Your guide watches you in silence, the sunlight flickering in his eyes. Then he nods once, slowly. He doesn’t argue—not about stars, or rites, or fate. Just turns and you finish dismantling camp. The sun rises, and the desert starts heating up.
You ride before dawn. The desert is a sea of shadow, dunes pale under the starlight. Wind moans softly between the ridges, and the sand shifts like a living thing beneath your dromedary’s feet. Zalenica lies ahead. Your uncle—ruler of that golden city, your blood—may be embroiled in a war with Emperor Claudius. If the rumors are true, the empire stirs, and the heart of the south trembles.
You press forward.
The sun rises and with it, the heat. By midday, the desert punishes you. Sweat slicks your back. The guide, ever silent, scans the horizon ceaselessly. His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his dagger.
The desert stretches out in every direction, a canvas of gold and silence. Your dromedaries trudge through the sand, slow and steady, as the sun climbs to the zenith. The guide, as always, remains silent for most of the morning, until he stops abruptly near a dry riverbed and kneels.
—Hoofprints,— he says. —Not ours. Fresh.
You dismount and crouch beside him, peering at the impressions. They cross the sand at an angle, heading northeast.
—Who are they?
He presses two fingers to the print, then to the sand around it. —Horses, not dromedaries. Moving in formation. Spaced evenly. A patrol—or worse, a search party. And they’re moving fast.
—Toward Zalenica?
—No. From the north. Cutting across the main road. Likely trying to intercept anyone coming from the east.
You glance behind you, then toward the low hills that ripple ahead. Suddenly, the desert feels smaller. Tighter. Less open and endless than before.
—Do they know about us?
He doesn’t answer right away. Then:
—Someone does. Whether it’s coincidence or design, this is no random trail. And if we follow the main route, we’ll run right into them by midday tomorrow.
You exhale, the heat thick in your throat.
—So what do we do?
The guide pulls out a small map—tattered, mostly sand-worn lines—and lays it on the ground between you. He traces two fingers across it.
—There are two detours. First: we go south into the Dry Reaches. Hard terrain, but we’ll loop around and enter Zalenica from the south gate. It’ll take a day longer, maybe two, but no patrols go that way. It’s too harsh.
He pauses, then points to a jagged line to the northwest.
—Or we cut across the Old Quarry trails. It’s faster—if the rains haven’t buried the path. But we’ll be exposed from above. If they have scouts in the rocks, they’ll see us.
You stare at the map, mind racing. Your uncle rules Zalenica. Rumors claim Claudius’s forces may already be on the move. If you’re right, this trip may already be a race against time. But if you’re caught… whatever you carry—this knowledge, this dream of the crow—may never reach the city.
The guide folds the map again and stands.
—We have no guarantee of safety either way. But we can choose the kind of risk we take.
You nod slowly, wiping sweat from your brow.
No time for hesitation. You know what to do:
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