The caravan departs Al-Mazir before dusk, winding eastward along an old trade road gouged into the desert by centuries of passing hooves and wheels. You do not look back. The ache remains, but your focus hardens. Whatever truths Al-Mazir held will wait—for now, Moravice calls. The Baroness rides in silence beside you, her posture straight but her silence heavier than before. You sense her mind is elsewhere, already calculating, already preparing.
Three more days of travel pass. The terrain begins to change—slopes grow rockier, the sand thins into dust-covered stone, and twisted trees with brittle leaves claw at the wind. On the third evening, the small border town of Al-Mirkat appears, tucked against a cliff like a secret someone tried to forget. Stone houses cling to the slope, painted in shades of faded ochre and blue. A lazy river cuts through the canyon below, and the distant sound of bells—goats, perhaps—echoes faintly in the twilight.
You arrive at an inn built half into the stone wall. The sign hanging from its wooden post creaks with the breeze: The Red Horn. Inside, it’s dim and cool, with thick carpets muffling the sound of boots and a narrow hearth crackling gently in the corner. The innkeeper, a one-eyed man with teeth like old ivory, nods at the Baroness with a kind of cautious reverence.
“I’ll take my meal in my room,” the Baroness says quietly. “Actually… no meal tonight. Just tea. Then rest.”
You look at her. Even beneath the veil, you can see the pale exhaustion carved into her face. She catches your glance and offers a weary smile.
“You should eat,” she says. “There’s someone expecting you.”
You blink, confused. But before you can ask, a soft voice clears its throat behind you.
“I am to guide you to the dining room, my lord,” says a young man, wrapped in a green scarf and smelling faintly of cardamom and dust. “Your companion arranged it.”
“My companion…?” you echo, still watching the Baroness, but she’s already turning away, ascending the narrow stairwell without another word.
“Please,” the guide says again, gesturing politely.
You follow him through a side door and into a lower hall that opens onto a balcony overlooking the river. Lanterns swing gently from hooks above, casting golden halos over carved wooden tables. A few other travelers sit hunched over bowls of stew or flatbread, speaking low in a dozen different tongues.
The guide brings you to a table near the edge. From here, you can see the moonlight glinting off the water far below, like shards of silver laid over black velvet.
A serving girl brings roasted lamb with mint, a dish of olives, and flatbread warm from the hearth. The scent alone makes your stomach tighten.
As you eat, the guide remains standing nearby, silent, attentive.
You glance at him, chewing slowly. “You work for the inn?”
“I work for those who pass through,” he says, with a slight shrug. “Messengers. Nobles. Traders. Even magi.”
Your hand freezes mid-bite.
“Magi?” you repeat.
He nods, and then leans forward slightly, lowering his voice.
“You ride with one who carries many secrets,” he says. “And you yourself… you are being watched.”
The words settle in your gut heavier than any lamb.
“Watched by whom?”
He shakes his head slowly. “In Al-Mirkat, answers are bought, not given freely. But consider this: not all those who claim to serve Moravice are loyal to Moravice. Some serve only the throne. And others… only themselves.”
He straightens again, then steps back into the shadows.
You sit alone, the final bite cooling on your plate, the river whispering far below. The path to Moravice lies ahead—but it seems the past rides beside you still, unseen and whispering in strange voices.
You chew the last piece slowly.
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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