As the first light of dawn breaks across the desert, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, the Yohazatz army, along with their captives, begins its trek northwestward. Dukar, still grappling with the unexpected turn of events, finds himself atop a camel, a position of honor amongst the Yohazatz. He feels the eyes of his comrades on him, their expressions a mix of confusion and envy.
Riding a camel for the first time, Dukar initially fumbles with the reins, but gradually gets the hang of it. The camel moves with a steady, loping grace, surprisingly comfortable compared to the horses he’s used to. As the sun climbs higher, its rays intensifying, Dukar notices the Yohazatz soldiers tightening the cloths around their heads, leaving only their eyes visible.
One of the soldiers, the same young warrior who had playfully thrown the arrow at Dukar’s feet, approaches him. His camel strides effortlessly alongside Dukar’s. “Aren’t you too hot in that?” he asks, nodding towards Dukar's iron helmet.
Dukar wipes the sweat from his brow, nodding. “It’s insufferable,” he admits.
The young warrior reaches into his pouch, pulling out a long piece of woolen cloth. He hands it to Dukar with a smile. “Try this.”
Dukar takes the cloth, but his expression is doubtful. “Won’t wool make me even hotter? It’s used for keeping warm, right?”
The warrior laughs, a sound light and carefree in the heavy desert air. “Wool doesn’t make you warm; it keeps your body's warmth from escaping. In the desert, it does the opposite – it keeps the heat out.”
Dukar considers this for a moment, then attempts to wrap the cloth around his head. Juggling the reins and the cloth proves difficult, and his efforts are clumsy.
Observing Dukar’s struggle, the young warrior performs a surprising feat. With graceful ease, he stands on his camel, which continues to move steadily. In one fluid motion, he leaps onto Dukar’s camel, which remains surprisingly calm under his expert handling.
Dukar is startled by the sudden proximity with this person he just met, who, without a word, begins to expertly fold the cloth around Dukar's head. His hands are quick and sure, wrapping the fabric in a way that shields Dukar from the sun while allowing him to breathe easily. He hums a soft, unfamiliar tune as he works, his fingers deft and gentle.
Once satisfied with his handiwork, he pats Dukar's shoulder affectionately, a gesture that leaves Dukar slightly flustered. “There,” he says, “much better.”
Dukar, still adjusting to the sensation of the cloth around his head, manages a grateful nod. “I’m Dukar, of Jabliu. I come from Tepr. And you are?”
The youth, with the agility of a seasoned rider, jumps back onto his own camel. “Jabliu? Never heard of it, but I knew you were from Tepr. Your language is similar. I’m Ta,” he replies with a grin. “Yeah, it’s an unusual name. It means ‘seven’ in your tongue. I'm the seventh bastard of the Khan.”
Ta’s laughter is light, carrying no trace of bitterness. “Prince Puripal and I are brothers. But don’t get the wrong idea. My mother was a prostitute, so I’m not of royal blood or anything fancy like that.”
As the caravan continues its march through the vastness of the Kamoklopr Desert, Dukar finds himself increasingly at ease with Ta. The young Yohazatz’s friendly demeanor and open nature make the arduous journey more bearable.
Dukar glances ahead, his eyes searching for Puripal. He finds the prince riding towards the front of the caravan, his posture betraying the pain from the wound in his stomach. Dukar hesitates, sensing that Puripal might not be in the state to hear what he has to say.
Turning back to Ta, who rides alongside him with a relaxed ease, Dukar shares his thoughts. "I wanted to tell Prince Puripal something important," he begins, his voice tinged with a sense of duty. "I'm thankful for how I'm been treated, but there's someone else who deserves recognition."
Ta looks at Dukar, his expression attentive. "Oh? Who's that?"
"It's another man from Tepr, named Arban," Dukar explains. "He saved both me and Puripal. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn't have survived the desert. But now, he's just another soldier trudging through the sand, while I'm up here on this camel."
Ta nods, understanding the weight of Dukar’s words. "That's a noble thought, Dukar. But I don't have the power to change anything. The best I can do is pass on the message."
Dukar's expression shows a hint of disappointment, but he understands the limitations. "I guess I was hoping for too much. But if there's a chance to tell the Prince, I'd appreciate it."
Ta smiles, a reassuring glint in his eyes. "Maybe there is going to be an opportunity to tell him tonight, when we set up camp."
The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the landscape as Dukar, astride his camel, follows Ta and the Yohazatz army into a sight he's never witnessed before. His eyes widen in awe as they approach the verdant haven amidst the relentless desert.
Lush greenery surrounds a pool of clear, inviting water, a stark contrast to the endless stretches of sand and heat that Dukar has grown accustomed to. The place appears like a mirage made real, an embodiment of life and respite in the heart of the unforgiving Kamoklopr Desert.
Scattered around the water's edge are remnants of what once were buildings, their structures worn by time and weather, yet still standing. Dukar imagines the bustling activity that must have once filled this place, now reduced to a tranquil, almost eerie quiet.
"It used to be a thriving trading post," Ta explains, noticing Dukar's curious gaze. "But it hasn’t being used since the war started."
Dukar feels a twinge of frustration, recalling his aimless wanderings in the desert. "I can't believe we were so close..." he mutters, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Ta chuckles lightly at Dukar's vexation. "These places are well hidden, friend. If you ever find yourself looking for an oasis, remember – they're always in the lowlands. Water flows underground, not on the dunes."
As the caravan settles down, Dukar slides off his camel, his legs unsteady on solid ground after hours of riding. He approaches the water, cupping his hands to drink. The cool liquid is a balm to his parched throat, a relief he hadn't dared hope for.
The Yohazatz soldiers move efficiently, setting up camp around the oasis. As night falls, they distribute food among their ranks and to their prisoners. Dukar notices two figures sitting apart from the others – the Crown Prince of the Moukopl and General Tun Zol Bazhin.
The Prince, though a prisoner, retains a semblance of his regal composure, quietly accepting the dried meat offered to him. In contrast, Bazhin, his wounds evident and his body weakened, dismisses the food with a weak wave of his hand.
Dukar watches the general, sensing the man's pride and pain. Bazhin's refusal to eat, despite his obvious need, speaks volumes about his state of mind. Defeat and injury have taken a toll on the once formidable warrior.
The night air is cool as Dukar wanders through the camp, the sound of quiet conversations and the occasional snort of a camel filling the space around him. His feet carry him towards one of the larger abandoned buildings, following the directions given by a group of Yohazatz soldiers.
As he nears the building, a Yohazatz guard steps forward, a questioning look on his face. But before he can speak, another soldier playfully slaps him on the back of the head. "Don't you remember? He's Prince Puripal's friend," the second soldier chides, a smirk on his face.
Dukar can't help but laugh. He exchanges a few jokes with the guards, the camaraderie easing the weight of the day's events.
Stepping inside the building, Dukar finds himself in what appears to have been an inn. The remains of furniture and decorations hint at a time of bustling activity, now replaced by an eerie silence. Two Yohazatz soldiers have set up a makeshift bed in the main hall, where Puripal lies on a mattress, his breathing ragged but steady, indicating deep sleep.
Dukar approaches quietly, not wanting to disturb the prince. He whispers to the soldiers watching over Puripal. "How's he doing?"
One of the guards looks up, his expression tired but vigilant. "He fell asleep on his camel. We've been carrying him ever since. He's been out for hours now."
The other soldier adds, "We're taking turns watching over him. You don't need to worry. He's in good hands."
Dukar nods, a mix of relief and frustration in his heart. He had hoped to speak to Puripal, to express his gratitude and relay his request for Arban. But seeing the prince in such a vulnerable state, he realizes it's not the right time.
"Thank you," he murmurs, backing away from the mattress. The dim light casts long shadows across Puripal's peaceful face.
Leaving the building, Dukar finds a quiet spot near the outskirts of the camp. He lies down, the soft sand molding to his body, the stars above a vast tapestry of twinkling lights. Despite the day's exhaustion, his mind races with thoughts and worries. The frustration of not being able to speak to Puripal lingers, but he knows there will be time for that later.
The relentless march through the desert stretches on. For three days, they move without crossing the path of another oasis, their water supplies dwindling with each passing hour.
Among the ranks, the Moukopl prisoners walk in subdued silence. Gone are the harsh commands and brutal discipline of their own officers. In their place is a sense of resignation, but also a surprising relief. The Yohazatz, though their captors, distribute rations evenly and without malice, a stark contrast to the treatment they had received under their own banner.
Dukar's concern grows for Puripal, whose condition remains unchanged. He searches for an opportunity to speak with the prince, to relay his request for Arban, but it never comes. Puripal's health is precarious, a constant worry at the back of Dukar's mind.
On the fourth day, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, a group of horsemen catches up to the caravan. Among them is a figure garbed in attire reminiscent of the shamans Dukar knows from his homeland. The shaman greets the Yohazatz soldiers with blessings, his presence bringing a sense of hope and reverence.
He attends to Puripal with care, administering medicinal plants with practiced hands. Dukar watches from a distance, grateful for the shaman's expertise.
After the shaman finishes with Puripal, Dukar approaches him. "I'm Dukar of Jabliu," he introduces himself. "There's an important prisoner who's badly wounded. Can you help him?"
The shaman hesitates, his eyes scanning Dukar's face. "I cannot tend to a prisoner without a direct order," he replies, his voice firm.
Just then, Ta, who had been looking for Dukar, overhears the conversation. "Come on, just take a look at him," he urges the shaman, a playful smirk on his face.
The shaman scoffs. "I don't take orders from a bastard."
Ta laughs, unfazed by the insult. "Just look at him. You can leave if you don't want to do anything."
Reluctantly, the shaman agrees to see the prisoner. Dukar and Ta lead him to where the Moukopl prisoners are held. The other soldiers watch Dukar with a mix of hostility and jealousy, murmuring among themselves about his privileged treatment.
They approach General Tun Zol Bazhin, who lies on the ground, his armor still on, his wounds festering. The shaman instructs him to remove his armor, but Bazhin doesn't understand the language.
Dukar steps in to translate, but Bazhin's response is harsh. "Fuck off," he growls, refusing to cooperate.
Dukar stands before the Crown Prince, his mind grappling with the general's refusal of aid. He wonders about the source of such unwavering pride and loyalty, even in the face of death. As he turns to leave, resigned to the futility of his efforts, a voice halts him in his tracks.
The Crown Prince, with his soft, feminine tone, beckons Dukar. The young Tepr man pauses, motioning Ta and the shaman to proceed without him. He faces the Prince, bowing slightly, a gesture of respect despite their shared predicament.
"What can I do for Your Highness?" Dukar asks, his voice measured.
The Prince, slender and elegant even in his disheveled state, circles Dukar like a predator eyeing its prey. His smile is sly, his eyes sharp as he speaks. "A barbarian finds solace among barbarians. Your actions reek of treason, beast. Do you realize the consequences? Your family, your entire lineage, could be erased for this betrayal."
Dukar's jaw tightens, but he maintains his composure. "I haven’t betrayed anyone, Your Highness."
The Prince's smile widens, his gaze never leaving Dukar's. "Then, are you still loyal to the Will of Heaven?" he asks, his voice dripping with mockery.
Dukar remains silent, his thoughts racing. The Prince suddenly closes the distance between them, his movements quick and precise. From within the folds of his robe, he draws a slender dagger, its blade glinting in the fading light. In an instant, the cold metal is pressed against Dukar's throat.
"How thoughtful of you to ask them to leave," the Prince whispers, his breath warm against Dukar's skin.
Dukar's heartbeat quickens, but he doesn’t flinch. "Your Highness, you are all thirsty, hungry, and weakened. You're not in a position to harm me," he says, his voice steady despite the blade at his neck.
The Prince presses the dagger a fraction closer, a manic gleam in his eyes. "Don’t underestimate me, beast. Stabbing is an ancient Moukopl art. But are you ready to lose it all? Pledge your loyalty to your Celestial Emperor, show your loyalty to your family. You wouldn't want to see your home burn, would you?"
Dukar meets the Prince's threat-laden gaze with calm defiance. "Even as Crown Prince, your reach is limited from this place," he counters, his voice even. The blade pushes against his throat but his resolve doesn't waver.
The Prince's eyes narrow, a hint of irritation flickering in them. "Immortality is my birthright. These barbarians cannot kill me. When I am freed, rest assured, I will make good on my words."
Dukar considers the Prince's claim, weighing the potential consequences of his next words. Finally, he nods, a decision made. "I'll do something for you, Your Highness. But remember, this 'immortal' will owe me a favor." His tone is laced with a hint of daring.
The Prince's expression hardens, the playful cruelty fading into annoyance. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he hisses.
In a swift, unexpected motion, Dukar grabs the Prince's wrist, twisting it gently but firmly. The dagger clatters to the ground, its threat nullified. With a quick step back, Dukar releases the Prince, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Remember, Your Highness, even immortals need allies," Dukar says, his laughter echoing softly as he turns and walks away. The Prince watches him go, the realization dawning that his royal status holds little sway in the heart of the desert.
…
As Dukar first lays eyes on Qixi-Lo, the Yohazatz capital, his amazement is palpable. The city sprawls before him, a blend of traditional yurts and more permanent structures, their walls adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant tapestries. The streets are alive with the hustle and bustle of daily life, a stark contrast to the desolate expanse of the desert they had traversed.
Turning to Ta, Dukar's curiosity overflows. "How can such a city exist in the midst of the desert?" he asks, his eyes scanning the bustling markets and verdant gardens that defy the arid climate.
Ta, understanding Dukar's surprise, explains, "Many Yohazatz are still nomads at heart, but as we've gathered around the Khan's palace, a city grew. We've learned to cultivate the land, bringing life to the desert." His voice carries a hint of pride.
As they proceed through the city, the citizens greet them with curiosity. The journey culminates at the grand palace of Qaloron Khan, a majestic edifice that commands attention. Its gates open to reveal the Khan himself, a commanding presence with a keen, assessing gaze.
Puripal, weak but determined, is quickly surrounded by a group of shamans and physicians. They usher him inside with gentle urgency.
Ta steps forward, bowing deeply before the Khan. "Victory is ours, my lord. We have defeated the Moukopl and captured their Crown Prince," he announces, his voice resonating with triumph.
The Khan's eyes light up with a strategic gleam. "Send an emissary to the Moukopl capital at once. We will demand a ransom. This could mark the end of the war." His declaration is met with cheers from the assembled courtiers.
As the Khan announces a city-wide feast, Dukar's mind is clouded with concern. He ponders the implications of the Yohazatz's victory for Tepr.
Later, in the opulence of the palace, Dukar is personally thanked by the Khan, who offers him luxurious accommodations. Seizing the opportunity, Dukar speaks of his Tepr comrades, emphasizing that many of the Moukopl soldiers are merely subjects of a conquered land, not true loyalists.
The Khan listens intently, a hearty laugh escaping him as he learns of the many Tepr men within their ranks. "What a coincidence! I've just sent one of my sons to negotiate with the Tepr for an alliance."
Dukar's mind races at the thought. Tepr, a land of diverse tribes and clans, often at odds with one another, presents a complex political landscape. An alliance with the Yohazatz could be a powerful move, yet the fragmented nature of his homeland might pose unexpected challenges.
In the stillness of the night, Dukar's thoughts swirl, a turbulent sea of strategy and concern. He concludes that the fragile balance between the Moukopl and Yohazatz, if tipped, could spell disaster for Tepr. Their mutual enmity, he realizes, is a shield for smaller powers like his own.
Moving with purpose, he navigates the quiet corridors of the Yohazatz palace, heading towards the prison. The sight of his Tepr kinsmen, including Arban, behind bars stirs a mix of emotions. He offers them words of reassurance, "Don't worry, you'll be free soon," his voice a quiet promise in the dim light.
His steps then lead him to the cell farthest from the rest, where General Tun Zol Bazhin languishes. The once proud warrior now sits defeated, his wounds festering, a shadow of his former self.
Dukar addresses the guard with a nod, stepping into the cell. The general looks up, his eyes hollow, and spits on the ground with disdain. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice rough.
Dukar settles down opposite him, his gaze steady. "Why don't you want to live?" he asks, his voice calm yet probing.
The general's response is laden with resignation. "I'd rather die with honor."
Curious, Dukar leans forward slightly. "What is honor?" he inquires, genuinely interested in the general's perspective.
The general pauses, his expression conflicted. "I... I don't know," he admits reluctantly. "But it's something my father did not live with."
Dukar's expression softens as he takes in the general's words. "Why do you hate me so much?" he asks, his tone devoid of any accusation.
General Tun Zol Bazhin avoids Dukar's gaze, his eyes fixed on the ground. His voice is low, filled with a mixture of regret and resignation. "It's not just you, boy. But especially you. Your face is… It reminds me of myself," he confesses. "We're too similar. So you remind me of my father too. And you're from Tepr as well."
The general's voice grows distant, as if he's recalling painful memories. "My father... he abandoned and betrayed not only his family but the whole Empire. Investigators from the Palace said he might have fled to Tepr. He took my baby brother with him. In this land of warmongers and barbarians, they're probably both dead by now."
He pauses, taking a deep breath, his fists clenching involuntarily. "Since then, I vowed to put an end to his bloodline. My life became nothing but cannon fodder for the Celestial Empire. But now that I'm here, in this cell, I can't help but wonder... Was it worth it? Was all of it worth it?"
Dukar exhales a sigh, feeling the weight of the general's burden. "Why can't you accept defeat? Why is your loyalty stronger than your will to live?"
The general meets his gaze, his eyes reflecting a war of emotions. "Loyalty is all I have," he says quietly. "It’s all my father lacked. It defines me, gives my life meaning. Without it, I am nothing."
Dukar's question hangs in the air. "Don't you have loved ones who will miss you?" he asks.
The general's gaze shifts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his hardened features. "I have a wife and a daughter," he reveals, his tone softening ever so slightly. "But they are strong. They understand the risks of my profession. They won't miss me. The Moukopl Empire is generous to the widows of its soldiers."
"The Moukopl's kindness is not the only reason I fight," the general continues, his voice gaining strength. "I fight so that the whole world can bask in the riches of our empire. So that no child goes hungry, no orphan wanders alone. This is the will of Heaven."
Dukar nods, a mixture of respect and sadness in his eyes. The general's loyalty, so unwavering and profound, is both admirable and tragic. In his dedication to the empire, he is prepared to sacrifice everything, even the chance to see his family again.
"But isn't life itself valuable?" Dukar counters. "Is clinging to an ideal worth more than the breath in your lungs, the blood in your veins?"
The general shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "You wouldn't understand. To live without honor is to live a half-life. I cannot bear the thought of it."
Dukar nods, understanding the depth of the general's convictions, even if he doesn't share them. "Then, I'll give you a way to die as a true loyalist," he says softly.
The general looks up, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Dukar's decision hangs heavy in the air as he stands up, leaving the dimly lit jail. As the guard moves to close the door, Dukar's actions unfold with sudden ferocity. In one swift, decisive movement, he draws his sword and plunges it into the guard's chest. The man's cry of pain echoes through the jail, a sharp and chilling sound that cuts through the silence.
The general's eyes widen in shock, witnessing the unexpected turn of events. Dukar, without hesitation, yanks the sword from the guard's chest and tosses it at the general's feet. The metal clatters against the stone floor, an ominous sound in the quiet jail.
"Wreak havoc, General Tun Zol Bazhin. It's the Will of Heaven," Dukar declares, his voice steady and resolute. He turns and strides away, leaving the general with the means to fulfill his own destiny.
In the darkness of the night, Dukar rushes to the jail where the Crown Prince is held. He kicks the door open, the sound reverberating through the corridors. The Prince looks up, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I knew you would come," he murmurs.
"Don't forget what you owe me, Your Highness," Dukar replies, his tone firm. He grabs the Prince by the arm, pulling him out of the cell. They run through the palace grounds, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. Two Moukopl officers, seizing the opportunity, join their escape, their faces etched with relief and urgency.
They arrive at a large fountain where camels are lazily drinking water. Dukar instructs the Prince and the officers to mount the camels and ride away. The Prince, now atop his camel, looks down at Dukar, a new respect evident in his eyes.
"I was wrong, you are no barbarian after all. I will not forget this," the Prince muses, his voice carrying a hint of admiration and gratitude.
Dukar exhales a weary sigh, his gaze following the departing figures. "Go now, before it's too late," he urges, his voice a whisper in the night.
As the camels disappear into the darkness, Dukar stands alone by the fountain, the cool night air brushing against his skin. In his heart, a mix of relief and apprehension stirs, knowing the consequences of his actions will ripple far beyond this night. But for now, he has changed the course of fate, not just for the Moukopl prince but for the balance of power in the region. And with that, he turns and disappears into the shadows, his own future uncertain but his resolve unwavering.
In the confines of the prison, General Tun Zol Bazhin stands, the sword gleaming in his hand, a newfound fire burning in his eyes. He is a man reborn, not with hope, but with a purpose fueled by an unyielding loyalty and a sense of honor that transcends his own life.
The first to fall is the guard at the next cell. Bazhin moves with a lethal precision honed by years on the battlefield. The guard barely has time to react before the general's blade finds its mark, silencing him forever. The sound of steel and flesh echoes through the corridors, a grim symphony of the general's resolve.
He strides down the hallway, each step measured and purposeful. The other guards, alerted by the commotion, rush towards him. But Bazhin is a storm, relentless and unstoppable. His sword dances in his hands, an extension of his will, cutting down anyone who dares stand in his way.
The prisoners, witnessing the chaos, shout and rattle their bars, a cacophony of fear and excitement. Some cheer for the general's fury, others cower at the sight of the carnage. But Bazhin is beyond hearing them; his world has narrowed to the blade in his hand and the enemies before him.
He bursts out of the prison and into the palace grounds, his wrath undiminished. The night air is filled with the clang of swords and the shouts of guards. Bazhin moves through them like a specter of vengeance, each guard falling under his relentless assault.
Even as arrows and blades find their way to his flesh, Bazhin does not falter. His armor, dented and bloodied, bears the marks of his fierce battle. With each wound he sustains, his attacks grow more ferocious, his movements fueled by a mix of pain and adrenaline.
The palace itself becomes a battleground, the once pristine halls now scenes of brutal combat. Bazhin's sword, slick with blood, never stops moving. Even as his strength wanes, his spirit does not. He is a man possessed, driven by a code that transcends mortal concerns.
In his final moments, surrounded by the bodies of his foes, General Tun Zol Bazhin stands tall, a solitary figure against the backdrop of destruction. His breaths are ragged, his body weakened, but his eyes still burn with an unquenchable fire.
With a final cry, a declaration of his unyielding loyalty, Bazhin charges one last time. His sword raised high, he meets his end not as a defeated soldier, but as a warrior who remained true to his convictions until his last breath.
As his body falls, the palace grounds fall silent, the night air heavy with the aftermath of his defiance. General Tun Zol Bazhin's legacy is written in blood and steel, a testament to the unbreakable will of a soldier whose loyalty knew no bounds.
Before the first lights of dawn, Dukar returns to his quarters, the echoes of recent events reverberating in his mind. He finds Puripal, weakened yet with a gaze that pierces the veil of night, waiting for him. Despite his frail appearance, Puripal's presence commands the room.
With a soft cough, Puripal gestures Dukar into his chamber. The room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, feels intimate, a stark contrast to the chaos that unfolded outside. Dukar follows, a mix of curiosity and wariness in his stride.
Puripal settles onto his bed with a careful grace, his eyes never leaving Dukar. "Why did you do it?" he inquires, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of a thousand words.
Dukar stands there, his answer simple yet profound. "I did what I thought was right for everyone involved."
Puripal studies him for a moment, then motions for Dukar to sit on the floor beside the bed. Hesitant but compelled by a sense of duty and respect, Dukar complies, his back against the soft mattress.
Suddenly, Puripal's slender fingers find their way to Dukar's hair, gently playing with the strands. "Are you sad?" he asks, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Dukar shakes his head, his voice steady. "I have no reason to be sad."
Puripal's chuckle fills the room, a sound both melodic and melancholic. "You saved my life without a reason. I owe you one. But now you've saved our enemy's life, and I won't hold it against you. You're a smart man, Dukar. But can I trust you?"
Dukar's response comes without hesitation. "You can trust me, as long as your plans don't harm me."
A glint of amusement sparkles in Puripal's eyes. "Smart answer. You know, being the fourth son puts me in a precarious position. Not at the top, yet not forgotten. Many would see me dead."
Dukar's realization dawns as he recalls the arrow incident. The layers of palace intrigue are more complex than he imagined.
"What do you want from me?" Dukar finally asks, his voice a blend of curiosity and caution.
Puripal's proposal comes as a surprise. "Become my personal bodyguard."
Dukar laughs softly, a sound of disbelief. "I'm hardly the strongest."
"But you have the wit for it," Puripal counters. "You just need to train physically."
Dukar nods, considering the offer. "And what's in it for me?"
In response, Puripal guides Dukar's gaze to a mirror across the room. Reflected in the glass is Dukar, his hair now woven into a long braid, similar to the one the general wore.
"Wealth and power, General Tun Zol Bazhin," Puripal says with a laugh. “Such is the Will of Heaven!”
As the first light of dawn breaks across the desert, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, the Yohazatz army, along with their captives, begins its trek northwestward. Dukar, still grappling with the unexpected turn of events, finds himself atop a camel, a position of honor amongst the Yohazatz. He feels the eyes of his comrades on him, their expressions a mix of confusion and envy.
Riding a camel for the first time, Dukar initially fumbles with the reins, but gradually gets the hang of it. The camel moves with a steady, loping grace, surprisingly comfortable compared to the horses he’s used to. As the sun climbs higher, its rays intensifying, Dukar notices the Yohazatz soldiers tightening the cloths around their heads, leaving only their eyes visible.
One of the soldiers, the same young warrior who had playfully thrown the arrow at Dukar’s feet, approaches him. His camel strides effortlessly alongside Dukar’s. “Aren’t you too hot in that?” he asks, nodding towards Dukar's iron helmet.
Dukar wipes the sweat from his brow, nodding. “It’s insufferable,” he admits.
The young warrior reaches into his pouch, pulling out a long piece of woolen cloth. He hands it to Dukar with a smile. “Try this.”
Dukar takes the cloth, but his expression is doubtful. “Won’t wool make me even hotter? It’s used for keeping warm, right?”
The warrior laughs, a sound light and carefree in the heavy desert air. “Wool doesn’t make you warm; it keeps your body's warmth from escaping. In the desert, it does the opposite – it keeps the heat out.”
Dukar considers this for a moment, then attempts to wrap the cloth around his head. Juggling the reins and the cloth proves difficult, and his efforts are clumsy.
Observing Dukar’s struggle, the young warrior performs a surprising feat. With graceful ease, he stands on his camel, which continues to move steadily. In one fluid motion, he leaps onto Dukar’s camel, which remains surprisingly calm under his expert handling.
Dukar is startled by the sudden proximity with this person he just met, who, without a word, begins to expertly fold the cloth around Dukar's head. His hands are quick and sure, wrapping the fabric in a way that shields Dukar from the sun while allowing him to breathe easily. He hums a soft, unfamiliar tune as he works, his fingers deft and gentle.
Once satisfied with his handiwork, he pats Dukar's shoulder affectionately, a gesture that leaves Dukar slightly flustered. “There,” he says, “much better.”
Dukar, still adjusting to the sensation of the cloth around his head, manages a grateful nod. “I’m Dukar, of Jabliu. I come from Tepr. And you are?”
The youth, with the agility of a seasoned rider, jumps back onto his own camel. “Jabliu? Never heard of it, but I knew you were from Tepr. Your language is similar. I’m Ta,” he replies with a grin. “Yeah, it’s an unusual name. It means ‘seven’ in your tongue. I'm the seventh bastard of the Khan.”
Ta’s laughter is light, carrying no trace of bitterness. “Prince Puripal and I are brothers. But don’t get the wrong idea. My mother was a prostitute, so I’m not of royal blood or anything fancy like that.”
As the caravan continues its march through the vastness of the Kamoklopr Desert, Dukar finds himself increasingly at ease with Ta. The young Yohazatz’s friendly demeanor and open nature make the arduous journey more bearable.
Dukar glances ahead, his eyes searching for Puripal. He finds the prince riding towards the front of the caravan, his posture betraying the pain from the wound in his stomach. Dukar hesitates, sensing that Puripal might not be in the state to hear what he has to say.
Turning back to Ta, who rides alongside him with a relaxed ease, Dukar shares his thoughts. "I wanted to tell Prince Puripal something important," he begins, his voice tinged with a sense of duty. "I'm thankful for how I'm been treated, but there's someone else who deserves recognition."
Ta looks at Dukar, his expression attentive. "Oh? Who's that?"
"It's another man from Tepr, named Arban," Dukar explains. "He saved both me and Puripal. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn't have survived the desert. But now, he's just another soldier trudging through the sand, while I'm up here on this camel."
Ta nods, understanding the weight of Dukar’s words. "That's a noble thought, Dukar. But I don't have the power to change anything. The best I can do is pass on the message."
Dukar's expression shows a hint of disappointment, but he understands the limitations. "I guess I was hoping for too much. But if there's a chance to tell the Prince, I'd appreciate it."
Ta smiles, a reassuring glint in his eyes. "Maybe there is going to be an opportunity to tell him tonight, when we set up camp."
The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the landscape as Dukar, astride his camel, follows Ta and the Yohazatz army into a sight he's never witnessed before. His eyes widen in awe as they approach the verdant haven amidst the relentless desert.
Lush greenery surrounds a pool of clear, inviting water, a stark contrast to the endless stretches of sand and heat that Dukar has grown accustomed to. The place appears like a mirage made real, an embodiment of life and respite in the heart of the unforgiving Kamoklopr Desert.
Scattered around the water's edge are remnants of what once were buildings, their structures worn by time and weather, yet still standing. Dukar imagines the bustling activity that must have once filled this place, now reduced to a tranquil, almost eerie quiet.
"It used to be a thriving trading post," Ta explains, noticing Dukar's curious gaze. "But it hasn’t being used since the war started."
Dukar feels a twinge of frustration, recalling his aimless wanderings in the desert. "I can't believe we were so close..." he mutters, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Ta chuckles lightly at Dukar's vexation. "These places are well hidden, friend. If you ever find yourself looking for an oasis, remember – they're always in the lowlands. Water flows underground, not on the dunes."
As the caravan settles down, Dukar slides off his camel, his legs unsteady on solid ground after hours of riding. He approaches the water, cupping his hands to drink. The cool liquid is a balm to his parched throat, a relief he hadn't dared hope for.
The Yohazatz soldiers move efficiently, setting up camp around the oasis. As night falls, they distribute food among their ranks and to their prisoners. Dukar notices two figures sitting apart from the others – the Crown Prince of the Moukopl and General Tun Zol Bazhin.
The Prince, though a prisoner, retains a semblance of his regal composure, quietly accepting the dried meat offered to him. In contrast, Bazhin, his wounds evident and his body weakened, dismisses the food with a weak wave of his hand.
Dukar watches the general, sensing the man's pride and pain. Bazhin's refusal to eat, despite his obvious need, speaks volumes about his state of mind. Defeat and injury have taken a toll on the once formidable warrior.
The night air is cool as Dukar wanders through the camp, the sound of quiet conversations and the occasional snort of a camel filling the space around him. His feet carry him towards one of the larger abandoned buildings, following the directions given by a group of Yohazatz soldiers.
As he nears the building, a Yohazatz guard steps forward, a questioning look on his face. But before he can speak, another soldier playfully slaps him on the back of the head. "Don't you remember? He's Prince Puripal's friend," the second soldier chides, a smirk on his face.
Dukar can't help but laugh. He exchanges a few jokes with the guards, the camaraderie easing the weight of the day's events.
Stepping inside the building, Dukar finds himself in what appears to have been an inn. The remains of furniture and decorations hint at a time of bustling activity, now replaced by an eerie silence. Two Yohazatz soldiers have set up a makeshift bed in the main hall, where Puripal lies on a mattress, his breathing ragged but steady, indicating deep sleep.
Dukar approaches quietly, not wanting to disturb the prince. He whispers to the soldiers watching over Puripal. "How's he doing?"
One of the guards looks up, his expression tired but vigilant. "He fell asleep on his camel. We've been carrying him ever since. He's been out for hours now."
The other soldier adds, "We're taking turns watching over him. You don't need to worry. He's in good hands."
Dukar nods, a mix of relief and frustration in his heart. He had hoped to speak to Puripal, to express his gratitude and relay his request for Arban. But seeing the prince in such a vulnerable state, he realizes it's not the right time.
"Thank you," he murmurs, backing away from the mattress. The dim light casts long shadows across Puripal's peaceful face.
Leaving the building, Dukar finds a quiet spot near the outskirts of the camp. He lies down, the soft sand molding to his body, the stars above a vast tapestry of twinkling lights. Despite the day's exhaustion, his mind races with thoughts and worries. The frustration of not being able to speak to Puripal lingers, but he knows there will be time for that later.
The relentless march through the desert stretches on. For three days, they move without crossing the path of another oasis, their water supplies dwindling with each passing hour.
Among the ranks, the Moukopl prisoners walk in subdued silence. Gone are the harsh commands and brutal discipline of their own officers. In their place is a sense of resignation, but also a surprising relief. The Yohazatz, though their captors, distribute rations evenly and without malice, a stark contrast to the treatment they had received under their own banner.
Dukar's concern grows for Puripal, whose condition remains unchanged. He searches for an opportunity to speak with the prince, to relay his request for Arban, but it never comes. Puripal's health is precarious, a constant worry at the back of Dukar's mind.
On the fourth day, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, a group of horsemen catches up to the caravan. Among them is a figure garbed in attire reminiscent of the shamans Dukar knows from his homeland. The shaman greets the Yohazatz soldiers with blessings, his presence bringing a sense of hope and reverence.
He attends to Puripal with care, administering medicinal plants with practiced hands. Dukar watches from a distance, grateful for the shaman's expertise.
After the shaman finishes with Puripal, Dukar approaches him. "I'm Dukar of Jabliu," he introduces himself. "There's an important prisoner who's badly wounded. Can you help him?"
The shaman hesitates, his eyes scanning Dukar's face. "I cannot tend to a prisoner without a direct order," he replies, his voice firm.
Just then, Ta, who had been looking for Dukar, overhears the conversation. "Come on, just take a look at him," he urges the shaman, a playful smirk on his face.
The shaman scoffs. "I don't take orders from a bastard."
Ta laughs, unfazed by the insult. "Just look at him. You can leave if you don't want to do anything."
Reluctantly, the shaman agrees to see the prisoner. Dukar and Ta lead him to where the Moukopl prisoners are held. The other soldiers watch Dukar with a mix of hostility and jealousy, murmuring among themselves about his privileged treatment.
They approach General Tun Zol Bazhin, who lies on the ground, his armor still on, his wounds festering. The shaman instructs him to remove his armor, but Bazhin doesn't understand the language.
Dukar steps in to translate, but Bazhin's response is harsh. "Fuck off," he growls, refusing to cooperate.
Dukar stands before the Crown Prince, his mind grappling with the general's refusal of aid. He wonders about the source of such unwavering pride and loyalty, even in the face of death. As he turns to leave, resigned to the futility of his efforts, a voice halts him in his tracks.
The Crown Prince, with his soft, feminine tone, beckons Dukar. The young Tepr man pauses, motioning Ta and the shaman to proceed without him. He faces the Prince, bowing slightly, a gesture of respect despite their shared predicament.
"What can I do for Your Highness?" Dukar asks, his voice measured.
The Prince, slender and elegant even in his disheveled state, circles Dukar like a predator eyeing its prey. His smile is sly, his eyes sharp as he speaks. "A barbarian finds solace among barbarians. Your actions reek of treason, beast. Do you realize the consequences? Your family, your entire lineage, could be erased for this betrayal."
Dukar's jaw tightens, but he maintains his composure. "I haven’t betrayed anyone, Your Highness."
The Prince's smile widens, his gaze never leaving Dukar's. "Then, are you still loyal to the Will of Heaven?" he asks, his voice dripping with mockery.
Dukar remains silent, his thoughts racing. The Prince suddenly closes the distance between them, his movements quick and precise. From within the folds of his robe, he draws a slender dagger, its blade glinting in the fading light. In an instant, the cold metal is pressed against Dukar's throat.
"How thoughtful of you to ask them to leave," the Prince whispers, his breath warm against Dukar's skin.
Dukar's heartbeat quickens, but he doesn’t flinch. "Your Highness, you are all thirsty, hungry, and weakened. You're not in a position to harm me," he says, his voice steady despite the blade at his neck.
The Prince presses the dagger a fraction closer, a manic gleam in his eyes. "Don’t underestimate me, beast. Stabbing is an ancient Moukopl art. But are you ready to lose it all? Pledge your loyalty to your Celestial Emperor, show your loyalty to your family. You wouldn't want to see your home burn, would you?"
Dukar meets the Prince's threat-laden gaze with calm defiance. "Even as Crown Prince, your reach is limited from this place," he counters, his voice even. The blade pushes against his throat but his resolve doesn't waver.
The Prince's eyes narrow, a hint of irritation flickering in them. "Immortality is my birthright. These barbarians cannot kill me. When I am freed, rest assured, I will make good on my words."
Dukar considers the Prince's claim, weighing the potential consequences of his next words. Finally, he nods, a decision made. "I'll do something for you, Your Highness. But remember, this 'immortal' will owe me a favor." His tone is laced with a hint of daring.
The Prince's expression hardens, the playful cruelty fading into annoyance. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he hisses.
In a swift, unexpected motion, Dukar grabs the Prince's wrist, twisting it gently but firmly. The dagger clatters to the ground, its threat nullified. With a quick step back, Dukar releases the Prince, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Remember, Your Highness, even immortals need allies," Dukar says, his laughter echoing softly as he turns and walks away. The Prince watches him go, the realization dawning that his royal status holds little sway in the heart of the desert.
…
As Dukar first lays eyes on Qixi-Lo, the Yohazatz capital, his amazement is palpable. The city sprawls before him, a blend of traditional yurts and more permanent structures, their walls adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant tapestries. The streets are alive with the hustle and bustle of daily life, a stark contrast to the desolate expanse of the desert they had traversed.
Turning to Ta, Dukar's curiosity overflows. "How can such a city exist in the midst of the desert?" he asks, his eyes scanning the bustling markets and verdant gardens that defy the arid climate.
Ta, understanding Dukar's surprise, explains, "Many Yohazatz are still nomads at heart, but as we've gathered around the Khan's palace, a city grew. We've learned to cultivate the land, bringing life to the desert." His voice carries a hint of pride.
As they proceed through the city, the citizens greet them with curiosity. The journey culminates at the grand palace of Qaloron Khan, a majestic edifice that commands attention. Its gates open to reveal the Khan himself, a commanding presence with a keen, assessing gaze.
Puripal, weak but determined, is quickly surrounded by a group of shamans and physicians. They usher him inside with gentle urgency.
Ta steps forward, bowing deeply before the Khan. "Victory is ours, my lord. We have defeated the Moukopl and captured their Crown Prince," he announces, his voice resonating with triumph.
The Khan's eyes light up with a strategic gleam. "Send an emissary to the Moukopl capital at once. We will demand a ransom. This could mark the end of the war." His declaration is met with cheers from the assembled courtiers.
As the Khan announces a city-wide feast, Dukar's mind is clouded with concern. He ponders the implications of the Yohazatz's victory for Tepr.
Later, in the opulence of the palace, Dukar is personally thanked by the Khan, who offers him luxurious accommodations. Seizing the opportunity, Dukar speaks of his Tepr comrades, emphasizing that many of the Moukopl soldiers are merely subjects of a conquered land, not true loyalists.
The Khan listens intently, a hearty laugh escaping him as he learns of the many Tepr men within their ranks. "What a coincidence! I've just sent one of my sons to negotiate with the Tepr for an alliance."
Dukar's mind races at the thought. Tepr, a land of diverse tribes and clans, often at odds with one another, presents a complex political landscape. An alliance with the Yohazatz could be a powerful move, yet the fragmented nature of his homeland might pose unexpected challenges.
In the stillness of the night, Dukar's thoughts swirl, a turbulent sea of strategy and concern. He concludes that the fragile balance between the Moukopl and Yohazatz, if tipped, could spell disaster for Tepr. Their mutual enmity, he realizes, is a shield for smaller powers like his own.
Moving with purpose, he navigates the quiet corridors of the Yohazatz palace, heading towards the prison. The sight of his Tepr kinsmen, including Arban, behind bars stirs a mix of emotions. He offers them words of reassurance, "Don't worry, you'll be free soon," his voice a quiet promise in the dim light.
His steps then lead him to the cell farthest from the rest, where General Tun Zol Bazhin languishes. The once proud warrior now sits defeated, his wounds festering, a shadow of his former self.
Dukar addresses the guard with a nod, stepping into the cell. The general looks up, his eyes hollow, and spits on the ground with disdain. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice rough.
Dukar settles down opposite him, his gaze steady. "Why don't you want to live?" he asks, his voice calm yet probing.
The general's response is laden with resignation. "I'd rather die with honor."
Curious, Dukar leans forward slightly. "What is honor?" he inquires, genuinely interested in the general's perspective.
The general pauses, his expression conflicted. "I... I don't know," he admits reluctantly. "But it's something my father did not live with."
Dukar's expression softens as he takes in the general's words. "Why do you hate me so much?" he asks, his tone devoid of any accusation.
General Tun Zol Bazhin avoids Dukar's gaze, his eyes fixed on the ground. His voice is low, filled with a mixture of regret and resignation. "It's not just you, boy. But especially you. Your face is… It reminds me of myself," he confesses. "We're too similar. So you remind me of my father too. And you're from Tepr as well."
The general's voice grows distant, as if he's recalling painful memories. "My father... he abandoned and betrayed not only his family but the whole Empire. Investigators from the Palace said he might have fled to Tepr. He took my baby brother with him. In this land of warmongers and barbarians, they're probably both dead by now."
He pauses, taking a deep breath, his fists clenching involuntarily. "Since then, I vowed to put an end to his bloodline. My life became nothing but cannon fodder for the Celestial Empire. But now that I'm here, in this cell, I can't help but wonder... Was it worth it? Was all of it worth it?"
Dukar exhales a sigh, feeling the weight of the general's burden. "Why can't you accept defeat? Why is your loyalty stronger than your will to live?"
The general meets his gaze, his eyes reflecting a war of emotions. "Loyalty is all I have," he says quietly. "It’s all my father lacked. It defines me, gives my life meaning. Without it, I am nothing."
Dukar's question hangs in the air. "Don't you have loved ones who will miss you?" he asks.
The general's gaze shifts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his hardened features. "I have a wife and a daughter," he reveals, his tone softening ever so slightly. "But they are strong. They understand the risks of my profession. They won't miss me. The Moukopl Empire is generous to the widows of its soldiers."
"The Moukopl's kindness is not the only reason I fight," the general continues, his voice gaining strength. "I fight so that the whole world can bask in the riches of our empire. So that no child goes hungry, no orphan wanders alone. This is the will of Heaven."
Dukar nods, a mixture of respect and sadness in his eyes. The general's loyalty, so unwavering and profound, is both admirable and tragic. In his dedication to the empire, he is prepared to sacrifice everything, even the chance to see his family again.
"But isn't life itself valuable?" Dukar counters. "Is clinging to an ideal worth more than the breath in your lungs, the blood in your veins?"
The general shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "You wouldn't understand. To live without honor is to live a half-life. I cannot bear the thought of it."
Dukar nods, understanding the depth of the general's convictions, even if he doesn't share them. "Then, I'll give you a way to die as a true loyalist," he says softly.
The general looks up, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Dukar's decision hangs heavy in the air as he stands up, leaving the dimly lit jail. As the guard moves to close the door, Dukar's actions unfold with sudden ferocity. In one swift, decisive movement, he draws his sword and plunges it into the guard's chest. The man's cry of pain echoes through the jail, a sharp and chilling sound that cuts through the silence.
The general's eyes widen in shock, witnessing the unexpected turn of events. Dukar, without hesitation, yanks the sword from the guard's chest and tosses it at the general's feet. The metal clatters against the stone floor, an ominous sound in the quiet jail.
"Wreak havoc, General Tun Zol Bazhin. It's the Will of Heaven," Dukar declares, his voice steady and resolute. He turns and strides away, leaving the general with the means to fulfill his own destiny.
In the darkness of the night, Dukar rushes to the jail where the Crown Prince is held. He kicks the door open, the sound reverberating through the corridors. The Prince looks up, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I knew you would come," he murmurs.
"Don't forget what you owe me, Your Highness," Dukar replies, his tone firm. He grabs the Prince by the arm, pulling him out of the cell. They run through the palace grounds, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. Two Moukopl officers, seizing the opportunity, join their escape, their faces etched with relief and urgency.
They arrive at a large fountain where camels are lazily drinking water. Dukar instructs the Prince and the officers to mount the camels and ride away. The Prince, now atop his camel, looks down at Dukar, a new respect evident in his eyes.
"I was wrong, you are no barbarian after all. I will not forget this," the Prince muses, his voice carrying a hint of admiration and gratitude.
Dukar exhales a weary sigh, his gaze following the departing figures. "Go now, before it's too late," he urges, his voice a whisper in the night.
As the camels disappear into the darkness, Dukar stands alone by the fountain, the cool night air brushing against his skin. In his heart, a mix of relief and apprehension stirs, knowing the consequences of his actions will ripple far beyond this night. But for now, he has changed the course of fate, not just for the Moukopl prince but for the balance of power in the region. And with that, he turns and disappears into the shadows, his own future uncertain but his resolve unwavering.
In the confines of the prison, General Tun Zol Bazhin stands, the sword gleaming in his hand, a newfound fire burning in his eyes. He is a man reborn, not with hope, but with a purpose fueled by an unyielding loyalty and a sense of honor that transcends his own life.
The first to fall is the guard at the next cell. Bazhin moves with a lethal precision honed by years on the battlefield. The guard barely has time to react before the general's blade finds its mark, silencing him forever. The sound of steel and flesh echoes through the corridors, a grim symphony of the general's resolve.
He strides down the hallway, each step measured and purposeful. The other guards, alerted by the commotion, rush towards him. But Bazhin is a storm, relentless and unstoppable. His sword dances in his hands, an extension of his will, cutting down anyone who dares stand in his way.
The prisoners, witnessing the chaos, shout and rattle their bars, a cacophony of fear and excitement. Some cheer for the general's fury, others cower at the sight of the carnage. But Bazhin is beyond hearing them; his world has narrowed to the blade in his hand and the enemies before him.
He bursts out of the prison and into the palace grounds, his wrath undiminished. The night air is filled with the clang of swords and the shouts of guards. Bazhin moves through them like a specter of vengeance, each guard falling under his relentless assault.
Even as arrows and blades find their way to his flesh, Bazhin does not falter. His armor, dented and bloodied, bears the marks of his fierce battle. With each wound he sustains, his attacks grow more ferocious, his movements fueled by a mix of pain and adrenaline.
The palace itself becomes a battleground, the once pristine halls now scenes of brutal combat. Bazhin's sword, slick with blood, never stops moving. Even as his strength wanes, his spirit does not. He is a man possessed, driven by a code that transcends mortal concerns.
In his final moments, surrounded by the bodies of his foes, General Tun Zol Bazhin stands tall, a solitary figure against the backdrop of destruction. His breaths are ragged, his body weakened, but his eyes still burn with an unquenchable fire.
With a final cry, a declaration of his unyielding loyalty, Bazhin charges one last time. His sword raised high, he meets his end not as a defeated soldier, but as a warrior who remained true to his convictions until his last breath.
As his body falls, the palace grounds fall silent, the night air heavy with the aftermath of his defiance. General Tun Zol Bazhin's legacy is written in blood and steel, a testament to the unbreakable will of a soldier whose loyalty knew no bounds.
Before the first lights of dawn, Dukar returns to his quarters, the echoes of recent events reverberating in his mind. He finds Puripal, weakened yet with a gaze that pierces the veil of night, waiting for him. Despite his frail appearance, Puripal's presence commands the room.
With a soft cough, Puripal gestures Dukar into his chamber. The room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, feels intimate, a stark contrast to the chaos that unfolded outside. Dukar follows, a mix of curiosity and wariness in his stride.
Puripal settles onto his bed with a careful grace, his eyes never leaving Dukar. "Why did you do it?" he inquires, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of a thousand words.
Dukar stands there, his answer simple yet profound. "I did what I thought was right for everyone involved."
Puripal studies him for a moment, then motions for Dukar to sit on the floor beside the bed. Hesitant but compelled by a sense of duty and respect, Dukar complies, his back against the soft mattress.
Suddenly, Puripal's slender fingers find their way to Dukar's hair, gently playing with the strands. "Are you sad?" he asks, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Dukar shakes his head, his voice steady. "I have no reason to be sad."
Puripal's chuckle fills the room, a sound both melodic and melancholic. "You saved my life without a reason. I owe you one. But now you've saved our enemy's life, and I won't hold it against you. You're a smart man, Dukar. But can I trust you?"
Dukar's response comes without hesitation. "You can trust me, as long as your plans don't harm me."
A glint of amusement sparkles in Puripal's eyes. "Smart answer. You know, being the fourth son puts me in a precarious position. Not at the top, yet not forgotten. Many would see me dead."
Dukar's realization dawns as he recalls the arrow incident. The layers of palace intrigue are more complex than he imagined.
"What do you want from me?" Dukar finally asks, his voice a blend of curiosity and caution.
Puripal's proposal comes as a surprise. "Become my personal bodyguard."
Dukar laughs softly, a sound of disbelief. "I'm hardly the strongest."
"But you have the wit for it," Puripal counters. "You just need to train physically."
Dukar nods, considering the offer. "And what's in it for me?"
In response, Puripal guides Dukar's gaze to a mirror across the room. Reflected in the glass is Dukar, his hair now woven into a long braid, similar to the one the general wore.
"Wealth and power, General Tun Zol Bazhin," Puripal says with a laugh. “Such is the Will of Heaven!”
