Chapter Text
On the very night of the hearing, under the moon’s zenith, Marwa’s climbing city and steep walls were awash in muted blue.
At a glance, the capital appeared dormant, but its extensive scale hummed with secrets. The lower districts still bustled where popular streets and markets thrived. Other areas slumbered in obscurity, as they often did—the upper city among them—save for one estate. Revelry, raucous laughter, and the heady aroma of spiced wine spilled from its banquet hall.
Through the carved lattice, a wandering breeze teased the curtains, moonlight streaking across a gathering of men seated along the length of a grand table. They celebrated with shameless abandon, all but the sweat-soaked, unnerved Lord at their head.
Lord Safar sat pale, flinching at every rustle and crack, his crystal wineglass mourning in his tremoring, damp hand.
Beside him, one of his sycophants leaned in close. “Lord Safar,” he drawled, “you fret too much. Rudra’s broken. Half the court says he slunk out like a beaten cur.”
The others nodded their agreement, raising their glasses like vultures over a carcass.
“Yes, yes! The man’s grip is slipping,” another chimed, emboldened by the others. “He’s lost his assassins. His influence. Safar, you should be celebrating tonight.”
But their Lord said nothing. He knew better than to trust the lull of revelry; Rudra had a way of making sure no one forgot their place.
His gaze darted to the door, a shudder bristling through him. The glow outside wavered beneath the ornate doors—was it the wind playing with shadows, or footsteps just beyond the threshold? At any moment, it seemed, the knobs might turn.
A third sycophant cackled, throwing his head back as he raised his glass. “To Lord Safar!” he crowed, outvoicing the din. “Rudra’s reign is over!”
Safar’s lungs seized. Had the knob flicked? It looked different now—angled. He stared harder. He strained. His pulse drummed in his ears. No, it hadn’t moved. Had it?
His heart lurched painfully, leaving him gasping for air. He forced a deep, shaky breath as his jittery fingers fumbled for his pocket, retrieving a handkerchief. Slowly, he dabbed at the beads of sweat clinging to his brow and for a moment… he stilled.
But the door creaked, snapping Safar’s attention back to the knob.
It skewed slightly.
A blade of shadow slid through the gap.
Safar jolted, his hand jerking, the handkerchief crumbling to the floor.
The knob twisted. The door opened.
He froze, panting, his eyes fixed on the widening gap.
It severed the laughter cleanly. The sycophants froze mid-toast, every head swiveling toward the entrance.
A figure stepped inside.
The lamplight caught him in fragments—his chin shadowed beneath a weathered hood, his black cloak damp with blood. Though his garments bore the evidence of violence he had wrought, his posture remained unbent.
He was not alone. Shades dispersed behind him—three aides gliding into the space like phantoms. One reached for the candelabra by the door, dousing the flame with a flick. They moved silently, positioning themselves to seal every exit.
Safar’s mouth opened, but no words came. His hands hovered, unsure whether to reach for support or hide. Finally, they clutched the table’s edge, toppling a wineglass, which shattered with a shrill clatter that rang like a death knell.
The breaking glass echoed into silence, pierced only by the unhurried steps of Rudra’s boots that strode toward the table.
Smug grins and raised glasses vanished, evaporating like steam from an uncovered pot.
One, too bold—or too foolish—for his own good, dared to speak. “Lord Rudra,” he chanted, forcing a brittle laugh. “An honor to see you. We were just discussing—”
It only took a placid glare for his words to die and his mouth to shut. A deafening quiet followed, like a held breath.
They squirmed in their seats, fidgeting. Glances flicked to Rudra, then to the doors, as if confirming what they already knew: no way out. The aides by the doors did not budge, their presence a warning of Rudra’s reach—even diminished. A glass wobbled under a trembling grip; a leg jittered, rattling a chair faintly.
Stopping just shy of the table, Rudra let his unhurried, detached gaze travel over each man. “I knew exactly where to find you tonight,” he said at last, his voice calm. It was worse that way—no anger, only an invisible hand tightening around their throats.
The sycophants’ confidence cracked. The bravest among them glanced at each other, searching for someone—anyone—to act first.
Rudra let the quiet linger, reaching for an untouched glass. The wine glimmered red, viscous as blood. “Plotting. Laughing. Whispering into the night.” He tipped the glass toward the light, red liquid swirling. “It’s almost admirable. But ambition makes you predictable, doesn’t it? You make it easy for me.”
An agonizing moment followed before Rudra continued, “Do you know what happens to opportunists?”
The words floated.
Not a single voice dared to rise in reply.
Paralyzed, smothered, crushed, Safar shrank into himself with his fingers twitching erratically in his lap. The sweat had already returned, undoing his earlier attempts to dry it, but it was his eyes—wide and unblinking, pinned to Rudra—that told the truth. The nightmare had arrived.
Each bootfall struck the floor like a loud countdown, filling the space until nothing else existed. Rudra’s gaze pinned Safar in place as he walked, lazily holding the crystal glass of wine between his fingers. When he stopped just inches away, Safar’s mouth quivered open, desperate to spill apologies, excuses—anything. But his throat clenched, and the words refused to come.
Without warning, Rudra raised the glass and, with a slight, curious tilt of his head, began to pour.
A thin stream of red spilled steadily onto the top of Safar’s head, soaking his hair and coursing down his neck. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He knew better.
Rudra’s hand was steady as he glared down at the Lord, waiting with chilling patience for the glass to empty. The steady sound of spilling liquid echoed, leaving behind a rhythmic dripping in its wake.
He set the now-empty crystalware on the table with a stateful clink, its drop a beat too late, as though the moment bent entirely to him.
“What happens to opportunists?” Rudra repeated softly, absently. “They don’t have to worry about mourning. No one mourns the forgotten.”
Safar’s lips quivered, a sound almost forming—
“Lord Rudra!” someone interrupted, the words bursting out like a dam breaking. “We—we didn’t know he’d go so far!”
Another voice overlapped. “We tried to dissuade him, my lord, but he was convinced of his own genius.”
“We told him!” a third echoed over the others as hands gestured wildly, like a man drowning in his own defense. The table erupted into a cacophony of excuses, blame spreading like cracks in glass.
Safar’s throat worked, the words he had been reaching for lost under his sycophants clawing for Rudra’s mercy.
After a subtle scoff, Rudra leaned in slightly, his shadow falling over Safar like a shroud.
“Take a good look at them,” he murmured gently, almost kind. “The friends you trusted. The allies you relied upon.”
A pause.
“And you thought you’d replace me.”
Safar stammered, his attempts at speech collapsing into incoherence.
“Please, my lord,” one of them begged, his voice cracking. “We—we’ve always been loyal to you! Safar lied to us—he tricked us!” Another nearly rose from his chair, hands wringing as his words tumbled out in frantic agreement. The others nodded, adding to the crescendo of excuses, their syllables indistinguishable in their panic.
But Rudra straightened as though the pleas were but background noise. His calm, chilling smile widened.
“Now,” he clasped his hands together behind him, eyeing the group as a whole. “Let me show you why ambition is best left to those who understand its cost. A demonstration of sorts…”
༻ ✧ ༺
Four days passed, somewhere in the desert...
The nomads wove their path across the blazing dunes. Midday winds meandered, trailing wisps of dust, tugging at cloth, and stinging like nettles.
Among the camels plodding in single file, a carriage lumbered forward, its timber wheels carving jagged grooves into the sand. The wooden frame, riddled with cracks, let thin slivers of sunlight breach its dim interior. Overhead, a canopy of handwoven fabrics, muted and earthy, billowed gently, with clan ornaments chiming along its edges.
Inside, Obi lay on a bed of woven reed mats, layered with furs and leathers. A light sheet draped loosely over him, and above, a sheer linen cloth stretched between the canopy and his face, shielding him from errant sunbeams and drifting sand. Shirayuki adjusted the cloth with care, observing the calm, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Her gaze traced the bandages covering his left eye, the restfulness of the other, and the gentle tilt of his head. His lips were slightly parted, his peaceful expression unchanged since the hearing.
At the rear of the carriage, a breeze nudged the canopy’s flap, lifting it just enough for Shirayuki to catch a fleeting glimpse of the shimmering horizon—and Zen’s silhouette looming atop his tall, sure-footed camel. Behind him, Kiki, Mitsuhide, and Hisame followed, blending seamlessly with the other riders, all clad in the loose, layered clothing fitted for desert travel. For Shirayuki, there was no need to obscure her striking red hair with a hood—among the nomads, it drew only admiration.
Ahead, the draft camels, guided by Faizan, pulled the carriage with care to avoid jostling the fragile passenger. Their yoke was tied to the shared lead rope that bound the entire procession together. Further up the line, the caravan stretched into a winding trail of camels and nomads. Snatches of their lively exchanges, spoken in their language, floated on the wind like a flowing hum.
A fragile intake of air reached Shirayuki’s ears. Her hand stilled mid-adjustment, her breath catching as her heart leaped.
Obi had moved.
He swallowed hard while his expression tightened and his breaths dredged deep. His head turned a fraction, testing muscles left dormant for days.
“Obi?” she murmured, leaning closer.
At her voice, a soft groan slipped from his lips, his right eyelid peeling open. A gold iris blinked, aimlessly wandering before resting on her.
“Obi, it’s me,” Shirayuki said, her cadence steady despite the storm of her heartbeat.
He blinked again, sluggishly, his gaze slipping past before settling back. His lips opened, a breath at the edge of his throat, but no words followed.
“Don’t try to talk,” she said quietly.
For the barest moment, the corners of his lips curved—just slightly. Then his eye drifted shut, sinking back into slumber.
Shirayuki exhaled slowly.
From beyond the rear flap, Zen’s voice floated in. “What happened?”
She glanced up to meet him. He leaned forward in his saddle cushion to peer inside, his figure backlit by the pale sky.
“He woke up,” she answered evenly, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Just for a moment.”
The prince’s expression flickered. Shirayuki turned her attention back to Obi, her hand hovering near the cloth shading his face. “It’s the first time he’s done that since the hearing,” she added gently.
“Good,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting in what might have been a fleeting smile.
No reprieve followed the hearing. Obi—barely clinging to life—was rushed out of Marwa with Lady Zehara and Lord Adalat guiding him to the nomads.
Only these peaceful wanderers could provide the fragile haven needed for recovery. But it relied on constant movement, never lingering long enough for Rudra’s shadow to close in.
For days, Shirayuki had tended to Obi tirelessly, refusing rest even with the nomads’ help. And now, like the first glimmer of dawn, her efforts had borne fruit.
Obi opened his eye.