I awoke with the acrid taste of bile lingering in my mouth and the unsettling sensation that I was on the verge of vomiting. With a deliberate swallow, I quelled the spasm and pushed myself upright.

  The memory of that cursed table, with its grotesque details, seared itself into my mind, refusing to abate. I harbored no doubt—this was a vision, not merely a dream. Ra’maen was stirring, evidently awakening, and it was only the dagger lodged in her heart that impeded her full return. My unexpected recovery that morning must have roused her ire enough to ensnare my sleeping mind in a nightmare intricately woven by magic. She possessed an unsettling tendency to Weave such nightmares whenever events refused to conform to her will. A decade of relative peace and security within the walls of D’al Vorat had nearly lulled me into forgetting that about her.

  “Cursed woman,” I muttered, “may the Black Flames of Aartókh-Dággaras devour her soul!”

  The lingering daylight informed me that I had not slept for more than a few partitions. Relief washed over me at the sight of Tarun already on his feet, grazing calmly nearby.

  “Steady, boy,” I called, my voice still hoarse from sleep.

  Hearing my voice, Tarun approached, nudging my face with his muzzle.

  “Yes, I am glad to see you as well, dear friend.”

  I rose, stretched, and to my profound relief, realized the pains from the previous day had vanished entirely. Physically, I felt rejuvenated, though the nightmare’s shadow still lingered within me. I took several deep draughts from my scorched canteen, driven by thirst and the futile hope of purging the phantom taste of roasted flesh. I doubted I could stomach even a morsel of my meager provisions for some time to come. So I gathered my few belongings, saddled Tarun—who observed me with a curious eye—and fastened the bag securely to the saddle. To balance the load, I secured both swords to the opposite side. Thus prepared, I guided Tarun between the trees until we emerged back onto the road.

  For the moment, the Western Trade Road lay empty in both directions, though the distant clamor of an approaching caravan reached my ears. I had no intention of waiting for their arrival. Judging by the brightness of Niatema and Kalys, the time segment was likely between the fifth and sixth partition. At a steady pace, I should manage to cross Kiyar’s Breasts well before the fall of night. On the other side, I knew of a suitable inn where I could enjoy a proper meal and perhaps find rest for the night.

  I mounted Tarun, allowing him to set the pace at first—a light trot, as it happened. I held back from urging him forward, mindful of the Healer’s counsel. This made the journey longer, and it wasn’t until we reached the pass that Tarun chose to quicken his pace. I allowed him to run for three segments at a time before reining him in for an equally measured stretch.

  On either side, the towering slopes of the Breasts consumed much of the daylight. Their shadow cast a pleasant coolness into the air, bordering on cold in certain locales. On two occasions, we passed riders moving in the opposite direction. Each greeted me with a polite nod before continuing on their journey. Shortly thereafter, we overtook a patrol of the Trade Consortium. The ten heavily armed men trotted leisurely, their focus on lighthearted chatter rather than any looming threats. For a moment, I considered halting to deliver a sharp rebuke regarding the marauding bands plaguing their roads. But I restrained myself—anonymity was of greater importance. Besides, I had already squandered too much time, and the laxness of the road guards was a matter best left for their superiors to resolve. I resolved to have Daaris dispatch a sharply worded letter to the Consortium on my behalf, addressing the matter. This thought brought to mind my earlier promise to contact my s’uldin. Still, I pressed onward, resolving to postpone it until my next respite.

  The white disk of Niatema was swiftly withering, its brightness fading as I finally emerged from the pass. As the administrative border of Amalay followed the mountain ridge on the Realm’s map, this signaled my official departure from my domain. On this side, the sparse forests of Doros’akatar’s slopes gave way to the vast expanse of the Maey Plain. The plain lent its name to the county and was the most densely populated part of Kiriador, though the river Tira, running along one edge, marked the official border with the Realm of Valdara. Like Amalay, Maey was a frontier county, though the lands beyond the border belonged to civilization. Moreover, relations with the Valdarians had been amicable for decades, granting the local populace a lasting sense of security.

  For several kilometers, the Trade Road wound its way down the steep mountainside. Soon, the slope and sparse trees yielded to vast fields blanketed in thick grass. Much of it had been cultivated into farmland and pastures, though vast stretches remained untouched by human hands.

  After two more partitions of riding, the massive structure of the roadside inn where I intended to stop loomed into view. Iron lanterns with large lumin-crystals stood at each corner, chasing away the darkness and making the courtyard as bright as midday. A tall wooden fence enclosed the spacious stone-paved space, often used for the temporary stalls of traveling merchants. Years had elapsed, yet the three-story main building of gray river stone and sturdy beams was just as weathered as I recalled. The first-floor windows, which opened to the tavern, were large and inviting, albeit slightly dusty. Clay pots brimming with vibrant flora adorned the windowsills of the upper rooms.

  Even now, early in the evening, few groups of travellers arrived and departed, weaving through a small crowd of onlookers and buyers. These were gathered around a vendor displaying a wide array of goods from the back of his wagon. A wide stable stood to the right of the courtyard, its crowded interior evident even from the outside. The ten horse-drawn wagons lined along the road outside the fence suggested that at least one caravan had stopped here for the night.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I dismounted, slung my belongings over my shoulder, and guided Tarun toward the stable. A stable hand greeted me after a brief delay.

  “My horse needs rest and quiet,” I said, handing him the reins. “Make sure he is placed in a separate stall, away from any skittish animals.”

  “We’re rather full, Milord,” the stable hand replied, his gaze lingering on Tarun with open admiration. “But I’ll see what can be arranged.”

  “I trust you will manage to find a solution.”

  He bowed and led Tarun into the stable as I made my way toward the inn’s entrance. The sign hanging above the door pompously declared its name: . Scandalous, yet trendy, as there have been no ruling kings in Anarand for a very long time.

  I stepped beneath it, pushing open the wide wooden doors, and was immediately enveloped by a cacophony of sounds and odors. The familiar din of patrons, representing all strata of local society, permeated the spacious hall. The large, circular hearth, constructed from the same river stone as the walls’ foundation, dominated the room’s center. Its massive, square chimney bore several mounted animal heads, displayed as if they were hunting trophies. Instead of coal, an actual hearth-crystal glowed faintly—a sure indicator of the inn’s rising prosperity. Due to the warm weather, the heating was set low and concentrated, with a large pot simmering over it. Its aroma, however, was obscured amid the mingled scents of sweat, perfume, road dust, baked bread, r’ush, tobacco, and countless other odors.

  Almost every table on the ground floor was occupied, and the two serving maids dashed between them, struggling to keep up with endless orders. The bar spanned the far wall, nearly overwhelmed by impatient customers. Behind it, among countless shelves of bottles and glasses, where several massive casks were tilted to one side, stood the overly plump innkeeper. His sweaty face gleamed with a greasy satisfaction, no doubt fueled by the bustling hall. In the background, faint music drifted from a young wandering musician. The youth perched on a backless stool by the hearth, struggling to outplay the clamor with his tambura.

  To my recollection, the inn had a smaller, more exclusive hall upstairs for refined visitors, yet I had no intention of making my presence widely known. Thus, I chose one of the two vacant tables near the musician. It was uncomfortably warm sitting so close to the fire, but I had little choice. I ordered a double portion of the day’s specialty and a tankard of r’ush from the swiftly approaching maid in a white apron. I settled in to listen to the music. However, my brief peace was abruptly shattered a moment later.

  “May Kiyar’s tits smother me!” boomed a familiar voice, cutting through the din with exuberant joy. “Kael Vorat!”

  The outburst turned several heads at nearby tables. So much for my aspiration to remain incognito. But the owner of the voice—a towering figure clad in worn mercenary garb—could not have known, and I had no means to rectify the situation. Besides, the surprise and joy I experienced were more than enough to pardon the inconvenience.

  “No, it cannot be!” I exclaimed, rising swiftly from the table.

  He sat with a small group at a nearby table. His stern, chiseled face was framed by gray eyes like shards of ice, now glowing with a friendly warmth. His hair was black, streaked with gray, and cropped close, while a fearsome scar bisected the bridge of his aquiline nose. I vividly recalled the gruesome wound and the dire circumstances in which he had acquired it. We had barely escaped the clutches of a band of maddened Faithless, who intended to flay us alive and fashion battle banners from our hides.

  “Dakar Maka, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  With a broad smile and a slight sway, Dakar strode over, and we exchanged a brotherly embrace. Knowing him as well as I did, I didn’t need to see his flushed cheeks to know he had already downed at least four tankards of r’ush. And the night was still young!

  “By Lanat’s sobering glare, what has befallen you?” I asked, frowning with open disapproval. Dakar seldom allowed himself more than a drink or two, even in his idle hours. “And what, pray tell, is the So’vin of Valdara doing here, indulging in drink in the middle of the day?”

  With a theatrical flourish, Dakar pressed a finger to his lips and cast an exaggeratedly suspicious glance about the room before settling heavily into the chair opposite me.

  “I’m here incognito,” he said with a casual air, reaching for the table, his hand coming up empty, and then glancing around. “Ah, it seems I’ve misplaced my tankard. Pray, give me a moment.”

  Dakar rose, returned to his table, and seized the fullest tankard, which was certainly not his, judging by the displeased glare its previous owner cast in his direction. Disregarding the man’s protests entirely, my old friend returned, settling back into the chair with a hearty gulp of r’ush.

  “What precisely do you mean by incognito?” I asked, eyeing his attire with suspicion.

  “Well, I’m hiding from none other than her exquisite, full-bosomed Majesty, Archduchess Demana,” he replied with a grin. “She’s issued a royal decree to have me brought to her alive, so she can kill me with her own hands—if you take my meaning.”

  “By Moira’s tender touch, what madness did you stir this time, Dakar?”

  “I left,” he replied simply, then belched.

  I stared at him for a long moment, mouth agape and utterly speechless. Then, I burst into laughter, and Dakar quickly joined in.

  “That is the best jest I have heard in ages!” I exclaimed, finally catching my breath. “Come now, Dakar—do be serious.”

  “Not at all, old friend,” he replied, his grin still firmly in place. “You see, many things in Valdara have changed over these past few years. The burden of so many responsibilities began to weigh heavily upon me. I found myself thinking of the old days far more often than the details of the latest meeting, reception, or parade. So, I transferred the title of So’vin to my best captain and walked away.”

  As the weight of his words registered, I realized Dakar was entirely serious, and the humor receded as swiftly as it had come. My eyes bore into him like a pair of sunspears.

  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