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.
—Sopt that nonsense! —You shout, and go back to sleep.
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.
He stands a short distance from the fire, back to you, staring out into the darkening desert. You move to stand beside him, boots crunching softly in the sand. The sky is streaked with copper and ash, the last light dying in the west.
That’s when you see them.
First, just a flicker—motion against the dune crest. Then more: riders, silent and swift, emerging in formation. No banners. No lights. Just shadow and steel.
The Death Squad.
You suck in a sharp breath.
—They’ve found us,— you whisper.
Robert follows your gaze. His jaw clenches.
You turn, sprinting toward the horses. —We can still make it—we can outrun them if we ride now!
But the thought dies in your throat.
Too late.
They’re faster. Closer than you thought. The ring is closing. The sound of hooves swells like thunder in your ears.
Robert spins toward you, voice low and urgent. —Listen to me. I’ll hit them hard. Draw them off.
You freeze. —What?
—I’ll give you a chance. You and your guide—ride hard to Moravice. Don’t look back.
You stare at him. —That’s suicide.
He grabs your arm. His grip is firm, desperate. —So is standing here doing nothing. You’re the heir. You’re the reason we came this far. If they take you, it’s over.
The guide says nothing, just tightens the saddle straps, eyes already scanning for an opening.
You hesitate, heart pounding in your ribs.
—This wasn’t the plan,— you murmur.
—Plans change. This is war. You need to go. Now.
—And you?
—Don’t waste time on that. Choose. Flee or stay. But if you wait another second, there’ll be no choice left to make.
The Death Squad slows their approach, surrounding the camp like vultures waiting for a signal to strike.
You swallow hard. You look at Robert—already drawing his sword, breath steady, hands calm.
The moment is yours to choose. But not for long:
You let Robert make his final stand. Mount up. Flee with your guide into the dunes, to reach Moravice and rally your people—at the cost of his life.
You stay to face the Death Squad together, whatever the outcome may be. Try to negotiate or fight shoulder to shoulder.
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