Your heart pounds like a war drum, but your feet hold firm.
—I’m not leaving,— you say.
Robert blinks, stunned. —What?
—I said I’m not leaving. Not without you.
For a moment, the only sounds are the wind stirring the dunes and the distant rumble of hooves. Then, with a grunt of disbelief that sounds almost like a laugh, Robert nods and turns to face the riders.
—Then we make our stand together.
The Death Squad fans out with eerie precision, each rider falling into a silent formation. No shouted orders. No war cries. Just the shifting of sand beneath hooves and the occasional creak of leather. Their weapons gleam in the torchlight.
You raise both hands slowly. —We don’t want to fight.
There’s a pause. Then a rider at the center dismounts and steps forward—a tall figure in layered desert robes, his white beard braided with copper thread. He carries no weapon, only a carved staff marked with sigils that pulse faintly in the firelight.
—You carry the dream,— he says in a calm, clear voice.
The words hit like a slap. Your blood runs cold.
—The crow. The sky. The gouging of eyes. I’ve seen it too. I came to find you.
Robert shifts uneasily beside you.
—What the hell is this?
You glance at him, then back at the old man.
—You’re not here to kill us?
—No. We are not aligned with your enemies. We are not aligned with anyone.
He gestures to his riders.
—We are what some call the Death Squad. But death is not our purpose tonight. You summoned us—without knowing it. That dream… it’s a thread. I have followed it across countries, across years. And now, it’s brought me here. To you.
Your guide steps forward.
—You expect us to believe that?
—You need believe nothing,— the old man replies. —But truth does not care for belief.
The riders move efficiently, establishing camp. There’s no talk of hostages, no looting, no threats. Still, they bind Robert—gently, at least by the standards of soldiers. They offer no apology. They do not bind you, nor threaten. They take the diamonds as non-returnable “insurance,” but leave you and your guide unchained.
—He is not one of us. Not yet. And we’ve seen too many betrayals to trust blind faith.
You clench your fists, but Robert gives a small nod, accepting the restraint with bitter silence.
That night, as the fire crackles and the stars burn above like watchful eyes, the old man—Magus, he calls himself—sits across from you.
—I dreamed the crow long before you did,— he begins. —At first, I thought it madness. Then others began to see it. Always before great upheaval. Always before betrayal.
—And what does it mean?— you ask.
—The crow is not a creature. It’s a symbol. A warning. Someone meant to blind you—to cut you off from vision, from understanding. That dream came because you are standing at a turning point. And because someone close to you opened a door that cannot be easily shut.
Your mouth goes dry.
—My friends, I believe… they abandoned me. Left me for dead.
He nods.
—And they’re still moving. Still working toward something. They passed through a place of ruin. An old temple buried under the sands east of here. The bones of something sacred—and now, something corrupted. That’s where the thread leads next.
—Why should I trust you?
—You shouldn’t. But you can walk beside us and see where the trail leads. Or go back to Moravice with only the ghosts of what you’ve lost. The rebellion will still be there. But if you leave the dream unanswered, it will come again. Stronger. Louder. Hungrier.
Robert watches this exchange without comment. When the fire dims, you sit beside him in the sand. He’s still bound, though loosely, and his face is unreadable in the firelight.
—You should’ve run,— he mutters.
—And leave you to die? After everything?
He shakes his head. —I knew what staying would cost. I was ready for it.
You reach out and touch his shoulder. —So was I.
He glances at you, something fragile in his gaze. But he says nothing more.
You don’t sleep easily. Your dreams are restless—shadowed wings and bleeding skies—but the crow doesn’t come again.
At dawn, the Death Squad is already breaking camp. Robert is untied without a word.
The Magus approaches you with a solemn expression. —You are free to go. We hold no claim on you. But we ride east, toward the temple. Toward the truth. If you come, I believe we will find the roots of your betrayal—and the meaning behind your dream.
—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 walks beside you as you saddle your horse.
—I came with you for Moravice. That’s still where I believe we belong.
—You think this is a trap?— you ask.
He shrugs. —I don’t trust them. But I trust you.
Your guide mounts without a word. When you look to him, he speaks at last.
—There are crossroads you can’t retrace. This is one of them. Whatever we choose… it becomes who we are.
You stare out at the desert. One path back to duty, loyalty, and the rebellion waiting in Moravice. The other into deeper shadow—into the broken ruins where truth may fester, where dreams bleed into waking life.
The Death Squad waits. The Magus turns east, already mounting.
Robert watches you closely. —What now?
The desert wind picks up. Sand stings your cheeks.
Your next words will shape your destiny.
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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