Hiacynt blinks, stunned. The harsh light of the setting sun catches his bruised features, deepening the shadow under his eye. For a moment, he seems unmoored, as though your mercy has thrown him off-balance in a world where he had always expected reprisal. You do not wait for him to answer. You do not want to hear excuses or see the pleading in his face. You already know what it says: fear, guilt, a confession too long deferred.
You turn and walk away, boots scraping against the cobblestones, heart tight in your chest. Every step feels heavier than the last, the alley stretching endlessly, carrying the echo of what might have been, and what is now gone. Behind you, the faint scrape of his shoes on stone marks him as hesitant, uncertain, yet alive. You ignore it.
The city opens before you, a chaotic swirl of lanterns, merchants, and distant laughter. The smell of smoke and spices hangs thick, but you scarcely notice. Your mind churns with sand, blood, betrayal, and mercy, and for the first time since the desert claimed you, the weight of your choices presses in with full force. You are alive. Hiacynt is alive. And yet… everything has changed.
By nightfall, you find yourself on the road again, leaving Al-Mirkat behind. The desert sprawls ahead, limitless and indifferent, its winds like whispers of what could have been, or might still come. Each dune you pass seems to shift beneath your eyes, and though your dromedary moves steadily, the weight in your chest remains. You cannot forget—the guide, the desert, the moments when death brushed close—but at least the burden of a friend’s blood does not rest upon you.
Sleep comes in fractured pieces. Dreams cling to you like hot sand. You see Hiacynt’s face, but now it is not twisted in fear or hatred. It is pale, humbled, a reflection of your own restraint. The desert dreams twist further: the guide’s eyes still stare from the dunes, hyenas slinking in shadows, but you run past them, faster than before, unburdened by revenge. And always, at the edges of your vision, the crow waits—black and silent, wings folding and unfolding in slow, measured patience, watching you even as you close your eyes.
When morning arrives, the sun cuts the desert with white light, and you ride on. Each mile is a step toward Moravice, toward family, toward unfinished business—but also toward a new understanding of yourself. Mercy does not absolve the past, but it spares the future. You can carry the weight of your losses without adding new ones.
Hiacynt’s presence lingers in your mind like a shadow that will not follow you—reminder that survival is not vengeance, and that even betrayal can be met with restraint. The road stretches endlessly, but you ride with steady hands and a quiet heart, ready to meet what awaits without the burden of another death weighing your soul.
The desert is silent, save for the wind and the occasional cry of a distant bird, and you feel, perhaps for the first time in days, that you are moving forward—not just across the sands, but within yourself.
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.”
She glances around, lowering her voice. “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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