You don’t want to say it aloud, but the truth is already ringing in your chest: Robert is right.
The circle is tightening. You glance once more toward the oncoming riders—no flags, no shouts, only the deadly silence of professionals. You turn to Robert, who’s already mounting his horse, blade drawn, determination etched into every line of his face.
—Go,— he says.
You mount. The guide swings up beside you. You hesitate a second longer, then kick hard. Sand explodes beneath your mount’s hooves as you and your guide break from the camp and charge into the night.
Behind you, you hear the clash begin—steel on steel, a man’s cry cut short. But you don’t look back.
The dunes race past. The wind cuts at your eyes. Hours stretch like years as you ride through darkness. Only when the moon is high do you stop, dromedaries trembling, breath ragged. You make camp in the shelter of a dry ravine.
You don’t sleep.
Dawn breaks pale and harsh. Your guide says nothing, but you both know: Robert may not have survived.
You crest a ridge and see the first foothills marking the edge of the Moravian territory. The old kingdom lies ahead—divided, bleeding—but yours.
Your guide points to a cluster of rocks, motioning for you to rest. But before you can dismount, riders appear again—Five riders crest a nearby hill, dressed in dark robes with subtle armor. Forming a half-circle. Blades drawn. One lifts a hand. You stop. The guide tenses.
But they don’t attack.
From their midst steps an old man with a carved staff, silver-bearded, eyes sharp as broken glass.
—You carry the dream,— he says.
You exchange a glance with the guide.
—What dream?
—The crow. The sky. The eyes. I saw it as well. Long before you did. I’ve waited years to meet the one who shared the same vision.
You hesitate. —You’re with the Death Squad.
—We are neutral,— he says. —We were drawn to you, not sent. And we found your friend. He is alive.
Relief hits you like a flood, but it’s laced with tension.
—Where is he?
—At our camp. Bound. For his safety and ours. He is not trusted yet.
You follow them. In the camp, Robert is indeed alive—bloodied but awake, tied to a post but not gagged. He glares at you when you approach.
—Good to see you’re alive,— he mutters.
The magus joins you by the fire that night. —The dream is not a warning. It’s a thread. It connects you to something vast. Something dangerous. There are people, old allies of yours perhaps, who are steeped in betrayal. They meant to blind you. You must find them. Root out the rot before it grows. Before the crow returns.
—You know where they are?
—Not precisely. But I know where the thread leads.
The Death Squad does not bind you, nor threaten. They take the diamonds as non-returnable “insurance,” but leave you and your guide unchained.
—You are free to leave,— the leader says. —We’re not your jailers. But we’ll keep your friend bound until we part ways. If you come with us, we release him. If you leave… he stays, and your journey ends where it began—with questions.
You barely sleep. At dawn, Robert is untied.
Then the magus turns to you.
—Your path forks. Moravice calls. A throne. A rebellion. Duty. But so does the truth. We ride east. Toward the bones of what once was a temple. Your traitorous allies passed through there. If you come with us, we might stop the crow from returning in your dreams.
—And if I don’t?— you ask.
—Then you’ll ride to Moravice. You’ll rally your people. Fight your rebellion. But the crow will return. And next time, you may not wake.
Robert puts a hand on your shoulder.
—We came this far for Moravice. Delay too long, and there’ll be no kingdom left.
The guide nods once.
—I will follow you, whichever road you take.
—Only you —the magus say, pointing at you. —We can’t take extra bagage on our journey.
You look from one path to the other. Both roads demand sacrifice. Only one may offer truth. The choice hangs like a blade above your head. You meet the Magus’s gaze, then nod once.
***
—I’ll follow you into the desert, to find the root of the dream and face whatever truth lies buried in the sand.
Turning to Robert and your guide, voice steady:
—It’s time to ride for Moravice—my people need me, and the throne won’t reclaim itself.
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