The baroness watches you carefully, her eyes unreadable.
—All right, then,— says the man beside her—Sir Stevan, tall and weathered, his physiognomy scratched by the years.
—Sir Stevan will escort us,— the Baroness adds, her tone steady. —He knows the desert as well as the lines on his own hand.
—And I know what dangers lie ahead, Your Grace,— he says, voice dropping.
—What dangers?— you ask.
Sir Stevan glances toward the horizon, where the dunes ripple like waves.
—The Death Squad of the Damascene has been seen near the passes of Zahrabad. That’s our only viable route back to Moravice.
—Is there another way?—
He shakes his head slowly, almost with regret.
—“No. But… there might be a way to slip past them. The desert holds forgotten roads—abandoned trade lines, smugglers’ paths. But if they find you…— He leans in. —They don’t trade in threats. Only steel. I won’t die for coin, not even for diamonds that glitter like frost.
You press him.
—There must be something. Some way.
He exhales sharply, like air escaping a cracked flask.
—You’d need an army to get through, and you don’t know half the peril that lies ahead. Maybe… maybe we’ll find someone on the road. A warrior with old loyalties. Someone who knows your bloodline and would fight by your side. Otherwise…
He pauses.
—You’ll walk into death alone.
The next morning, you ride out together, three lone riders slipping through the rising heat. You steer clear of the main routes, steering toward Zahrabad by hidden paths.
Sir Stevan squints at the sun-blasted horizon.
—This route is safe enough. The Death Squad preys on merchant roads—fat caravans ripe for plunder. Reaching Zahrabad shouldn’t be a problem. Leaving it?— He glances at you. —That’s where the danger begins. Honestly, I don’t know how you made it in one piece.
—I traveled with traders,— you reply.
—Then they must have paid for safe passage—or struck a deal with the Squad. Even devils strike bargains if the gold’s good. Perhaps if we found them…
—They’re dead,— you say simply.
He is silent for a long moment.
—Ah,— he murmurs, the weight of your words settling between you.
You arrive in Zahrabad under a sky streaked with stars and dust. The streets are hushed, cloaked in the heavy perfume of spices and old smoke. You make your way to the inn, the one with the worn red awning and the woman who once gave you shelter.
She is still awake. When she sees you, her eyes widen.
—You… you’re back. Come in. Quickly.
Inside, over warm tea and distant sounds from the night market, she leans close, voice hushed.
—I’ve heard whispers—dark ones. About Moravice. Rumors of soldiers defecting. Of a coup in motion.
You stiffen.
—I must tell you something,— you say, choosing each word carefully. —I am second in line to the Duchy of Moravice.
Her cup clatters as it nearly slips from her hands.
—Gods preserve us. Then you’ve no time. If what I’ve heard is true… the Duke’s seat may already be contested.
—Who told you this?
She hesitates.
—A man. Called himself Robert. Stayed here briefly. Looked like a vagabond, but his eyes missed nothing. I saw him at the market yesterday. He might be holed up now in one of the seedier taverns. The kind that don’t ask questions about their guests—or the women who come and go.
You pay for a room, thank her, and step into the streets once more, your cloak drawn tight, your mind racing. The Baroness remains behind, resting with her two faithful vassals next door as protection.
The bar reeks of ale gone sour and smoke-stained secrets. A murky place, the kind where pasts are buried and names are forgotten. And there he is—Robert—at the counter, slouched over, seemingly drunk, his cup full but untouched.
You approach carefully, lowering your hood.
—Robert,— you murmur. He barely stirs.
You inhale.
—I don’t mean to trouble you, sir. But I was told you might know something… about Moravice.”
He blinks at you, unfocused.
—I don’t know what you mean,— he mutters. —Why go back there?
—To save it!— The words burst from you, louder than intended. Eyes turn. Regret bites deep.
You turn and leave quickly, heart pounding, torchlight spinning in the corner of your vision.
But just as you near the inn—
He’s there.
Standing at the entrance, arms crossed, posture calm but alert. No sign of drunkenness now. His sword rests at his side, sheathed, but ready.
You freeze.
—You weren’t drunk,— you say, voice low, almost accusing.
He offers a faint nod.
—I figured the landlady would mention me. I needed to see who came looking… and why.
—Why the pretense?
—Because I didn’t know if I could trust you… Your Grace.
The title lands like a stone between you.
—I had to be sure. You could have come on behalf of the Empire—or worse. I’ve seen noble blood betray itself before.”
—What sides?— you ask sharply.
—The Slavic Entente. The Empire. The Entente wants sovereignty, the Empire wants submission. I don’t know what your father, or your uncle, promised to whom. But treachery lives in Moravice now—either from your Duke, or against him.
You stare at him, something cold and final settling into your spine.
He studies your face one last time.
—But now I’ve heard you speak. I believe you. I’ll follow you back to Moravice, to face the insurrection, reclaim your birthright, and cast your claim in fire and blood.
You clasp forearms with him, introduce him to Sir Stevan, and return to the inn to rest.
At dawn, you ride.
The sun rises behind your backs as you cross the dunes, shadows stretched long like memories. For a time, peace reigns.
Then—movement ahead. Shapes. Dark figures cutting through the sands like wolves through snow.
The Death Squad.
You halt. Sand curls around your boots as the wind picks up.
—Let’s flank them and flee,— Robert says, scanning the terrain.
—That’s reckless,— Sir Stevan counters. —Better to let them approach. We may yet parley—or pass unnoticed.
—Wishful thinking,— Robert snaps. —They don’t parley. They collect trophies.— He looks to you. —We run. Now.—
They turn to you.
—Your decision, Your Grace,— Robert says solemnly.
And now, the weight of command lies on your shoulders. The sands stir as hooves strike, and behind you, the Death Squad gives chase. Moravice is still far ahead—and the fires of rebellion burn hotter with every passing hour.
—We ride,— you declare. —If they catch us, draw steel. I won’t be cowed by desert jackals.
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