The desert stretches before you like a ribbon of molten gold under the late afternoon sun. The sand shifts beneath your horse’s hooves, but your mind is fixed on the thought of Margaret, waiting for you at the secret place you both alone know. The hours pass in a blur of wind and heat, of fleeting dunes and empty horizons, and yet you do not falter. Every step takes you closer to her, closer to the warmth of her presence, the only anchor in a life ruled by duty and betrayal.
Finally, as the sun dips low into the horizon, spilling copper light across the sands, you see her. She stands at the bend in the river, where a cluster of olive trees bends low, their leaves trembling in the evening breeze. She is alone, but unafraid. Her hair, dark and wild, glints with the last rays of sunlight, and when she sees you, relief floods her features. Her hands fly to her face, then clasp each other, and she runs to meet you.
You rein in your horse a short distance away and dismount. She falls into your arms, pressing her face to your chest, and for a long moment, you allow yourself to feel something other than the weight of crowns, armies, and vengeance.
“I thought… I thought I might never see you alive,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“I am here,” you reply, letting the words settle between you. “But… we must be careful. I cannot yet abandon the army, not while the threat to Moravice still lingers. You must understand.”
She pulls back slightly, searching your eyes with a mixture of hope and fear. “Then I will wait,” she says simply. “Tell me only when it is safe. I will not leave, not unless you say the word. But I cannot let you face this alone.”
You take her hands in yours, feeling the tension and warmth of her grip. “I need you to trust me. We’ll stay here, hidden. We will wait for news of the battle, and then… then we will decide together.”
You go with her to a cottage and spend the time in silence and expectation.
Two days pass before word reaches you. A messenger, weary and dust-streaked, rides up under the noonday sun, bearing news from your general. You halt the retinue, and the man bows deeply before speaking.
“Victory, my lord,” he says, voice strained. “We routed the enemy forces of Lord Ignacjusz, but…” He hesitates, and you sense the weight behind the pause. “…the troops are demoralized. Many claim it is not their war, that they wish to return to Zalenice. Discipline frays. If we push further without reinforcement, the army may fragment entirely.”
You feel a cold knot tighten in your stomach. Victory, yes—but hollow. Partial. Fleeting. The sands of the desert seem suddenly colder, the wind sharper, cutting at your face as if echoing your inner turmoil.
Margaret appears beside you, emerging silently from the grove where you and her first met. Her eyes, wide and earnest, meet yours immediately. “You heard,” she says softly. “It is time to leave. Let it go. Come with me. Together we can escape this endless cycle of war. The army falters, the troops are tired—your duty here has already cost too much. Choose life with me.”
You take her hands, feeling the tremor in her fingers. “I want to,” you admit, “more than anything. But… this is not just my life we are talking about. The army is demoralized, yes, but Moravice still needs leadership. Lord Ignacjusz’s forces are wounded, yes, but they are not broken. If I abandon them now, the city will fall, and everything we’ve fought for—everything my family fought for—will crumble.”
She steps closer, her forehead resting against yours. “And yet they are exhausted. They argue, they complain, they do not understand why they fight for a cause not theirs. You could go with me. You could save yourself and me, and perhaps return stronger later, when the city’s fate is more certain. Why risk everything for men who will not fight for you?”
You close your eyes, letting her words sink in, and in that stillness, a new message arrives. A mounted courier, faster than the previous, rides up under the high sun. He bows and hands you a sealed letter, the emblem of the emperor stamped across the wax. Your heart hammers as you break the seal.
“My Duke,” it reads. “Your actions in Moravice have been observed from afar. The army may be tired, but your presence in Zalenice is now of critical importance. Exert your influence from the seat of power there. From Zalenice, you can rally support, reorganize your troops, and deliver the final blow to Lord Ignacjusz’s forces before they regain strength. The city looks to you not merely as a commander, but as a symbol. Return. Rule. Lead. The fate of Moravice may rest in your hands more than you know. I cannot intervene further; this is your war, and yours alone to win. -Dearly, Your Emperor.”
You lower the letter, feeling the weight of the emperor’s summons press down on your shoulders. Your eyes find Margaret’s, and she sees the conflict in them immediately.
“This is your choice,” she whispers. “Go with me, and abandon this war for now. Stay, and risk everything to see it through. But know this—I cannot wait forever.”
You take a deep breath, hands trembling slightly as they brush over her cheek. “You ask me to abandon the army,” you say softly. “To abandon what we’ve begun… yet the emperor himself commands me to return. From Zalenice, I could strengthen my hand, influence the outcome, ensure victory. If I go now, I might lose that chance. If I leave, I protect us both—but what of the city, Margaret? What of the people who rely on me?”
She steps back, her hands clenched, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Then you see it as your duty,” she says. “Do not mistake it for loyalty to a distant crown. The people do not matter if we die before we can help them. Come with me. Live. Love. Let the rest be decided by time. “If you don’t come…” she adds, and the words cut deeper than any sword, “then we should say our goodbyes. I don’t want to wait for you, brokenhearted, in Sweden.”
The desert wind stirs around you, and you feel the dual pull of duty and desire, the call of the city and the call of the woman you love. The army waits behind you, the message from the emperor still clutched in your hand, Margaret’s eyes searching yours, and the sands stretch endlessly in both directions—toward Zalenice, toward Moravice, toward life with her, or toward responsibility without her.
For a long moment, you say nothing. The sun dips closer to the horizon, painting the desert gold and crimson, and the world narrows to that still point between love and duty, between war and hope, between the woman who waits and the army that marches. You know that whichever path you choose, you cannot turn back.
Your mind races, heart pounding. The wind tugs at the letter and the hem of your cloak. Moravice, Zalenice, Margaret—all three weigh on your soul. Victory, love, revenge, and duty entwine in a knot that seems impossible to untangle. And yet, in the silence of the desert, you realize there is only one thing certain: whatever your choice, it will define you—not just as a commander, or a Duke, or a son of Moravice—but as the man who stands at the crossroads of war and love, of legacy and desire, and must finally decide.
The night falls. The stars scatter across the sky, indifferent witnesses to your indecision. Margaret waits, silent but steadfast, the army behind you restless and uncertain, and the path to Zalenice stretched faintly in the distance. You sit on your horse, hand resting on the hilt of your sword, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon.
The desert holds its breath, and so do you.
…..
You approach Margaret and tell her that your duty here has been fulfilled, and that the rest can be handled safely, from afar, with her by your side.
…..
You swear to Margaret eternal love, promising that you will never forget her. Then, with a heavy heart, you take your retinue and head toward Zalenice. When you glance back, you see her wiping away tears, turning and walking in the opposite direction.
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