—You shall not 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.
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:
—The Magi have spoken. In three nights, the constellations will align. It will mark the beginning of something immense. A catastrophic event.
You raise an eyebrow.
—What are you talking about now? What do you mean a catastrophe?
—A great event. The Magi are neutral. To them, catastrophe is just a shift. An opportunity. With proper knowledge, you can always wield disaster to your benefit. Put an enemy army on the path of a tsunami. Turn chaos into strategy.
You blink, unsure whether to laugh or frown. He notices your confusion.
—There are things that escape our reason,— he says. —Not everything must be believed. But it’s wise to consult those who read the patterns. The Magi see what we do not.
—I don’t believe in that kind of thing,— you say, brushing sand off your sleeve.
He doesn’t react right away. Then his eyes lock onto yours, steady and unblinking.
—I have been initiated in the art. I can read the current of time. And I can prove it.
You exhale, unimpressed.
—Go on, then.
He leans forward slightly.
—Tonight, you’ll dream of a massive crow, black as the void, gouging out your eyes with its beak.
You stare at him.
—That’s not much of a lullaby.
But he says nothing more.
—Let’s spend the night here and let me sleep over this heavy decision. Perhaps we find someone, a warrior loyal to my bloodline, willing to fight by our side. Otherwise… we’ll walk to our death alone.
*
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’ll go alone. If those thugs still block your way through the desert, you’ll find yourselves outmatched. I’ll ride with you, if you decide to return to Moravice—and my blade will speak louder than my words.
He straightens, his voice low and resolute.
—The path to Moravice is also dangerous, but I’ve walked worse for less cause. Still… if what I’ve heard about the rebellion 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. Please consider carefully your decision. He leaves, promising to be there at dawn, in the case you want to go back to Moravice.
*
You lie on your straw bed. Sleep takes a while, then finally drags you under.
And in the dream, a vast, shadowed crow descends from a sky thick with smoke. Its wings beat like war drums. It lands before you, tilts its head—and lunges. Pain. Screaming. Feathers. Blood. Darkness.
You wake up with a gasp. The fire is embers. Your clothes are damp with sweat. You look around wildly until you see your guide sitting cross-legged, watching you calmly.
—You saw it,— he says.
—The crow,— you whisper. — How did you know about this dream?— you ask, your voice hoarse, still shaking from the remnants of sleep.
The guide stands still, the early light casting long shadows across his face. His expression is unreadable, carved from silence and dust.
—Because I had the same premonition a few days ago,— he says at last. —It came to me unbidden, like a vision carved into the dark. A crow, enormous, with eyes like burning coals and wings that blotted out the sun.
You swallow hard, the image fresh in your own mind.
—And because of your skepticism,— he continues, —I knew you hadn’t seen it yet. Your mind was closed. The dream couldn’t reach you. But now…
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a murmur.
—Now we share the same dream. The same future.
You feel something tighten in your chest. A weight. Cold. Heavy. A presence.
—You’re afraid,— he says, not accusingly, but as a statement of fact. As if observing the weather.
And you are. Not just of the dream, but of the implication—of paths laid out before you by forces you don’t understand. Of a future already written in the sky, waiting to unfold.
You look away, out toward the horizon. The desert stretches endlessly, golden and cruel. Somewhere beyond those dunes lies Zalenica—civilization, safety, certainty.
But in another direction lies the unknown. The Magi. The stars. The meaning behind the crow.
Your guide watches you, his gaze calm, almost pitying.
—This is not the first time a dream like this has marked a turning,— he says. —And it won’t be the last. I don’t know how to predict what will happen, but the Magi might.
You say nothing.
You don’t speak. Just stare at the ashes. Then slowly, silently, you rise and begin packing the tent. The sun begins to rise, smearing gold across the sands. The wind picks up, and with it, the sense of urgency.
As you tie the last knot, he stands beside you.
—So… which way, traveler?
The silence that follows is yours to break.
Two paths unfurl before you like the desert itself:
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