The morning sun claws its way over the rim of the dunes, casting long, broken shadows across the cracked earth. You ride beside Robert in silence, the horses’ hooves sinking into sand churned by many feet. The air smells of ash and something older—blood, perhaps, buried deep.
By noon, the trail veers slightly to the east, and Robert suddenly reins in his horse.
—Hold.—
He gestures ahead. You follow his gaze and spot something: charred wood, torn fabric fluttering from a rusted spear. You dismount, heart tightening.
The sand is littered with remnants—broken wagon wheels, shattered crates, splintered barrels. A few dark stains mark the ground like bruises.
You crouch beside the splintered frame of the wagon, fingers brushing the wood—then stop. Your hand rests on a carved notch along the rim, shallow but distinct: a jagged shape you recognize has been etched on it. Your breath catches. The cracked lantern hanging from the axle, the broken chest with its brass corner still intact—these were yours. This wasn’t just any caravan. It was your caravan. The one you rode in with your companions, before everything turned to ash and silence. The realization hits like a blow to the ribs: you’ve been standing in the grave of your own journey, staring at the wreckage of a memory you didn’t know you’d lost.
—This is the scene of a battle,— Robert says grimly. —Maybe they were caught by robbers.
You stare, your throat dry.
—I… I don’t remember this.
He crouches and runs his hand through the sand, then glances up at you.
—Might it be possible that you were attacked? Maybe lost consciousness?
You nod slowly, brow furrowed.
—It makes sense. But if I blacked out here, how did I wake alone, days from any road? And what happened to my companions?
Robert doesn’t answer right away. He stands, brushing sand from his gloves.
—I see something.
He walks a few paces off the path, eyes scanning the ground. Then he stoops, lifts something partially buried in the dune. It glints in the sunlight.
A short sword. Gilded hilt, Moravice-forged.
He turns it over in his hand.
—They must have gone this way. Whoever survived. Do you remember where you came to your senses?
You shake your head.
—I just wandered… aimlessly. Then I saw a caravan of merchants and followed them.
—Merchants,— Robert echoes. —The safest way for merchants now is straight across the desert. These roads have been infested with robbers since the war began.
He glances around.
—If this is where you were ambushed, you must’ve gone west. Most probably unconscious. Someone might have carried you—then, for some reason, left you in the middle of nowhere.
You kneel and touch the scorched wood of a wagon’s frame.
—Yes… that seems plausible. But still doesn’t answer anything. Who carried me? Why? What happened to my friends?
The silence that follows is oppressive. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
Robert mounts again, shielding his eyes from the glare.
—If we follow the estimated route—look for more signs—we might find answers. Tracks, survivors, even graves. But it’ll mean a detour. From here, the clues point in the opposite direction of Moravice.
He looks at you, face grim.
—So this is your choice.
You feel it again—that pull in your chest. The weight of blood and duty on one shoulder, and on the other, the ache of unanswered questions, the faces of those who vanished with you. Faces you can’t name, but that haunt your dreams.
You turn toward the wreckage once more. A tattered strip of cloth clings to a broken spear shaft—dark blue and silver. The colors of your house.
They were your companions. Friends.
—If they’re dead,— you murmur, —I should at least know how. And if one of them is alive…
Robert doesn’t move.
—And if they’re all dead?
—I’ll know. And that’s worth something.
He doesn’t argue. Just waits. His eyes, though, are filled with something like disappointment. Or worry.
You rise slowly, brushing grit from your knees.
—If I don’t learn the truth now, it will haunt me. Even if I reclaim Moravice, I’ll always wonder what I left behind in the sand.
He nods once.
—So be it.
You remount, and the two of you veer from the route to Moravice, retracing the trail of broken ground and scattered wreckage.
For hours, you ride along the ghost of a path—fragments of a story hidden in desert silence. A leather boot here. A rusted helm there. The remains of a map, its ink bled into oblivion.
At dusk, you come upon another marker: a shallow grave. A crude mound of stones with no name.
Robert dismounts and kneels beside it, saying nothing. You join him.
—Someone took the time to bury them,— he murmurs.
—But not all of them. Look.—
You point to another body, half-buried by shifting sands. Unburied. Left in haste.
You dig it out together, solemn. The man is young—barely older than you—his face contorted in fear. You don’t recognize him, but he wears the crest of your house.
Robert closes the corpse’s eyes, then helps you cover him again.
—We follow this trail to its end,— you say.
—Even if it pulls us far from Moravice?— he asks.
—Yes.
He sighs.
—If that’s your wish, we’ll ride at first light.
That night, beneath the stars, the fire is small but steady. The silence between you is no longer tense—but reverent, somber. You stare into the flames, and for the first time in days, sleep doesn’t come with dreams of blood or crows.
Only silence.
And the unspoken vow that, whatever happened in that ambush, you will find the truth—even if it leads you deeper into the unknown. However… your homeland calls. Moravice burns beneath banners not your own, your people rally in your name, and Robert rides with fire in his veins, believing you are the one to turn the tide. Every moment you delay may cost lives, may cost the very throne you seek to protect. You stare at the broken wagon, its silence heavy with absence. The path of memory pulls one way, the weight of duty another. To chase the past, or shape the future—both roads demand a sacrifice.
You are at a new crossroad:
—Follow the trail of the missing companions, deeper into the desert, and perhaps discover what truly happened during the ambush—and who left you behind.
—Abandon the trail and ride hard to Moravice, hoping to rally your people and reclaim your title before war consumes what’s left of your house.
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