The desert stretches ahead like a vast, indifferent sea. Day after day you ride, pushing through heat and wind that scrape at your skin like invisible claws. Your lips crack despite careful rationing of water. The Baroness rides ahead, her face calm beneath layers of silk, but you can see her exhaustion mounting with each passing hour. Sir Stevan remains stoic, but even his horse moves with increasing reluctance.
The Syrian desert is unforgiving. When the sun reaches its zenith, it feels less like heat and more like a judgment. Flies swarm around your eyes and mouth. The sand shifts under your horse’s hooves, treacherous and unpredictable. A wrong step could mean injury or death. Once, when your mount stumbles, you think you hear Robert’s voice whispering, Keep riding…
At night, the cold steals into your bones. The fire offers little comfort. The stars above wheel silently, brilliant and unfeeling. You wrap yourself tightly in your cloak, but the ache in your chest is harder to guard against.
On the third night, you make camp beside a broken stone pillar—a remnant of some forgotten empire, half-buried in the shifting dunes. The Baroness sits apart, her back straight, staring into the fire as Sir Stevan checks the perimeter. You sit alone on the other side of the camp, your thoughts heavy, your grief still raw.
The fire crackles softly. Fatigue pulls at your eyelids, and soon you drift into a restless sleep.
That’s when you see him.
An old man, approaching from beyond the firelight. But not walking on the ground—he walks upside down, feet planted against the sky as if gravity holds no dominion over him. The stars shimmer beneath him, clouds swirl like sea foam. The sun—or perhaps many suns—glow beneath his feet, small and distant like marbles. The world has turned on its head. No, you realize, it’s me who is upside down. It’s me who has misunderstood everything.
You try to convince yourself: perhaps there was something in the dung-fuel you burned tonight. A hallucinogen. Spores. Madness creeping in through exhaustion. But even as you try to rationalize, you feel your conviction slip away, replaced by something deeper, older—certainty.
The old man draws near. And then, as if to show respect, he rights himself with an elegant twist, planting his sandals softly in the sand beside you, now standing on your plane.
– Hello, wanderer – he says, his voice kind, smooth, but weighted with centuries. – Are you lost?
– No – you reply, your voice thick. – But I’m looking for directions.
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
– As everyone in this world is. But what if there are no directions to be given?
– Then I am lost.
– You’re wrong – he answers. – If there are no directions, there are no wrong paths. Only paths of conviction… or despondency. Which will you walk?
You swallow.
– I choose conviction. But I’m not convinced by your empty words.
He laughs gently, as though pleased by your defiance.
– All words are empty vessels. You decide whether to leave them hollow or fill them with meaning.
– Fill them with what?
– With your experience. Your frustration. Your sense of duty.
You narrow your eyes.
– Fine. I’ll do that.
– Or… – his voice lowers, reverent – fill them with Asha.
That word again. The same one whispered by the magus back at the Death Squad camp. A word that seems to live on the edge of your understanding.
– Repeat after me, if you wish – he offers. – Let us see if you can carry its weight.
And so begins the mantra:
– All mirrors are broken.
– I’m looking at myself – you echo, voice low, trembling.
– Reflected on the sand.
– On every grain of sand.
– Reflected on people.
– On every pair of eyes looking at me.
– I am with others and in others.
– And there I remain eternal.
– Alone I’m not, and I never was.
The words cut through you like cool water through parched earth. You feel something shift within, as though ancient doors creak open far inside your chest. Your hands tremble. The mantra hangs in the air like incense, curling toward the stars.
The old man closes his eyes. You follow, a strange peace settling over you.
When you open them again, he’s gone. No footprints, no sign. Only the embers, glowing faintly, and the soft shifting of the sand.
You sit beside the fire again. The heat feels different now—not just warmth, but power. You are alone again. But not truly alone. The mantra circles in your chest like wind within a canyon. The emptiness no longer claws at you; it waits, ready.
The next morning, you ride with renewed focus. You speak of the dream to the Baroness as the horses tread across the dunes.
– It was not a dread – she says softly. – The magi are telling you something. You need to understand it. Interpret it carefully. It might be a warning. Or an offer.
By late afternoon, the city of Al-Mazir appears on the horizon—a cluster of low, sand-colored buildings, domes rising like humped backs against the sky. Smoke rises from distant chimneys; merchant banners ripple in the wind. The magus’s words flash before your eyes: The ones who betrayed you wait nearby.
The walls of Al-Mazir rise out of the sand like the ribs of some ancient beast long dead, sun-bleached and unmoved by the centuries. The streets within buzz with life—vendors shouting beneath colorful awnings, camels groaning under loads of spice and silk, beggars with hollow eyes stretching out weathered hands. The air smells of roasted meat, incense, and sweat. It’s overwhelming after so many days of emptiness.
You guide your horse carefully through the narrow streets, the Baroness riding beside you, her face hidden behind her embroidered veil. Sir Stevan rides close behind, hand never far from his sword.
You glance at the Baroness, your heart still heavy with the remnants of last night’s vision. The old man’s words, the mantra, the upside-down sky—all of it burns inside your mind like coals under thin ash.
– Baroness – you begin softly, your voice half-lost beneath the market’s noise.
She turns her head slightly, listening.
– The dream… perhaps it was more than just a vision. Perhaps it’s a warning. Or a command.
She nods, but says nothing.
– Maybe it means I need to seek them out – you continue. – The ones who betrayed me. The magus back in the desert said they were waiting somewhere out here. And now we’re here. In Al-Mazir.
She exhales slowly, considering.
– That may be so – she finally answers. – The magi often speak in riddles, but their words carry weight. Betrayal leaves a deep wound; such wounds rarely stay hidden.
You scan the crowd. Every pair of eyes feels like it’s watching you. Measuring you. Waiting.
– I keep thinking – you say – that maybe this… Asha… whatever it is… maybe it’s not just about me riding back to Moravice. Maybe I need to face them. Find out why they did what they did. Or at least learn if they’re still plotting.
The Baroness studies you for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her tone is gentle but firm:
– Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you’re meant to find them. Perhaps their betrayal still festers like rot beneath the sand. But my duty lies elsewhere. I cannot afford delay.
You frown, the weight of your decision growing heavier.
– You’re leaving?
– I must. – She glances toward the eastern gate where her caravan waits, camels swaying under heavy loads. – Time grows short for me. I’ve lingered as long as I dare.
You feel a tight knot forming in your chest. The Baroness was your last familiar face. If you stay, you will be alone in this city—a stranger surrounded by shadows and whispers.
– I will ride on today – she continues – but if you choose to remain… I understand. Your road may lead you where mine cannot. Just be cautious. Al-Mazir is full of ears. Full of knives. And treachery rarely walks alone.
Her voice softens even further.
– This could be what the dream tried to show you. Or it could be a trap. Only you can decide if you will face it.
Her caravan waits at the edge of the city, ready to depart. The heat ripples in waves around you. The streets pulse with life, with secrets, with danger. Somewhere here, your past might still be alive.
You glance once more at the Baroness.
– I must choose now, then.
She inclines her head.
– Yes.
And so the choice stands before you:
You stay behind in Al-Mazir, and seek the ones who betrayed you.
You ride on with the Baroness toward Moravice, leaving this danger behind for now.
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