The desert night is long and heavy with unease. The magus remains silent, his gaze steady across the fire. Your guide sits stiffly beside you, tense, wary, but silent as well. The dream still lingers, like ash in your throat.
If it was a warning, perhaps this is where you’re meant to be.
When dawn comes, the Death Squad breaks camp quickly. Without fanfare, they mount and ride into the pale light, moving like shades across the dunes. You and your guide fall in with them, surrounded but not welcomed. No one speaks. Even the camels seem uneasy.
Hours devour the whole day. That night, as the fire burns low and the others sleep scattered across the dunes, your guide leans close to you, his voice barely above the hiss of the wind.
—We shouldn’t stay with them,— he murmurs, eyes darting toward the magus’s silhouette by the coals. —This dream… this man… I’ve seen sorcery like his before. It never ends clean. They’ll use you. Or worse—mark you.
You say nothing, staring into the fire. He presses on.
—We leave tonight. Before they bind your path to theirs. Before that thing with the staff threads more poison into your head. I can lead us west. There’s a well, half a day from here. We’ll survive.
You shake your head slowly, still watching the flames.
—I need to know if the dream was real. And if it was, then it’s already too late to run.
He exhales sharply, defeated but not surprised.
—Then remember this moment,— he says. —Because when it turns, and it will, you’ll wish you’d chosen silence and sand.
You don’t reply. You just watch the fire burn down to embers.
The next day the routine repeats itself. Desert stretches endlessly, flat and shimmering under the brutal sun. The magus rides ahead, always at the edge of vision, like a shadow leading them forward. You still don’t know where you’re headed.
The mercenaries give you wide berth. They are men hardened by violence, suspicious of outsiders. You feel their eyes on you at night—measuring, calculating.
And then, near noon, trouble comes.
The heat is at its worst when the fight starts. Tensions have simmered for a while now, but now they boil over. One of the mercenaries—a tall brute whom you hear being called Saheb, with a long scar running down his temple—rides up close to your guide.
—Desert dog,— Saheb sneers. —Always watching, always whispering. You think we don’t see you plotting with your master here?
Your guide tenses, but says nothing. He keeps his eyes forward.
—Answer me, worm!— Saheb growls, yanking the reins of his camel to block your guide’s path. —Or maybe I carve your tongue out so you stop whispering altogether.
The others begin to gather, forming a loose circle around you. Some watch with vague amusement; others with cold expectation. The leader says nothing, allowing the confrontation to unfold.
The magus watches too, calm, as if this is all part of some quiet equation he’s solving.
Saheb spits into the sand.
—I say we settle this now. You’re a spy. You’ve always been a spy. I’ll gut you clean.
He draws his curved blade, the sun catching on its polished edge.
Your guide finally speaks, voice low but steady:
—I have no quarrel with you. I serve no one but my master. I ride where I am ordered.
Saheb laughs—a dry, ugly sound.
—Good. Then you’ll die with your orders.
He swings his blade down, forcing your guide to parry hurriedly with his short dagger. The circle tightens as the mercenaries cheer.
You remain still, watching. Every muscle inside you screams to intervene, but you also know the rules of these men: interference could mark both of you as traitors. If your guide dies by their hand, you might yet remain safe. Intervene—and you might join him.
Your guide stumbles under Saheb’s onslaught. His movements are quick, but Saheb is stronger, brutal, and has reach. Already a thin line of blood runs down your guide’s arm where the dagger deflected poorly.
Saheb presses closer.
—Not so brave now, are you?
Your hand tightens around your sword hilt. The mercenaries watch, murmuring. Some eyes turn to you, curious. The magus says nothing, though his gaze sharpens, as if measuring your very soul.
You intervene, drawing your blade, stepping into the circle, and defending your guide, risking everything.
You stay still, letting the fight play out. If your guide dies, you may yet keep the Death Squad’s fragile trust.
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