You turn to the magus.
—He comes with me.
The magus studies your guide for a long moment. The others of the Death Squad say nothing, their stillness absolute, like statues carved of dusk and shadow.
—He is loyal,— you add. —He knows the desert better than any of us. If I’m to find the temple, I’ll need him.
The guide doesn’t speak, only lowers his head slightly—a gesture of humble affirmation.
The magus taps his staff once against the sand.
—Very well. But his life is your burden. If he slows us, if he betrays us, if he draws blades where silence is needed… you will answer for it.
You nod. —Understood.
They accept him wordlessly after that. The next day, your caravan moves east—leaner now, quieter, cutting across forgotten paths scorched by sun and time. The guide rides beside you, eyes always scanning the horizon, but you notice something different in him: a stiffness. Not fear. Something else. Reverence, perhaps, or the weight of knowing too much.
By the fourth day, the spires of Al-Mirkat rise in the distance—half-buried towers of white stone that catch the evening light like old teeth. Once a thriving oasis city, now a shell. The sands crept in slowly, year by year, until only the upper floors of its highest buildings remained visible.
You stop on a bluff, looking down at the remains.
The magus approaches beside you.
—They passed through here. Weeks ago. They didn’t linger. But the temple is beneath the ruins. We’ll camp tonight and go in at dawn.
You nod. The air is still, but too still. The desert feels like it’s listening.
That night, you dream again. The crow, of course—but this time, it’s not silent. It speaks in a voice like grinding stone:
They wear your face.
They know your name.
Wake.
You see the crow more clearly now: perched on your chest, its feathers rimmed in cinders, wings beating in rhythm with your heart. When it opens its beak, flames curl from its throat, and cities fall in the reflection of its eyes. Zalenica, burning. Your uncle, falling.
You jolt upright. The camp is in motion. Not chaos, but quiet, focused retreat. The Death Squad is packing, vanishing into the shadows with efficiency born of countless exits.
You grab your boots and stand.
—What’s happening?
The magus appears at your side, eyes sharp, voice low.
—Scouts. Not ours. Well-armed. They’ve seen us.
—Who?
—Moravian patrol. Not loyalists. The kind that serve whoever pays best.
You glance toward the city. The guide stands already, watching the flickers of torchlight crest a far ridge. Dark smudges that seem to be riders. Moving like they own the night.
—We can take them,— you say.
But the magus shakes his head.
—Not without cost. Not without being seen. And we were not meant to be seen.
He rests a hand briefly on your shoulder.
—You’ll have to go on alone. We cannot risk being tracked.
You turn toward the guide. He gives a grim nod.
The Death Squad vanishes like smoke. No hoofbeats. No final words.
You’re alone.
Just you, the guide, and the silent bones of Al-Mirkat awaiting below. Somewhere under its sand-swallowed stones, the truth waits—twisted by betrayal, guarded by old shadows, and perhaps not eager to be found.
Still, you ride.
The guide says little, as if the desert demands reverence, or perhaps he senses you are not in the mood for talk. Sand gives way to stone, and in less than an hour, the desert unfurls into the outer sprawl of Al-Mazir—a city carved in sandstone and grit, held together by old trade and older grudges.
–We’re here,– your guide says, nudging his mount toward a stony slope. – There’s a good inn near the western gate. Decent food. Cheap beds. Try not to get robbed. Or worse.–
You nod, lips too dry to reply. The city swallows you.
The tavern smells of dates, sweat, and something charred beyond recognition. But it has shade, and you’re too tired to care. You eat slowly—flatbread and stewed meat—when something in the corner of your eye draws you up like a blade pulled from its sheath.
Hiacynt.
He’s slouched in a dark corner, a shadow of the man you once knew—cheeks sunken, clothes torn, one eye ringed in purple. But it’s him.
You drop your plate. The sound cracks the room.
You’re across the floor in moments. You grab him by the collar and yank him up with a force born of rage and disbelief.
–Why did you betray me? Why did you leave me to die in the desert?!–
His mouth opens, but no words come. He blinks like someone waking into a nightmare.
–Answer me!!– you roar.
–I thought you were dead…– he manages, his voice hoarse. –We looked. We searched for days. I swear it. I thought you were—–
You hit him. Hard. The crack of knuckles against jaw echoes through the tavern. He stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him.
The manager—a thick-armed man with a beard like wire—storms over.
–None of that in here! Out! Both of you!–
He grabs your arm, but your guide is there in an instant, intercepting him.
–Keep your hands off,– the guide growls, eyes narrow. –My companion is not some drunken thug. Let him leave with dignity.–
The manager hesitates, then shoves you toward the exit. –Then get him out before I do.–
You stumble outside into the night air, heart hammering. The streets of Al-Mazir are quieter than you expected—too quiet, like the city’s holding its breath. The wind smells of dust and old sorrow.
You wait.
You’re not sure for how long. Minutes. Maybe more. People come and go. Laughter spills from open windows. But not Hiacynt.
He doesn’t follow.
You stare at the door, willing it to open, but it stays shut. Behind your ribs, something splinters—not rage this time, but disappointment. Maybe even grief. You wanted answers, and all you got was a man broken worse than you remembered.
Your guide stands beside you in silence, arms crossed.
–He won’t come,– he says at last. –Whatever drove him to leave you wasn’t courage, but fear. And fear leaves rot behind it.–
You say nothing. The door doesn’t open.
The inn is just down the road—warm light in the windows, the sound of a lute filtering through the wooden shutters. Your bed waits. So does the road.
You take a breath.
Now you must choose:
You square your shoulders, jaw tight. Maybe there’s still something to salvage—some piece of truth that Hiacynt owes you. You step toward the tavern door, ready to demand it.
You turn away from the tavern. The door stays shut behind you, like the seal on a tomb.
–Come on,– you say to your guide. –We ride at dawn. There’s work to be done.–
You leave the past behind. Not because it doesn’t matter. But because the future matters more.
The road to Moravice awaits—and so does the fire inside you.
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