The cave still smelled of sweat, damp stone, and the lingering musk of the previous day. The embers of their small fire pulsed dimly, casting flickering orange light across the uneven stone walls. Beyond the mouth of the cave, the desert remained a vast, empty stretch of darkness, the sky a yawning abyss where the moons had begun their descent toward the horizon. The cool night air seeped into the cave’s entrance, a welcome contrast to the punishing heat that would ultimately rise with the sun.
Kinto lay where he had been left, his body slumped against the rough stone, his muscles weak, limbs still uncooperative from the lingering poison. The toxin had begun to loosen its grip, but not enough to restore his full control. He could feel the sluggish weight in his arms, the faint tingling of nerves still awakening, and the ever-present tightness of the thick bindings at his wrists and ankles. His hands, still encased in the restrictive mitts, remained useless, fingers unable to so much as twitch against the padded insides.
He was awake, but he had kept his eyes shut, listening.
Vorrik was awake as well. Kinto could hear him moving, shifting where he sat. He had taken first watch after returning from the cave entrance, waking Kethar roughly to relieve him of his earlier shift. Vorrik had come back to the thick, unmistakable scent lingering in the confined space of the cave. Kinto hadn’t seen Vorrik’s expression clearly, as he had been too drained to lift his head, but he had distinctly felt the tension radiating from Vorrik, the stiff, suppressed anger evident in every controlled movement as he settled onto a nearby rock for the remainder of the night.
Now, in the dimness before they resumed their journey, Vorrik stirred. The quiet sounds of movement, the creak of leather as he adjusted his belt, the soft exhale of breath as he leaned forward.
Then, the scrape of bare soles against stone. Approaching.
Kinto opened his eyes just as Vorrik crouched before him. The Solerian’s sharp, reptilian gaze swept over him, assessing. The firelight caught the edges of his emerald eyes, making them seem even more piercing in the dimness. His tail curled slightly behind him, a slow, deliberate movement as he reached forward.
Kinto tensed instinctively, but Vorrik only grasped the cloth at the back of his head and pulled the gag loose. The damp fabric slipped away from his muzzle, and Kinto sucked in a slow breath, working his sore jaw.
Silence stretched between them.
Vorrik lifted a waterskin, tilting it just enough to let a slow trickle spill against Kinto’s cracked lips. He swallowed instinctively, the water cool and sharp against the raw dryness in his throat. He drank greedily, too quickly, and Vorrik withdrew the waterskin before he could choke.
Kinto exhaled, licking the remaining droplets from his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice still hoarse but stronger than the day before.
Vorrik didn't respond immediately, just studied him in silence. Finally, in a quiet, controlled tone, he asked, “Did he hurt you?”
The unexpected question made Kinto pause. Vorrik had been pragmatic, efficient—a captor performing his duty. This was something different. Concern, perhaps, or a thread of guilt slipping through cracks in his composure.
Kinto shifted slightly, testing his body's limits. Pain flared dully through his limbs, but nothing he couldn’t endure. “Not in a way that matters,” he answered quietly, a faint weariness shadowing his words. It was true enough; his pride was bruised far more than his body.
Vorrik's jaw tightened subtly, and his gaze dropped briefly, as though weighing his next words carefully. “I know what he did.”
Kinto held Vorrik’s gaze steadily, waiting for him to continue.
“I could smell it when I returned,” Vorrik admitted, his voice even but laced with quiet anger—seemingly directed inward rather than outward. “I should have anticipated it. Leaving you alone with him was my mistake.” He hesitated, jaw tightening subtly before he continued, quieter, “And I didn’t stop him.”
Kinto considered this quietly. He could have used the moment, feigned distress, leveraged Vorrik’s guilt. But something about Vorrik’s hesitant admission made him reconsider.
“You didn’t need to,” Kinto said quietly, meeting his gaze. "It wasn't entirely unwelcome."
Vorrik’s jade eyes narrowed, skeptical. “You expect me to believe that?”
A weary half-smile curved Kinto’s lips. "You would, if you knew anything about me."
Vorrik studied him silently, searching Kinto’s expression as if trying to discern the sincerity beneath the words. Finally, he shook his head slightly, as though dismissing something within himself rather than in Kinto’s statement. “It changes nothing. It was still my mistake.”
Kinto exhaled slowly, feeling the heavy silence gather between them again. Vorrik was on the edge, teetering between doubt and resolve. The moment felt precarious, but Kinto knew he needed to press further.
“She’s lying, you know,” he said softly. “The Empress. The charges against me.”
Vorrik’s gaze snapped back sharply, tension rippling faintly through his tail. “That’s not for me to decide.”
“No,” Kinto conceded calmly. “But you read the bounty. Attempted assassination? Murder? Conspiring against the throne?” He shook his head slowly, ears flicking back. “Do you believe I did any of that?”
Vorrik stared at him for a long moment, unreadable. “Belief doesn't matter. The bounty does.”
“It matters to me,” Kinto countered gently.
Vorrik looked away sharply, exhaling in irritation. “This bounty means more than just gold.”
“So does my life.”
That earned a flicker; a small, involuntary hesitation that rippled through Vorrik’s posture. Kinto pressed on, voice lowered, persuasive. "You know she won’t just lock me up. She’ll kill me. Quietly, carefully, just to silence me. Just to bury whatever it is she fears I might uncover."
Vorrik said nothing, but Kinto could see the faint, restless flick of his tail and the tightening of his jaw.
“She’s afraid,” Kinto continued softly, carefully. “Not of what I’ve done, but of what I could reveal. She’s hiding something. Something dangerous enough to put a bounty like this on me. Doesn't that bother you?”
Vorrik’s gaze darkened at Kinto’s words. He'd seen the Empress’s methods—villages razed on suspicion alone, families torn apart to maintain control. Freedom was not earned with loyalty, only bought with blood or coin.
Kinto inhaled slowly, shifting as much as his bindings allowed. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I don’t expect that. But I think you’re smart enough to see when something doesn’t add up.”
For a long, tense moment, Vorrik looked as though he might say something. Then, visibly shaking off the conversation, he let out a long, tired breath.
His eyes darkened, a quiet storm of anguish behind their mossy depths. "You think I have a choice? Your bounty is my family's only chance at freedom… freedom from serving an Empress who would use my own children as pawns."
Kinto let a small silence stretch before speaking again, quieter this time. “You wear your chains well,” he murmured softly, gaze steady and unwavering. “Almost makes me forget I’m the one bound.”
Vorrik’s expression hardened slightly, but Kinto caught the faintest flicker of uncertainty in the Solerian’s gaze. He'd touched something, even if it wouldn't change the outcome.
Without another word, Vorrik pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the lingering weight of their conversation. He turned away, breaking the moment like sand slipping through fingers.
Kinto rested his head back against the cool stone, breathing out slowly. He’d said his piece; he could only hope it mattered.
Behind them, footsteps scuffed against stone, followed by the casual rustle of cloth and a familiar, lazy drawl that broke through the tense silence.
“Look at you two, having a moment,” Kethar mused, stretching with a lazy grin. “Should I be jealous?”
Vorrik ignored him, tightening the strap of his belt. “We move soon.”
Kethar smirked at Vorrik’s terse response, his golden eyes flicking toward Kinto with a glint of amusement. “Well, can’t have our little fox getting any ideas,” he mused, stepping closer. His claws idly tapped against the hilt of his belt knife as he crouched before Kinto. “Gag’s going back in. We wouldn’t want you sweet-talking us all the way to Onoshu.”
Kinto exhaled through his nose, the momentary respite gone. He didn’t bother resisting when Kethar reached for the gag, grasping the damp cloth with familiar ease. His fingers curled as he wrenched it back into place, yanking it tight enough to bite into the fur at the corners of Kinto’s mouth.
“Wouldn’t want you biting, either,” Kethar said with a grin, giving the knot an extra tug for good measure. “I know how sharp those little teeth of yours are.”
Kinto breathed slowly through his nose, ignoring the taunt, ignoring the ache settling back into his jaw. The warmth of the sands still radiated faintly beyond the entrance, a ghost of the day’s earlier fury, though the night air had begun to cool.
Then, Kethar’s voice dropped slightly, less mocking now, more thoughtful. “Think we should keep him dosed?” he asked in Sserashk, glancing toward Vorrik. His clawed fingers flexed once against his palm, as if anticipating the motion.
Vorrik didn’t answer right away.
For just a moment, he was still—silent in a way that wasn’t hesitation but something close to it. His expression remained neutral, but Kinto saw the pause. The weight of it. The brief second where he almost seemed to consider a different answer.
Then, flatly, he said, “Yes.”
Kethar’s grin sharpened. “Figured.”
He moved before Kinto could brace himself, swift and deliberate. His claws dragged deep over Kinto’s upper arm, another sharp, controlled wound just deep enough to let the toxin sink in. The sting came first, then the telltale burn spreading beneath his fur, coiling through his bloodstream like fire before cooling into something heavy, sluggish.
Kinto tensed but swallowed any reaction. It was weaker than before, not a full dose, just enough to keep him pliant. Just enough to remind him who was in control.
Kethar wiped his claws against his thigh, satisfied. “There. That should keep you nice and agreeable.” He patted Kinto’s cheek mockingly, his scales cool against the growing heat of Kinto’s skin under his matted fur. “Wouldn’t want you making our trip difficult.”
Vorrik exhaled through his nose and moved forward, his tail shifting behind him as he crouched. His hands gripped Kinto’s bound form with practiced ease, hauling him up and over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
The world tilted. Kinto’s stomach twisted briefly with the shift in position, but the poison was already settling into his limbs, making everything feel distant, heavier. He sagged against Vorrik’s broad shoulder, the rough texture of his scales pressing through the thin fabric of Kinto’s robe.
Without another word, Vorrik strode toward the cave entrance, his bare soles whispering against the stone.
The sky stretched in deep indigos and violets, the moons sinking ever lower, pulling the night toward its final hours. A faint breeze stirred the sand, carrying the distant scent of dry stone and the lingering heat of the day.
They moved forward, into the vast emptiness of the desert, leaving the cave, and the brief illusion of respite, behind.
They walked for what felt like hours, the landscape blurring into a repetitive stretch of dunes and ridges. Eventually, Kethar let out a dramatic sigh.
“We should stop soon,” he muttered, stretching his shoulders pointedly. “Unless you’re planning to carry us both.”
Vorrik shot him a sideways glance, silent for a beat longer than necessary. Finally, he inclined his head slightly.
Taking it as permission, Kethar veered toward a nearby cluster of rocks, dropping onto one with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Much better,” he muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him and flexing his toes.
Vorrik crouched, easing Kinto off his shoulder with practiced efficiency. He laid him down on the sand, his back resting against one of the rocks, his body still bound and slack with the effects of the poison. The desert air was cool against his damp fur, though the warmth of Vorrik’s scales still lingered where they had pressed together during the journey.
Kethar studied him with a lazy grin. “Still with us, fox?”
Kinto didn’t respond, blinking slowly up at him.
Kethar chuckled. “Playing the quiet game, huh? Must be nice, getting carried around like this while the rest of us do all the walking.”
Without a word, Vorrik reached down and grasped the damp fabric tied around Kinto’s muzzle. He pulled the gag loose, the knot slipping free with practiced ease before he cast it aside.
Kinto rolled his jaw, testing its movement before speaking. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but laced with dry amusement.
“Figured I’d let you keep enjoying the sound of your own voice.”
For a moment, Kethar just blinked—then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement, as if the reply had caught him off guard. “Funny,” he mused, tilting his head, “if you were half as good at running as you are at mouthing off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” His grin widened, teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Too bad for you, I love hearing myself talk.”
Kinto let his expression remain impassive, but he and Vorrik both knew the truth of that statement well.
Vorrik shifted, silent as ever, before reaching for his waterskin. He uncapped it and lifted it to Kinto’s muzzle, letting a slow trickle spill past his lips.
Kinto drank, grateful for the brief relief, though he knew it wouldn’t last.
Kethar watched the exchange, his grin fading slightly. His gaze flicked between them, something speculative creeping into his expression.
“Y’know,” he drawled in Sserashk, “you’re real gentle for someone handing him over to his death.”
Vorrik didn’t react.
Kethar smirked, leaning back against the rock. “Not that I care, but it’s interesting. Most bounty hunters don’t care if their mark is comfortable on the way to the chopping block.”
Vorrik capped the waterskin, his gaze steady. “You should get some rest.”
Kethar let out a short laugh. “Right. Of course.” He tilted his head back, letting his eyes drift toward the sky. “Not much point thinking about it, anyway.”
Vorrik said nothing.
Kethar stretched his arms behind his head, exhaling through his nose as if he’d already shrugged off the conversation. The lull settled between them, heavy but unspoken, lost beneath the quiet rustle of the desert wind.
Kinto let his gaze drift past them, toward the horizon where the dunes stretched endlessly under the fractured glow of the moons. The night would not last much longer. He could already feel the creeping edge of dawn pressing against the sky, turning the darkness into something thinner, softer.
Vorrik stood first, rolling his shoulders. “We’re moving.”
Kethar let out a groan but pushed himself to his feet, dusting the sand from his bare legs. “And here I was hoping for a nap.”
Vorrik ignored him and turned toward Kinto. His expression was unreadable, but his movements were steady, methodical as he knelt and grasped the cloth gag once more.
Kinto didn’t resist as the fabric was pulled tight around his muzzle again, though he held Vorrik’s gaze for just a second longer than necessary before it was secured.
Then, without ceremony, Vorrik lifted him over his shoulder once more.
Kinto’s body swayed slightly with the motion, the warmth of Vorrik’s scales pressing against his stomach as the desert stretched before them once more. The wind shifted, carrying a distant scent with it, something unnatural and foreign.
Kethar sniffed the air.
“Smell that?” he muttered.
Vorrik’s pace didn’t falter, but his tail flicked.
“Smoke,” he said.
Kinto’s ears twitched. It was faint, barely detectable, but it was there. And it was ahead of them.
They weren’t alone in the desert.
The scent of smoke grew heavier with each passing step, carried by the shifting breeze. What had begun as a faint whisper of smoldering wood now mingled unmistakably with burning oil, a scent all too familiar to both Vorrik and Kethar. Vorrik’s grip tightened slightly on Kinto as they ascended the ridge, tension threading into his muscles. His tail had gone still, alert.
Kethar slowed beside him, lifting his nose into the wind with narrowed eyes. "Campfire," he muttered quietly, golden gaze sharp. "Close. Fresh."
Vorrik didn’t respond at first. He stopped, then lowered Kinto from his shoulder with care that felt at odds with the situation. The Sylvarin stirred faintly in the moonlight.
Without a word, Vorrik reached into his satchel and retrieved Kinto’s hood—folded and dusty. He unraveled it and pressed it into Kethar’s chest.
“Cover your face,” he said, curt but quiet. “And don’t speak unless I say.”
Kethar’s lip curled in a fleeting smirk, masking discomfort as he took the hood. He tugged it roughly over his scaled head, shadowing his features beneath the fabric. Only his golden eyes remained visible, gleaming with wary humor. "You think they'll buy it?"
"They don't need to," Vorrik replied evenly, hoisting Kinto back onto his shoulder. "They'll see the bounty. That's enough."
Kinto stayed silent, listening carefully. Even weakened by the poison, his senses were sharpening. He caught the muted murmur of voices drifting from beyond the ridge, the metallic clink of armor, and the rhythmic crackle of flames.
The trio crested the ridge slowly, cautiously, and the sight below made Vorrik’s gut tighten.
A makeshift Imperial checkpoint lay nestled between rocky outcroppings, a handful of armored soldiers milling about a fire. Wooden barricades lined the path, hastily erected but sturdy enough to funnel travelers into their trap. At the center stood a woman Vorrik recognized instantly, the realization landing like ice in his veins.
Yara.
She’d changed since he’d last seen her—grown stronger, sharper. Her sand-colored scales gleamed in the firelight, her tall, broad-shouldered figure unmistakably commanding. Black Imperial leather armor hugged her frame, a crimson sash marking her elite status. Decorative gold rings adorned her crest, glittering with the authority she’d earned and the loyalty she’d bought with blood.
Her violet gaze locked onto Vorrik instantly, as if she'd been expecting him. A slow smile crept across her lips, coldly confident.
"Vorrik," she called, her voice smooth and unhurried, slicing through the silence. "This is certainly unexpected."
He halted several paces away, feeling the soldiers tense subtly at his presence. He met her gaze with forced calm. "Yara."
She tilted her head, eyes dancing with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "I’d heard you retired. But seeing you now?" She clicked her tongue softly. "You've fallen a long way, Commander."
The old title stung more than Vorrik would admit. His tail flicked once, betraying irritation he couldn’t fully conceal. "Just passing through," he said evenly. "We have business in Onoshu."
"Clearly," she drawled, eyes sliding pointedly to the bound Sylvarin on his shoulder. "And valuable business at that." Her gaze flicked lazily toward Kethar, lingering with pointed suspicion. "Though your company leaves much to be desired."
Kethar stiffened slightly, head dipped beneath the hood, clearly hoping to avoid recognition. But Yara’s eyes sharpened, a dangerous smile tugging at her lips as recognition set in.
"Oh, Vorrik," she said softly, stepping closer with predatory grace. "Did you really think a hood would hide someone like him from me?"
Kethar removed the hood with deliberate slowness, meeting her gaze evenly, showing no sign of surprise or agitation, though tension was evident in the rigid set of his jaw. "Yara," he acknowledged flatly, voice low and deceptively calm.
She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly at his forced composure. "Kethar. They told me you'd turned traitor... killed your commanding officer, no less. Such a waste of your talent for something so… insignificant."
Kethar’s eyes narrowed dangerously, muscles tensed as if prepared to strike despite the impossible odds. "Some lives are better ended."
Yara paused briefly, considering his cold words with mild intrigue before her lips curved into a thin, mocking smile. "Careful, Kethar," she cautioned softly, voice dripping with icy contempt. "You’re starting to sound dangerously sentimental."
Her gaze shifted pointedly to Vorrik, her expression sharpening into a look of scathing judgment. "And you, Vorrik, you're supposed to uphold order, discipline. Yet here you stand, shoulder to shoulder with a traitor, dragging your quarry across the sands like common mercenaries."
"It's a bounty for the Empress," Vorrik replied stiffly, holding her gaze with a steady resolve. "We’re simply doing our duty."
"Duty," she echoed skeptically, her lips twisting slightly. "You lost the right to speak of duty when you walked away from the Empire." Her voice softened, dangerously gentle. "Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself otherwise, telling yourself you’re doing this for Shaal, for those little hatchlings waiting at home." She paused deliberately, savoring his reaction as his jaw tightened visibly. "But we both know how this ends. You can't buy your freedom with gold, Vorrik."
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Vorrik felt Kethar’s uneasy glance, aware of the soldiers' hands shifting subtly toward weapons. Every instinct screamed caution; this encounter had already tilted dangerously toward violence.
Yara stepped closer, lowering her voice in a mockery of intimacy. "But perhaps, for old times’ sake, I can overlook your poor choice in company. You hand over the Sylvarin now, and both of you walk away. No questions, no bloodshed."
Vorrik’s jaw clenched. Every fiber of his being screamed against it. Surrendering Kinto would undo everything, every carefully laid plan, every desperate hope they'd clung to. But there was no other choice. He could feel Yara's soldiers shift, restless and hungry for a fight. A battle here would end only in death, and he would not leave Shaal a widow nor his children fatherless.
He looked to Kethar again, the apology unspoken but clear in his eyes. Kethar saw it immediately, the realization hitting him with violent force.
“Vorrik, don't you dare!”
“Take him,” Vorrik interrupted, voice hoarse with reluctant finality.
Kethar’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed into raw fury. “You gods-damned coward!” he snarled, lunging toward Vorrik, halted only by the soldiers who surged forward.
Kinto felt hands wrench him from Vorrik's grasp, rough and unforgiving. His legs buckled, exhaustion and poison still dulling his limbs. He allowed himself to fall forward heavily, collapsing onto his knees. As he hit the sand, Kinto angled his wrists just so—his leather mitt brushing hard against the jagged edge of a soldier’s scimitar sheath, feeling the leather split slightly. A small slit, barely perceptible.
A tremor rippled beneath the sand, subtle at first, then undeniable.
Kethar froze mid-struggle, his breath hitching as old terror surged up to meet him. "No," he rasped, panic edging into his voice, "Not again—"
Before anyone could react, the ground beneath Vorrik and Kethar liquified, dragging them down in an instant. Sand surged like liquid chains around their legs, binding them tighter the more they resisted. Vorrik growled, low and furious, fighting to pull free, every muscle straining.
Kethar wasn’t just fighting, he was thrashing, screaming in desperate fury, his claws raking uselessly at the shifting sands. "Vorrik!" he howled, eyes wild with primal terror.
Yara watched impassively, her soldiers' hands moving in graceful, practiced arcs—sand elementalists commanding the desert to consume their prey.
“Yara,” Vorrik snarled, voice filled with bitter accusation, eyes locked onto hers as sand climbed swiftly up his torso. “You lied.”
She smiled coldly. “Of course I did.”
The sand reached Vorrik's chest now, pressing in, stealing his breath. He gasped sharply, struggling to maintain composure, golden eyes flashing with rage and desperation.
Kethar’s screams twisted into anguished snarls, his terror overpowering his fury. “Fucking—GODS DAMNED—LET GO!” he roared, voice cracking, chest heaving violently as panic fully took hold. His thrashing intensified, even as the sand tightened its grip like a vice.
Kinto watched in horror from the sand, his heart pounding violently beneath his ribs. Fingers trembling, he twisted one wrist slightly, feeling the faint tear in the mitt. Slowly, carefully, he curled two fingers beneath the leather, forming half a hidden sigil—a movement unnoticed amidst the chaos.
Vorrik’s eyes held a final, cold contempt, even as the sands closed over him. "Remember this Yara, when the Empress buries you too."
Kethar’s last sound was a raw, animalistic scream that lingered long after his form disappeared beneath the sand. Not a scream of fear. A scream of rage. Of betrayal. Of gods-damned defiance.
A chilling silence fell.
Before Kinto could react, rough hands seized him again. His arms were forced forward, heavy iron shackles locked over his wrists, the metal cold and biting, clamped just below the original leather bindings that still showed no sign of wear or strain. More restraints clamped around his ankles, chains clinking ominously. They dragged him forward, toward a waiting Imperial cart.
No words. No acknowledgment.
He was shoved brutally into a cage barely large enough to contain him, the iron bars rattling as he collapsed against the cold, rust-covered floor. The cage door slammed shut, the heavy lock clicking into place with an air of finality.
He stared blankly into the darkness, eyes tracing shapes in the rust-pocked iron, but his mind remained elsewhere, buried beneath the shifting dunes. The image replayed relentlessly: Vorrik’s muted fury, Kethar's raw, desperate terror as the desert swallowed them whole. He could still hear the muffled roar, could still feel the tremors of panic radiating from their final moments.
Guilt coiled uncomfortably in his chest, tightening with each passing moment. He could have done something... he had done something, though it had been little more than instinct. The torn leather mitt on his hand was a stark reminder, a small testament that he'd at least tried.
But why?
These were his captors, his enemies. They had dragged him across the desert, poisoned and bound, planning to trade his life for freedom and coin. By all rights, he should feel relieved, indifferent even. Yet the guilt refused to settle. Instead, it gnawed at him, insistent and raw.
Kinto exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the confusion with sheer stubbornness. Vorrik and Kethar's fate had never been his responsibility; they had chosen their paths long before he ever crossed them. Still, he knew it wouldn’t matter. He had glimpsed something real beneath Vorrik’s hardened exterior and felt the echoes of pain and desperation in Kethar’s rage. They had become more than captors: individuals, shaped by violence, trapped like him in circumstances beyond their control.
The cart jolted suddenly, and Kinto winced, the ache in his wrists flaring briefly before dulling again. He steadied his breathing, eyes focused ahead, toward Onoshu and the uncertain fate that awaited him within the Empress’s grasp.
For now, he was alone, bound, caged, and headed directly into the heart of the Empire.
