You meet it midair, blade flashing. The impact jars your shoulder, but the steel bites deep, and the beast crumples at your feet with a strangled yelp. The others snarl in fury. Dust kicks up as they circle, snapping at the air, eyes fixed on your guide—too weak to move, too precious to lose.
You widen your stance and bare your teeth right back.
They come all at once.
A second hyena darts in low. You pivot, catch it with a savage slash across the flank—it stumbles away, shrieking. A third leaps for your throat. You duck, driving your dagger into its belly. It lands hard and doesn’t rise.
Blood, heat, and steel. The desert rings with snarls and grunts and the clash of desperation.
But you keep standing.
When the last hyena turns and bolts, limping into the rocks with a cry of defeat, you’re panting, soaked in sweat—but miraculously untouched. Not a scratch. You stare at your trembling hands, disbelief washing over you, then glance at your guide. His fevered eyes are half-lidded, but a faint smile curls his lips.
—You’re full of surprises,— he murmurs.
—Save your strength,— you say, already lifting him back onto his camel.
You ride again.
The sun continues its brutal arc, bleaching the sky into a harsh white. Your mouth is dry, your skin cracked and burning. The camels groan with exhaustion, their gait growing sluggish.
But you press forward, every step a defiance of the odds.
You speak aloud to your guide as you go, half to keep him conscious, half to keep yourself sane.
—You said north by east. The old trade pass. You’d better be right.
He mumbles something in return. You choose to believe it’s agreement.
The stone formations grow taller, casting fleeting shadows. The sand darkens with patches of gravel. Somewhere, far off, a hawk cries.
Then—just as the horizon wavers like a mirage—your eyes catch it.
A shape.
At first, it seems like another trick of the desert. But it holds. Solid. Real.
Rising from the sands in tiers of white stone and bronze domes, flanked by towers and narrow alleys winding up a hill—Al-Mirkat.
You stare, unblinking, heart pounding.
You made it.
A cry tears from your throat—half laugh, half sob. Your guide stirs at the sound, blinking groggily toward the city.
—We’re here,— you whisper. —We made it.
The gates are still distant, and the desert still cruel—but hope is now a shape on the horizon.
And for the first time since dawn, you believe you’ll survive this.
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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