The sword is in your hand before you even realize you’ve drawn it.
You step into the circle, your voice sharp as flint:
—Enough.—
Saheb pauses mid-swing, blade hovering just above your guide’s throat. The murmurs go still. Every mercenary eye snaps to you.
Your guide looks at you—eyes wide, bloodied, shocked.
—This ends now,— you say. —He’s no spy. If you want someone to gut, try me first. But I’ll take one of you with me. Maybe two. Want to see who?—
A hush descends, thick and stifling. The mercenaries exchange glances, uncertain. Blood has rules in this camp—but you just stepped outside them.
Saheb snarls and shifts his grip, readying to strike again.
Then the magus speaks.
—Stand down.—
It’s quiet, almost gentle. But it cuts through the tension like a dagger through silk.
Saheb freezes. His eyes flick to the magus.
—He drew steel for a traitor.—
—He drew steel to stop a pointless death,— the magus replies. —And in doing so, revealed more than any of us expected. Let them go. They’ve chosen their path.
Let the desert decide the rest.
Saheb lowers his blade, but the hatred in his eyes does not.
The leader of the Death Squad—silent until now—rides forward, expression grim.
—You broke the circle. You’re not one of us. Neither of you. You ride alone now.—
No further words are spoken. The mercenaries turn away one by one, the circle dissolving as fast as it formed. The magus lingers a moment longer, his gaze resting on you. There’s no anger in it. Just a quiet, troubling curiosity.
Then he too turns away.
And just like that, you are alone again.
You ride west. No clear direction, no guide but the sun and what scraps of instinct remain. The desert is unkind, blistering, indifferent.
Your guide is quiet. He bears the pain with grit, but it’s clear the wound burns and festers. He never says thank you, but once, late on the second night, as you tend the fire, he says:
—You shouldn’t have done that.—
His voice is raw.
—They’ll kill you too, next time.—
You say nothing. There’s no point arguing.
By the third day, the dunes shift, thinning. The ground grows flatter, harder. Salt crusts begin to sparkle underfoot. And then—on the horizon—a shimmer that isn’t a mirage.
Al-Mirkat.
The city rises from the edge of the earth like a dream too long denied: domes of copper and gold, narrow towers piercing the sky, banners fluttering in dry, blessed wind. Traders move along its outskirts like ants around a jewel.
You and your guide stare at it in silence.
You’ve survived.
But the cost still rides with you.
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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