You sit still, flanked by Sir Stevan and Robert, as the dark riders crest the dune and descend toward you. Your heart hammers, but you show nothing.
They stop a dozen paces away—ten riders in cloth and armor, their faces obscured, their weapons unmistakable.
—We don’t want blood,— their leader says. —Only talk.
Robert steps forward, hand on hilt.
—You talk with arrows?
The leader shrugs.
—We talk the way we must. You were running. That makes us curious.
He dismounts and approaches, slow and confident.
—A baroness. A noble heir. A soldier. Quite the company.
You don’t ask how he knows.
—What do you want?
—We offer knowledge. But not freely. You look rich.
The Baroness scoffs.
Robert steps forward, growling.
—We have nothing for you.
But the squad leader flicks a signal—and in the next breath, three bolts strike. Robert reels. One hits his shoulder. One pierces his thigh. One finds his side.
He falls. Sir Stevan moves to help, but the squad surrounds you.
The leader raises a hand.
—We said we didn’t want slaughter. But fools die easily.
You kneel beside Robert. His blood soaks the sand. He tries to speak—but there’s nothing left.
You rise, trembling.
—Take the diamonds.
They do.
—In return,— the leader says, —know this: your “friends,” the ones who sold you to the desert, wait in Al-Qattara. Hoping your corpse will rise with the sand.
—I’m not interested.
He nods.
—Your path lies elsewhere. But it crosses theirs again.
Night falls. Camp is made high above the dunes. The fire burns strange—yellow, nearly white. Stars do not move.
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.
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 wake gasping. The magus watches.
—You saw it.
—How did you…?
—Because I saw it first.
Your guide appears, terrified.
—He knew you’d scream. That’s not normal. That’s magi work. Dark work. He put it in your head.
Morning comes. The mercenaries prepare to leave.
The magus turns to you.
—Ride with us. I’ll show you where your enemies lie.
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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