As the second partition waned, I guided Tarun through the smallest northern gate of D’al Vorat—the path leading toward the Border. Clad in my usual travel attire, I wore a comfortable cloak emblazoned with the Vorat Family crest. The townsfolk and those dwelling in the surrounding areas knew both myself and Tarun too well for an unnoticed departure at this time of day.

  Indeed, I was met with a chorus of greetings and countless raised hands as I rode through the town and suburbs. I acknowledged them with nods and fleeting smiles, yet I did not linger. One of my travel bags held a more inconspicuous set of clothes, which I planned to don at the earliest opportunity. The second contained dried rations, my wallet, and various small necessities. The metal buckles of the bags clinked rhythmically against the leather with each of Tarun’s movements, though their weight—combined with mine—was no burden for his powerful frame. Aur’Dor, the longer of my twin blades, and Aur’Sol, its shorter counterpart, rested sheathed across my back, their hilts angled for a swift draw.

  A final glance over my shoulder did little to dispel the weight of guilt pressing upon me. It was as though I were forsaking my duties for some self-indulgent venture rather than attending to a matter of true necessity. My people required their ruler and protector, and even in these peaceful times, there was no shortage of matters demanding my attention.

  And yet, I too needed a reprieve.

  How many years had passed since my last expedition into the Wastes? Ten? No, closer to twelve. Far too long for any soul to remain confined to a single place. A few days away from D’al Vorat, free from the burden of daily ceremony, would be beneficial. Yet, the deep sense of responsibility binding me to those I had sworn to protect refused to loosen its grip.

  Once I had put sufficient distance between myself and the city, I paused within a secluded grove beside the road to adjust my attire. The unassuming garments and hooded cloak would obscure my identity—at least from a distance. For Tarun, I draped a broad cloth over his head and neck, fashioning a makeshift hood. A rudimentary disguise, but there was little more I could do to conceal his unique profile. Thankfully, few outsiders would associate the horse before the rider.

  Emerging from the grove, I turned westward, cutting across the fields of nearby farms and following the wagon roads until I reached the Western Trade Road—the most convenient route from the northern part of the Realm to the County of Maey and its administrative center.

  Officially, the city’s name, according to the Realm’s charter, was D’al Barair, yet to the people of Kiriador, it was simply Westgate. The name came from the elegant, twenty-meter-high archway marking the gateway across the border with Valdara.

  The road I traveled cut through the larger of two passes within the Doros’akatar Mountains—a massive, jagged spine cleaving Kiriador in two. There was no other convenient route to the west unless one ventured southward to cross the smaller pass near Shan’hatar Monastery, then descended into the southern plains via the Silver Mines. Thus, all trade and travel between the northern and western counties funneled through this one passage—a passage whose true name had faded into obscurity generations ago.

  Now, even cartographers simply called it Kiyar’s Breasts. The reason for this name was the peculiar, rounded shape of the two mountain peaks framing the pass.

  I often wondered what the Mistress herself would have thought had she still walked Anarand. The Chronicles depicted Kiyar as a woman of cheerful spirit, one who embraced life in all its aspects. Perhaps she would have laughed at the jest?

  Or perhaps, like the mountains bearing her name, she would have merely endured it—unmoving and eternal.

  Even in the colder months, the Western Trade Road remained busy. As the Trade Season approached, it teemed with caravans, freight wagons, and riders, providing me with the perfect opportunity to merge with the flow—to become just another traveler among many.

  Above us all, indifferent to mortal concerns, Niatema hung her smiling white face low over the world, followed faithfully by sullen Kalys, whose bright red circle grew larger with each passing day. Anarand’aris’ second sun had yet to reach its closest proximity, but a light, steady breeze rendered the air cool and pleasant for extended riding. By next month, the weather would change drastically.

  I covered the first ten kilometers at a steady pace, allowing Tarun a controlled trot. Only when the hill upon which D’al Vorat sat faded into the distance did I permit him to quicken to his natural speed. For now, I pushed all thoughts of Ra’maen, Arin, and the purpose of my journey from my mind. There would be time enough for such concerns later. Instead, I let myself revel in the wind against my face, the graceful rhythm of Tarun’s gallop, and the steady drum of his hooves against the road.

  In moments such as these, the accumulated weight of my responsibilities—though temporarily—lifted from my shoulders. I was reminded that life still held its pleasures, a fact I often forgot amidst the ceaseless demands of ruling Kiriador’s northernmost county and guarding the Border with the Wastes—and, by extension, the Faithless Lands.

  As evening approached, I found myself several kilometers west of Raet, the last major settlement within Amalay’s borders in this direction. I had now entered the relatively small district of Hanarat, which stretched toward the mountains in the west and southwest but, unlike Vorat, did not border the Wastes. With no roadside inn nearby, I resolved to make camp just off the road at the foot of a small hill.

  Most nobles of my station would have halted in the town, selecting the finest inn for the night. Others might have sought the hospitality of the local lord and his household, yet I had no desire to engage in pleasantries with the overly talkative Lord Hessret. For the sake of anonymity—and a few extra kilometers toward my destination—I preferred to forgo such comforts. Besides, it had been far too long since I last slept beneath the open sky, a notion I had not imagined I would come to yearn for.

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  During the expeditions of our youth, Arin and I had spent countless nights in the wild, often in places far from safe. We devised an efficient system of alternating shifts, allowing each of us to rest for three or four partitions without interruption. Typically, we switched around the twelfth partition, ensuring fairness. Yet, Arin—who had always despised waking early, let alone in the dead of night—was invariably irritable on the days when he took the second shift. He believed I remained oblivious, but it was difficult to ignore his sullen expression and terse remarks that lasted well into the following day.

  More often than not, I let him have the first watch, claiming exhaustion as a pretext. I doubt he ever realized the deception was for his sake alone. After all, I wasn’t particularly fond of being roused in the middle of the night either.

  Ah, those were wild and wonderful years. And I missed them dearly.

  At dawn, under the watchful gaze of Kalys, I resumed my journey, resolved to reach the pass’s entrance by evening.

  Along the way, I passed several small caravans—two or three freight wagons at most—traveling in either direction. Most employed their own guards, despite the entire road falling under the Trade Consortium’s protection. Its armed patrols traversed the route every few partitions, but merchants were, by nature, a wary breed. It was no surprise that they placed little trust even in their own organization.

  Solitary travelers such as myself were rare, and fewer still traveled at my pace.

  Then again, none possessed a horse like Tarun.

  On journeys such as this, my steed could effortlessly maintain a trot at nearly twenty kilometers per partition, requiring only three brief rests throughout the day. And at a light to full gallop, he fully lived up to his name—reaching speeds between forty and sixty kilometers per partition. I could say with confidence that few horses in Kiriador—perhaps even in all of Anarand—could rival him.

  Tarun’s sire hailed from a semi-feral herd belonging to one of the more reasonable Faithless tribes—one with whom I had maintained tense yet profitable dealings many years past, during my prolonged travels in the Wastes. The stallion was a magnificent creature and a priceless gift. Yet, despite my best efforts, he allowed neither myself nor anyone else to ride him. Eventually, I relented, granting him freedom to return to his homeland.

  Not, however, before securing his legacy. Before releasing him, I had him bred with three of my finest mares. Of the foals sired, only one—a young stallion—proved both male and resilient enough to be trained as a warhorse. He inherited his sire’s strength, speed, and endurance. Yet, his unique dark gray coat, shifting in hue like the finest velvet, came solely from his dam.

  Tarun bore the same two black horns as his sire—now hidden beneath his makeshift hood—curving forward along his forehead and muzzle, extending nearly thirty centimeters with the passing years. His temperament, however, was wholly his own. From the very outset, he had decided that he would submit to but one master. My trainers had torn their hair out in frustration each time they attempted to teach him something new. At four years of age, he lagged behind others of his generation in formal training. But what he lacked in discipline, he made up for in instinct.

  Once beyond the stable grounds, Tarun transformed. Riding him was akin to racing upon my own personal wind, responding to every command with flawless precision—so long as I maintained firm control.

  For if I relented… that wind would become an unstoppable storm.

  As the day wore on and the heat intensified, the traffic on the road began to thin. More often than not, entire segments passed before I encountered another soul.

  Ahead, the distant massif of Doros’akatar, which had loomed on the horizon all morning, now ascended before me like an impenetrable wall of steep slopes and jagged peaks rising ever higher. For a time, the road ran parallel to the mountain, weaving alongside its foothills rather than visibly approaching it. Then, as the narrow valley leading to the pass unfolded before me, the course shifted once more. At this point, the foothills of Doros’akatar changed—their slopes softening, curving inward to form a vast semicircle that stretched nearly forty kilometers before reuniting at the threshold of Kiyar’s Breasts.

  The sparse groves that had begun at the outskirts of Raet had thickened gradually as I rode deeper into the valley, and now the road wound through a dense forest of towering trees. Beneath their sprawling branches, the intertwined light-rays of the twin suns scarcely touched the forest floor. Amidst the damp, decaying leaves, mushrooms clustered like silent sentinels, thriving in the perpetual gloom. Though the incline steadily increased, the road itself remained flat and well-maintained, making for an easy, effortless ride.

  As the seventh partition neared, the twin peaks of Kiyar’s Breasts loomed above the treetops, stark and imposing against the azure sky. The low clouds had been swept aside by the mountain winds, leaving their snow-capped, time-worn crowns gleaming in the last light of day. Only three segments remained before Niatema fully withered.

  Tarun could endure more, but I saw no reason to push him further. Slowing him to a gentle trot, I began scanning for a suitable campsite—preferably a secluded clearing, set back from the road.

  The last settlement before the pass, Kazera, had slipped past some kilometers back. I had no intention of stopping there for the night, despite it being the customary resting place for travelers on this route. A few more kilometers gained today would spare me the burden of recovering them on the morrow.

  Before I knew it, the encroaching shadows had taken on a ruddy hue—silent heralds of the swiftly advancing Blood Dusk. Somewhere nearby, the shrill cry of a raptor split the stillness, sending a prickle of foreboding up my spine, like the legs of a creeping spider.

  Then, the whistle of an arrow cut through the darkening forest.

  By pure reflex, I ducked, even though it was too late.

  The projectile struck with brutal precision. Yet, I was not its target.

  Tarun screamed.

  A sound unlike any I had ever heard from him—a raw, agonized wail that tore through my chest like a blade. His forelegs buckled beneath him. I barely had time to register my rising fury before his powerful body collapsed.

  The force flung me forward like a discarded doll. The world spun. Then the stone paving rushed up to meet me. Pain exploded in my skull. My vision fractured, turning to hazy fragments of light and shadow.

  Through the blur, I caught a final, harrowing sight—Tarun’s crumpled form, broken amidst pooling blood.

  Then, the darkness took me.

  Hey, thanks for reading this far!

  I hope you've enjoyed the story until this point and I'd like to hear your thoughts about it. Also, I am trying a new, more contemporary style in my English writing and I am curious to hear some feedback about it. So, let me know in the comments below!

  Boris Khan