You forget the Magi’s words. Not because they lacked weight—but because the desert has a way of stripping you bare. Under the sun’s merciless gaze, with sweat streaking down your forehead and your tongue thick in your mouth, even revelation can fade into haze. The only thing that remains is the fire inside. Not the flames of the camp, long extinguished—but the ember of clarity they left behind.
Zalenica.
That name pulses with renewed urgency, like the stone still tucked in your satchel—warm with purpose.
Your guide squats beside a cluster of oddly disturbed sand, running calloused fingers over faint indentations.
—Tracks,— he says, rising. —Recent. Someone passed this way just hours ago.
You shield your eyes.
—Coming from Zalenica?
He nods, and gestures northward, where the dunes sharpen and harden into ridges.
—That way lies your uncle’s land. But see— He points past the horizon, where the air ripples unnaturally. —That is Emperor’s land. It stretches more with each passing month. Soon, it will swallow your uncle’s holdings too. If it hasn’t already.
A pit opens in your stomach.
You camp that night among broken rocks, the dunes wind-carved and whispering. The fire burns low. You eat in silence.
And when you sleep, the dream returns.
The crow again—only this time, you do not struggle. You watch yourself from outside your body. The bird perches on your shoulder, then leans in. Its beak is a blade. You feel the hot pressure behind your eyes, the sickening crunch. But no scream escapes your lips. You don’t even move.
You wake with a gasp, clawing at your face, but your eyes remain whole.
—What did you see?— the guide asks, calmly.
—The crow. Again. This time… I think it means betrayal. Not past. Future.— You swallow. —I think it means someone close to me will betray me again.
The guide looks into the fire. “In these lands, dreams speak louder than reason. You’d be wise to heed them.”
You ride in heavy silence the next day, the weight of your thoughts pressing harder than the heat. By midmorning, the dunes flatten into gravel plains, and a rider crests the horizon. His cloak is clean, his mount well-groomed, and a silver badge gleams on his chest.
He reins in sharply.
—Hail!— he calls. —Are you the traveler from the southern wastes?
—I am,— you say cautiously.
He nods, placing a hand to his chest.
—I am Herald Niklas, sworn to Prince Stanislav of Zalenia.
Your heart leaps.
—My uncle?
But the voice of caution hasn’t died in you.
—Prove it.
Niklas frowns.
—I haven’t the time for games. I carry a message for the prince’s allies, and I must ride swiftly.
You raise your chin.
—And I am second in line to the Duchy of Moravia. I demand proof.
His brows rise.
—Then where are your retainers? Your guards?
Your silence speaks for you. You feel exposed, diminished. But still, you pull out your ringlet—gold chased with onyx and the crest of Moravia.
He relaxes. Reaches into a pouch and reveals his own: the twin of yours, bearing Zalenia’s seal.
You both smile, wariness melting into mutual relief.
—One of my destinies was the Duchy of Moravia, Your Grace,— he says respectfully. —But the Principality of Zalenia is in danger. Grave danger.
You listen, your pulse loud in your ears.
—Zalenica has fallen,— Niklas continues. —The Emperor’s forces have breached the walls. The prince escaped—barely. He seeks shelter in a neighboring state, but it must remain secret. If the Emperor learns where he hides, he will bring ruin on any who offer him haven.
—Where is my uncle now?— you ask quickly.
—I don’t know,— he replies, glancing toward the horizon. —Only his loyal retainers at the Temple of Al-Mirkat have the means to find him. But I cannot escort you—I ride with urgency.
—Then tell me where to find the temple.
—I cannot afford delays,— he says again. —But your guide may know it. Al-Mirkat lies northwest, carved into the bones of the desert.
You look to your guide. He’s already frowning.
—It’s real,— he says. —But remote. Risky. That path is not for the impatient.
Niklas leans in, lowering his voice.
—Better would be to carry this news to Moravice. Tell your father. Raise support. I’ll be at Al-Mazir in a fortnight, awaiting word from our allies. If you send a trusted envoy, I’ll entrust him with further coordinates.”
He salutes, turns his mount, and vanishes into dust.
You sit on your mount for a long moment.
The wind picks up.
Your guide looks to you.
—You heard him. The Emperor’s shadow grows. And now you must choose.
He doesn’t press you. He’s not that kind of man. But his eyes are firm.
—You should go to Moravice,— he says finally. —Rally your house. The dream—your vision—it warned you. More betrayal may lie ahead. Wandering alone is foolish now.
You nod slowly, but your thoughts drift to the temple. To your uncle. To the flames you saw in your sleep, and the crow that refused to let you rest.
One path leads to your homeland, to power, to legacy.
The other leads deeper into the unknown.
Both roads call your name. Your choice will shape not just the future of Zalenia—but your soul’s place within it.
You decide to return to Moravice, bearing the prince’s message, ready to act from a seat of strength.
You decide to travel to the Temple of Al-Mirkat, risking all for answers and loyalty that may no longer exist.
2 Comments