You stay still, letting the fight play out.
The sun watches, cruel and high, as Saheb slams the hilt of his blade into your guide’s ribs, driving him to one knee. The others murmur approval, shifting on their feet, thirsty for blood but unwilling to draw their own. Your guide spits dust and blood, his dagger flashing again—but it’s desperation, not strategy. Saheb feints, then buries his blade cleanly into your guide’s gut. A low grunt escapes him as he folds forward, eyes wide with pain and disbelief.
You meet his gaze in that final moment. There is no anger in it—only resignation.
Saheb jerks the blade free and lets him collapse into the sand.
The circle loosens. Someone chuckles. The tension breaks like a rotted bone, and just like that, they return to their mounts. The magus lingers a moment longer, staring at the corpse, then at you. He says nothing.
You kneel beside your guide’s body, fingers brushing the bloodied fabric of his robe. There is no pulse. Only heat and silence. You close his eyes. Whatever he had feared—it’s over for him now. The fire he warned you about is yours to walk through alone.
You mount in silence. No one offers you a word or a glance.
Days pass in the rhythm of hooves and heat. The desert stretches endlessly, cracked and dry, as if even the sky has turned its back. The Death Squad rides in silence. You sleep among them but never with them, eat when they eat, but sit apart. Trust remains a ghost—present in form, never in substance.
Each night, the magus studies the fire like it speaks in tongues only he can hear. You feel him watching you sometimes, but never with malice. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.
Then, one evening, after a long, merciless ride, you see it.
Al-Mirtak.
The city rises from the sand like a mirage pinned to the earth. Tall sandstone walls, scorched and weathered, catch the last rays of sunlight. At this distance, it seems peaceful. Almost holy. You know better.
You pull your camel to a stop. The magus approaches quietly, then raises a hand to signal the others. They fan out but don’t come closer. You and the magus sit side by side, just watching the city breathe in the dusk.
“There,” he says. “Your road ends with us.”
You nod, unsurprised.
“We don’t enter cities,” he continues. “Not ones with laws. Not ones with questions. There are patrols. Watchmen. Names to be checked, blades to be drawn. We vanish before they catch our scent.”
You glance toward the city gates. In the distance, torches flicker as a small patrol rides the perimeter.
“What is it I’ll find there?” you ask.
The magus doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are on the city, but his thoughts are elsewhere.
“Answers,” he says finally. “Or more dreams.”
You nod again.
Behind you, the others are already turning, vanishing into the dunes without a word. Saheb rides last, pausing to give you one final look—a mixture of contempt and something darker. He taps his blade once against his saddle and disappears.
The magus remains a moment longer.
— You may find the shadow of what hunts your sleep.
He turns his camel and rides away without waiting for a reply.
You sit alone for a while, the city beckoning before you. The desert is behind. The dream ahead.
You spur your mount forward. Toward Al-Mirtak. Toward whatever waits inside.
The gates of Al-Mirkat rise from the desert like a mirage given form—towering sandstone walls, domes catching the sun like burnished coins. You reach them at dusk, dried blood caking your boots, the taste of sand still on your tongue. The guards barely glance at you before waving you through; travelers half-dead from the wastes are no rarity here.
Inside, the city hums with life. Lanterns sway in doorways. Merchants cry out wares in half a dozen tongues. You drift through the streets like a ghost—eyes hollow, limbs heavy, every muscle screaming with fatigue. Eventually, you find what you need:
Shade. Food. A tavern.
The Scorpion’s Tongue is no palace. The air is thick with sweat, sweet rot, and the unmistakable char of something left too long over flame. But it’s cool inside, and your legs threaten to fold beneath you.
You sit in the shadows, your back to the wall, and let yourself breathe.
The stew is oily, and the bread hard. You eat it anyway.
You’re halfway through a bite when something stops you cold.
A flicker of movement in your periphery. A face. Familiar.
You turn—and the world stops.
Hiacynt.
He sits slouched in the far corner, nursing a cup of something dark. His once-proud posture is a memory; his cloak is torn, a fresh scar cuts through his eyebrow, and his right eye is bruised nearly shut. But you’d know him anywhere.
The man who left you to die.
Your plate crashes to the floor.
Chairs scrape back as patrons glance up—but you don’t care. You’re already on your feet. Crossing the room in five furious strides. You grab Hiacynt by the collar and slam him against the post behind him.
—Why did you betray me?— you snarl, your voice shaking. —Why did you leave me to die in the desert?!—
Hiacynt gasps, blinking hard. He looks as if he’s seeing a ghost.
—I thought you were dead…— he rasps. —We lost you. I swear it. I thought you were—
You punch him. You know he is lying. He doesn’t even look you in the eye.
Knuckles to jaw. A satisfying crack. He stumbles back, knocking over the table behind him. Drinks spill. The low murmur of the tavern rises into alarm.
—Liar.— you hiss.
The tavern master—a thick man with scarred knuckles and a tangled beard—storms between you.
—None of that in here! OUT! Both of you!—
Rough hands shove you both out the door. The brightness outside stings your eyes. Dust swirls in the fading sun. Hiacynt stumbles and steadies himself against the wall.
You face him.
He won’t meet your gaze.
—Look me in the eye!—
—I can’t.—
You draw your sword.
The sound of steel echoes in the narrow alley.
—I’ll kill you right here, right now, you dog!—
Hiacynt straightens. He doesn’t flinch. His voice is raw.
—Do it if you must.—
The blade trembles in your hand.
You stab your friend.
The sword slides through flesh like wet cloth. He gasps—one short breath—and collapses in your arms. Blood runs hot over your hands, but his eyes are calm, almost grateful. You let him fall, and the silence that follows is endless.
You sheath your sword and say:
—The time of revenge has passed. You can go.
Hiacynt blinks at you, stunned. Your voice is quiet, bitter with restraint.
You turn away before he can answer. You don’t want to see his face.
You already know what it says.
