The morning air over Zahrabad is cool, carrying the scent of dust and horses. At first light, you wait at the southern edge of the city, the satchel of diamonds strapped beneath your cloak, hidden but ever-present. Just as the sky shifts from steel to gold, Robert arrives, mounted, sword at his side, gaze solemn.
He says little as you ride. Your guide joins in silence, eyeing Robert only once, then focusing on the road. The three of you skirt the edge of the city and vanish into the open dunes, far from the main trade route, following one of the old caravan paths known only to smugglers and desert-born.
For two days, the journey is uneventful. Robert proves himself capable—finding water where there appears none, guiding the camels with skill, and always watching the horizon. At night, by the fire, he speaks rarely but asks questions that show his mind is sharp: about your uncle’s allegiances, your father’s court, the loyalty of the soldiers back home.
By the third night, the dunes grow steeper. Rocks rise in jagged silhouettes across the sand, and the path narrows. You camp at the base of a ridge where an old stone marker lies half-buried in sand.
The day has stretched on without event, save for the sweltering wind that pushed against your progress like the breath of some sleeping titan. By the time dusk painted long purple bruises across the sky, you’ve made camp in the shadow of a crumbling stone outcrop—once a waystation for caravans, now claimed by sand and silence.
You sit by the fire with your guide, both of you chewing through dry bread and strips of spiced meat. Robert has gone to check the perimeter, or so he claimed. You suspect he simply wanted space, and perhaps he deserves it. He has, after all, thrown his lot in with yours—no small risk, given the circumstances.
But now, in the quiet, your guide finally speaks.
—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 nonsense is it? What catastrophe?
—A great event. A catastrophe for some,— he says, eyes reflecting the flickering flame. —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.
The fire crackles low as night settles in, a velvet darkness stretching over the dunes. The guide sits across from you, eyes reflecting the embers.
—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 mutter, brushing sand off your sleeve.
He doesn’t react at first. Then his gaze locks 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. You lie back beneath the canvas of the tent, the fire’s warmth fading behind your eyelids. Sleep does not come easy. But eventually, it claims you.
And in the dream, it comes.
A vast, shadowed crow descends from a sky choked in smoke. Its wings beat like war drums. It lands before you, tilts its head—and lunges. Screaming. Feathers. Blood. Pain.
You snap awake, drenched in sweat, breath sharp and ragged. The fire is low. The guide is there, calm, watching.
—You saw it,— he says.
—The crow,— you whisper, shaken. —How did you know?
—Because I dreamed it first. And I knew you hadn’t yet. But now we share the same future.
He steps closer, voice low and steady.
—That crow is a sign. A turning point. The Magi say that when such dreams come to two souls in tandem, they mark a tether between them—across fate. I don’t know what it means yet, but I know one thing: Zalenica will not give you answers. Only more sand. More lies. We must find the Magi. They’re the only ones who can read the rest of this story.
You don’t respond. You simply stare into the coals, trying to shove down the weight curling in your stomach.
Behind you, there’s a sound—a soft step in the dark. Not the wind. Not an animal.
Robert has returned early.
And he has heard everything.
He doesn’t speak that night. You notice him tossing under his cloak, eyes wide open, face turned to the stars, lips twitching as if whispering to someone who isn’t there.
By dawn, his saddle is packed before yours. The journey resumes in silence. He rides behind you for hours, saying nothing, but the air between you has changed.
By dusk, you cross a shallow ravine between two dunes and stop to make camp. As you dismount, Robert approaches—not with camaraderie, but with the solemnity of a man stepping into a decision long delayed.
He stands a short distance from the fire, back to you, staring out into the darkening desert. You move to stand beside him.
—You still mean to go to Zalenica?— he asks, not turning. His voice is quiet, but there’s a tension beneath it—like a blade half-drawn.
—Yes. I need to know the truth—from my uncle’s own mouth. If he’s part of this treachery, I’ll see it in his eyes.
Robert finally turns. His expression is unreadable.
—Then I’m afraid our journey ends here.
You stare at him. —What are you talking about?
He nods toward your guide. —You and your man can go. But I won’t ride further toward betrayal.
—Betrayal? Of whom?
—Of your people,— he says. —Of your blood. You think you’re chasing answers in Zalenica, but all you’re doing is riding away from the fire burning back home. Moravice is rising. They need a leader, not a noble on a desert errand chasing riddles and illusions.
You step closer.
—I didn’t ask for this war. I didn’t ask for any of it.
—None of us did,— he snaps. —But it’s here. And you’re choosing Zalenica. The Empire. Politics. You’re letting your house fall while you chase phantoms in the sand.
You breathe hard, steadying yourself.
—That’s not true. I’m trying to stop the bloodshed before it begins. What if my uncle is the only one who can—
—Enough,— he cuts in sharply.
And then, he holds out his hand.
—Give me the satchel.
You blink. —What?
—The diamonds. Hand them over. I’ll use them to secure arms, loyalty, whatever’s needed. They’re no use to you where you’re going. Either way, you ride to uncertainty. I ride toward a cause.
You take a step back.
—So that’s it? All that talk about loyalty… was just about getting paid?
His jaw clenches.
—Don’t insult me. This isn’t about coin. This is about Moravice. Your name. Your father. Everything you claim to want to protect. I’m not stealing from you. I’m doing what you’re too afraid to do—choosing a side.
Silence hangs between you, thick as dust.
Then his tone softens.
—You have a choice. Go on alone to Zalenica. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for. Or… come with me. Back to Moravice. There’s still time to lead, to fight for what’s yours. You can still become the Duke they need.
You glance at your guide. He offers no judgment—only the faintest nod, as if to say: This is your moment.
Robert steps forward—not aggressive, but final.
—Either way, I keep the satchel. It will serve our people better in my hands than in the pockets of Zalenican warlords or desert smugglers.
You look at the fire. At the horizon. At the weight you carry—not only on your hip, but in your blood.
Two paths stretch out before you like twin trails in the sand:
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