sure which side you stood on.
—What sides?— you demand.
—The Slavic Entente. And the Empire. The latter wants lands, power… loyalty carved away like meat from a bone.
—Why would I side with them?
—Everything has a price. Even land. Even blood. I don’t know what your father or your uncle have offered the Empire—or been offered—but I know there’s treason in your house. Either by your Duke… or against him.
You stare.
—But now… now that I’ve heard you speak, I believe you. I’ll follow you.
You tell him of your failed attempt to reach Zalenica, and of your hope to speak with your uncle—perhaps the only man who might shed light on the treason whispered through back alleys and desert winds.
—Careful, my lord,— Robert says, his gaze narrowing. —He might be part of it.
Fear needles through your chest, cold and sudden.
—Still,— you say, forcing steadiness into your voice, —I need to know the truth. Whatever it is.
Robert nods slowly, considering.
—Then go. But you won’t go alone. If those thugs still block your way through the desert, they’ll find themselves outmatched. I’ll ride with you—and my blade will speak louder than theirs.
He straightens, his voice low and resolute.
—That path is dangerous, but I’ve walked worse for less cause. Still… if what I’ve heard about Moravice is true, you haven’t a moment to waste. The city could already be burning. You should ride there now—before the fire consumes all you hope to save. Whatever your decision, I’ll follow.
And once more, the paths lie before you. You tell the warrior that:
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