You do not wait to watch the life leave him. The tavern’s din fades into a distant roar as if the world itself were shying away from what you have done. For a long moment you stand above him, sword slick with blood, the alley smelling of iron and dust. Around you, the city breathes on—oblivious, alive. A child laughs in the distance. Somewhere a dog barks. You close your fingers on the hilt until your knuckles ache, then release it and let the metal thunk against the cobbles.
You cannot leave him to the gutters. That, at least, would be another cruelty you will not allow. You lift his body—lighter than you expect—and carry him to the edge of the city where the sand begins, where faces are fewer and the wind runs freer. The moon blanches the world in pale silver as you dig, hands raw and numb, the shovel scraping against hidden stones. You set him gently in the shallow grave, arranging his arms as if to smooth away the awful deed with a kind of tender, absurd ritual.
There is no priest, no chant, no mourners—only the wide night and the whisper of wind through the palms. You fashion a cross from broken slats of a nearby cart and drive it into the sand. It leans at an angle, crooked and small, but it stands. You lay Hiacynt’s cloak folded upon his chest and brush the grit from his face with the back of your hand, as if that could restore something like dignity.
You speak aloud, because silence feels like a theft. “Everyone deserves a proper burial,” you tell the empty air. The words sound foreign in your mouth, not fully owning the weight you intend them to bear. But the desert takes the sentence and scatters it—soft and final—across the dunes. You cover the grave, tamping the sand down until it is smooth, then press your palm to the surface as if to seal the old world away.
Before you leave you dig a little deeper and tuck into the earth the only token you have left of your fractured past: a scrap of cloth embroidered with the laughing face of a fool—an emblem from a childhood prank. It feels petty and holy both. You whisper something you do not remember in the morning, then mount and ride back toward the city gates.
Dawn finds you on the road again, the road to Moravice unspooling beneath your horse’s hooves like a ribbon of smoke. The desert swallows your tracks almost as soon as they are made. The army you abandoned as a fugitive still waits somewhere behind you; the men who once trusted you now have cause to distrust. You do not think of them. You think of the grave and the crooked cross, of Hiacynt’s unblinking eyes and the cold surprise of his final calm. Guilt gnaws like a worm at the edges of your resolve, but you press it down. There is no time to wallow in the wreckage of what you have done. There is only the road.
At night the desert keeps its own counsel. Sleep comes in ragged pieces. When it finds you, it brings with it images that do not belong to the waking world: the guide’s haggard face rising from a sea of hyenas, Hiacynt’s mouth forming apologies that never reach your ears, and the steady, impossible presence of a crow that seems to follow you no matter which dune you cross. It perches always at the edge of your campfire, its feathers slick and black as spilled ink, eyes like burning coals. You awake at its soft, patient cawing, heart pounding, convinced the sound is real though your men insist they heard nothing.
In the dream the crow speaks without words. It watches you, mocking and mournful both, and when you reach to strike it, its wings scatter into a thousand motes of sand that sting like regret. You wake swallowing dust and the bitter taste of iron. The sky is grey with dawn, and for a heartbeat you imagine the crow still hovering just beyond the line of your sight.
You cannot tell whether the bird is omen or memory. Perhaps it is only the desert teaching you to listen to the small, persistent things: the weight of a life taken, the soft authority of a cross tilting over a quiet grave. You ride on, the road ahead long and uncertain, the crow’s shadow always there at the corner of your vision—an accusation, a companion, a reminder that some debts cannot be buried in the sand.
When at last the banners of your homeland rise against the horizon, you feel the crow within stir again, wings spreading like a promise—or a threat. Moravice is not the same as you left it. Nor are you. What waits within its walls will demand more than loyalty; it will demand power. And you are ready to claim it.
The gates of Moravice groan open like the jaw of some slumbering beast. You enter as a stranger, hood drawn low, the guide trailing a cautious distance behind you. This is not the city you remember. Its streets are no longer paved with proud stone but with fear. Guards in blackened mail patrol the corners where vendors once shouted cheerfully. Banners of crimson and iron—the sigil of House of Drevanyn—hang where your family’s gold-and-azure crest once flew.
You lead your horse through the narrow lanes until the smells of the market reach you: spices dulled by dust, the sour tang of sweat and fear, the faint scent of iron that lingers like old blood. People keep their heads down. Conversations die as you pass. Even the crows on the rooftops are silent, black beaks glinting like little knives.
Then you see it—a carriage of dark green and silver, velvet curtains drawn back to reveal a noble face. For an instant your heart leaps before your mind can catch it. Lady Margaret of Velhradus.
The sun glints on her hair, the same copper fire you remember from summers long past. She steps from the carriage into the crowd, her retinue forming a loose circle around her. She moves with the grace of a hawk among sparrows, but her eyes are older, ringed with something like grief.
Your blood surges. Before you realize it, you’re moving, shouldering past merchants and beggars alike, each step a hammer-blow echoing in your chest. She does not see you until your hand closes around her arm.
“Margaret.”
She whirls, a gasp catching in her throat. For a heartbeat her pupils dilate, recognition slicing through her composure. “You—”
“You left me in the desert.” Your voice is low, iron-scraped. “You and Hiacynt both.”
Color drains from her face. She glances at the guards, who hesitate, recognizing something in your stance—a predator’s edge. She lifts her free hand, not to strike, but as if to ward off your accusation. “No. Listen to me.”
“Why should I?” You pull her closer, not enough to harm but enough that she can feel your tremor. “You begged him? Or you watched? I nearly died while you rode away.”
Her eyes flood with tears, bright and unhidden. She does not struggle. “It was Hiacynt,” she says, voice breaking. “It was all his doing. I begged him not to. I swore to him—” Her words falter as a sob rips free. “They dragged me away when I tried to go back. His father’s guards had surrounded us. I had no power.”
The street seems to tilt. Her tears are not the polished weapons of a courtly manipulator; they are raw, streaking her face, her shoulders trembling. In them you see not the lady of your bitter dreams but the girl who once handed you bread with her own hands, who laughed when you forgot your sword-belt at the tourney.
Slowly, you release her arm. She stays before you, as if rooted. “I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “I thought I’d never forgive myself.”
You swallow against the dryness in your throat. “And yet you’re here. And he is underground.”
She glances around, lowering her voice. She understand the full meaning of your words. “There is nothing to be done anymore. Hiacynt’s father—Lord Ignacjusz—has already taken Moravice. Your parents…” She falters, tears welling anew. “They no longer rule.”
The words strike like a blade through your ribs. You taste iron. “My parents…”
“I don’t know where they are,” she says quickly, reaching for your hand. “But I know this: they would wish their son to be alive and well. That I know for certain.”
Her fingers are warm against your cold knuckles. “I have messengers,” she says. “They could risk carrying word of your survival abroad, once we’re gone. But you must come with me.”
You blink. “Gone?”
“Yes.” Her eyes glimmer with something fierce now—not fear, but resolve. “Elope with me. Tonight. I love you.” The words are soft, yet they detonate between you like thunder. “It’s not customary, I know. But everything has been shattered. Only this remains. Our marriage could save both our houses from ruin. We could still salvage some of your wealth, mine too. We could live—comfortably—far from this hell.”
Your stomach knots. “And my parents?”
Her voice trembles but does not break. “I don’t know. But what would they want? For their son to die in a doomed war? Or to live? Please…” She steps closer, her perfume ghosting around you like memory. “They would want you safe. That I know for sure.”
You search her face for a lie. You find none. She is radiant, trembling with conviction, her hands clinging to yours as though they anchor her in this crumbling city. “Why didn’t you escape earlier?” you ask.
Her lips curve into a bitter smile. “Escape for what? I had nothing to live for. My heart was broken. Now—” Her grip tightens. “Now it is restored.”
Around you the market churns—merchants hawking their wares, guards patrolling with eyes like knives—but it all feels distant, like a painting at the edge of your vision. All you see is her: Margaret, who once brushed dust from your shoulder before a duel; Margaret, who now stands before you with a trembling plea.
You remember nights at Velhradus, the secret garden behind the walls where she’d read to you from old poems. You remember her laughter on the balcony, the way her hair caught sunlight like a torch. You remember the moment she rode away in the desert—her face pale, her eyes wide with something that might have been horror.
Do you believe her?
The crow stirs again within your chest, wings pressing against your ribs. It whispers not in words but in heat, a flame of warning. Yet its fire does not burn her away. It only illuminates the choice before you.
Margaret’s eyes search yours. “We can still have a life,” she whispers. “A real one. Not this.” She gestures to the banners, the soldiers, the sullen market. “I can save you. You can save me.”
You look down at her hands, clasped around yours. They are small, but their grip is iron.
You think of your parents, somewhere out there—or nowhere. Of Moravice, once proud, now draped in the sigils of a usurper. Of your own name, heir, exile, survivor.
Margaret leans closer. “Choose me,” she says. “Choose life.”
You inhale slowly, the air thick with spices, sweat, and smoke. You see two paths, both burning. One leads away—across the sea, to a life of safety and exile, of her arms and her whispered promises. The other leads into the fire—toward your parents, your birthright, and perhaps your death.
Your guide waits at the edge of the market, watching, his face unreadable. The crow inside you spreads its wings wider still, feathers rimmed in cinders. Its eyes reflect a city burning.
Margaret’s tears glimmer like molten glass. “Please,” she whispers. “Marry me. Leave this behind. We can be free.”
Her words echo, mingling with the hammer-beat of your heart.
Above, the crows on the rooftops stir, their wings a restless rustle, as if the city itself holds its breath for your answer.
You close your eyes for a moment. In the darkness behind your lids you see your father’s stern face, your mother’s quiet strength. You see Margaret’s smile from another time. You see the crow, perched on your chest, its wings beating in time with your heart.
When you open your eyes, Margaret is still there, trembling, waiting.
The choice sits before you like a blade.
Do you take her hand and vanish into exile, forging a life from the ruins of two houses? Or do you turn away, walking into the fire to reclaim what was stolen—even if it means losing her forever?
The market is silent now. Even the guards have paused, sensing something unfolding beyond their ken.
Margaret whispers one last time, her voice breaking: “Please…”
You take a breath.
And decide.
……
You profess your love to Margareth and tell her you’ll do as she wishes.
…..
You tell Margareth you have deep feelings for her, but you need to seek your parents first.
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