The moment your command cuts through the wind, Robert spurs his horse forward. Sir Stevan mutters a curse and follows. The Baroness urges her steed close behind, her veil whipping in the wind. Sand flies beneath hooves, the sun a hammer on your backs. But the Death Squad is faster—trained in the desert’s rhythm, bred for the hunt.
You barely crest the next dune when the first arrow sings through the air, striking Robert’s mount. The beast collapses mid-stride, sending him crashing to the ground. He rises in a fluid motion, sword drawn, defiance in his eyes.
—Keep riding!— he shouts. —Go!
You hesitate. Sir Stevan grabs your reins.
—You heard him!
Robert stands his ground, swinging his blade with skill born of blood and fire. But they are too many. They swarm him—blades flashing, horses circling like vultures. He fights until they bring him down with a spear to the gut, and still he tries to rise.
Then silence.
You stop. You shouldn’t. But your limbs refuse to obey.
The Death Squad does not advance. Instead, their leader—dark robes, face wrapped in pale cloth, eyes like a hawk—rides forward and raises a hand.
—We don’t seek slaughter,— he calls out in thick-accented Common. —But business.
You stare, barely breathing.
—Business?— Sir Stevan growls.
—We know what moves through these sands. What stirs the wind. A baroness. A daughter of the Duchy. A traitor’s niece. Quite the caravan.
The Baroness stiffens beside you.
—What do you want?— you ask.
He gestures at your saddlebag.
—Information has value. But so does gold. And yours smells rich. Diamonds?
You consider denying it. But their hands rest on curved blades, and Robert’s blood darkens the sand behind them.
—Take them,— you say bitterly, tossing the satchel.
They catch it easily. One holds it up to the sun, letting the light kiss each shard of frost-like brilliance.
—A generous payment. And worth what we offer: knowledge.
You remain silent.
—Your friends—the ones who sold you to the desert—hide in the ruins of Al-Qattara. Waiting to see if the wind delivers your corpse. Or your vengeance.
You clench your fists.
—Not interested.
The leader tilts his head, amused.
—So be it.
By nightfall, they make camp atop a bluff. The fire glows yellow-white, casting ghostly shadows. Stars above seem frozen.
You sit alone, wrapped in grief and sand.
An old man settles beside the fire without a word, his presence quiet but heavy, like a shadow stretching at dusk. For a while, he only watches the flames, his face unreadable in their flickering light. Then, almost absently, he speaks—not to you, not exactly.
—The wind carries strange names tonight,— he murmurs. —And power stirs in your path.— His eyes meet yours, steady and knowing. —You may call me a magus, if names matter to you.— He smiles faintly, as if amused by some private joke, then lapses back into silence, leaving the words to hang and rot in the dark.
You say nothing. Your sadness absorbs you.
—I saw grief on your face. Even if you didn’t show it.
—He didn’t have to die,— you mutter.
—They all say that.
He leans closer.
—But some lives are just fuel for the fire ahead. Your name has reached our ears more than once. You will go far. You will do terrible things. That man was only the first.
You swallow.
He offers no comfort. Only prophecy.
—Tonight, you’ll dream of a massive crow, black as the void, gouging out your eyes with its beak.
You scoff—but sleep eventually takes 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.
When you awaken, gasping, the fire is low. The magus is still watching.
—You saw it.
—The crow,— you whisper. —How did you…?
—Because I saw it first.
Your guide grabs your arm, eyes wild.
—He was waiting when you screamed. That’s magi work. Dark work.
The next morning, the mercenaries pack up. Their leader nods once.
—Your business is done. We part ways.
But the magus lingers.
—I can show you the ones who betrayed you. Ride with us. Seek answers. Revenge.
You must choose.
You leave the Baroness and your guide, and ride with the magus.
You refuse, and ride to Moravice as planned.
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