Your heels dig into the beast’s flank. The dromedary lurches forward, ungainly at first, then pounding into a steady, bone-shaking gallop. Sand explodes behind you as arrows rain down, one whistling so close you feel it slice your sleeve.
The pen erupts in flames as a torch tumbles into the straw, fire licking greedily upward. The beasts panic, surging faster. You cling to the reins, wind tearing your cloak, eyes stinging from smoke and speed.
Behind you, riders give chase. Their warhorses scream as they drive them over the dunes, faster, stronger, better trained. The distance between you shrinks.
“Left!” she shouts, veering toward a line of jagged rocks jutting from the sand like broken teeth. You follow, trusting instinct, trusting her. The dromedaries leap the lower stones, slipping and scrambling, but their broad hooves find purchase where the warhorses falter. You hear curses, the crash of metal against stone.
The desert swallows you both into shadow.
For what feels like eternity, you ride—dunes rising like waves, wind shrieking in your ears. Your chest aches, your muscles burn, but you dare not stop. Only when the torches behind you fade to faint sparks on the horizon does the woman pull back the reins, slowing her mount.
You collapse forward, gasping, every limb trembling.
“We… we lost them,” you manage, voice hoarse.
She’s breathing hard, but her eyes gleam with something sharper than relief. “Not lost,” she says. “Delayed. They’ll hunt again at dawn.”
You glance around—the dunes stretch endless, moonlight painting the sand silver. No road, no water, no shelter. “So where do we run now?”
She steadies her dromedary, fixing her gaze southward, toward the horizon where the stars burn like cold fire.
“Al-Mazir,” she says, her voice low but certain. “That’s where the truth lies. Not here, not in Moravice. Al-Mazir holds the answers—to your past, and your future. If we survive the journey, you’ll see.”
The wind whips across the dunes, carrying the faint echo of hooves still searching in the dark. You tighten your grip on the reins. Whatever awaits in Al-Mazir, it has already begun calling you.
And now, there is no turning back.
…
The wench says little, as if the desert demands reverence, or perhaps she 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,– she says, nudging her 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 wench 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.
The woman stands beside you in silence, arms crossed.
–He won’t come,– she 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:
….
….
