Dukar sits at his desk in the dimly lit room of the Qixi-Lo palace, the soft glow of a lantern casting shadows that dance across the parchment before him. The characters etched into the paper are a blend of Bugr script and Moukopl signs.
The room, enveloped in silence save for the occasional rustle of paper, serves as a sanctuary for Dukar, a space where the weight of his impending mission recedes into the background, allowing him a momentary respite. He traces the lines of text with a steady finger, absorbing the accounts of strategists whose wisdom guided the Yohazatz to their fabled unity, and warriors whose valor secured it.
Dukar's brow furrows in surprise as he pores over the ancient text, his finger pausing over a name that reverberates through the annals of history and myth alike—Demoz. The storied figure, known in legends as the formidable conqueror of the vast Bugr empire, now emerges as a pivotal architect of Yohazatz unity. The revelation sends a ripple of intrigue through Dukar, his earlier belief challenged by this new layer of historical depth.
The room, a haven of tranquility, shifts subtly as Puripal approaches, the faint sound of his footsteps melding with the rustle of parchment. He leans over Dukar's shoulder, his long hair cascading onto the scattered books and papers, a silken curtain briefly obscuring the texts. His presence carries a hint of curiosity.
"What has captured your attention so deeply in these dusty scrolls?" Puripal's voice, low and tinged with amusement, breaks the stillness, his breath warm against Dukar's ear.
Dukar turns a page gently, securing it down with one hand, his gaze not leaving the text. "History," he begins, his voice steady with a newfound reverence for the past, "is not just about what's been written down. It's about understanding the spirits of those who made it."
Puripal's eyes narrow slightly, a spark of interest flickering within. He straightens, brushing back his hair as he regards the historical documents with a renewed perspective. "And you find this fascinating?" he probes, his tone balancing between skepticism and genuine curiosity.
"Yes," Dukar replies, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. "Because it reminds us that legends and reality often weave together. What we think we know about our heroes can change with just a few words."
Puripal leans closer, his interest piqued by the animation in Dukar's voice. "Why are you saying that?" he asks, his gaze shifting between Dukar and the manuscript.
Dukar points to the name on the page, his finger resting firmly under the word 'Demoz.' "This figure here," he explains, "I always believed he was the legendary conqueror of the vast Bugr empire, a figure that spread his rule across the whole world. It's puzzling to see him also woven into the fabric of Yohazatz history."
Puripal chuckles, the sound rich with amusement. "Silly Dukar," he teases, his laughter echoing softly in the quiet room. "Bugr history is Yohazatz history. Demoz Khan's unification of the lands is a shared tale, celebrated everywhere."
Dukar frowns, his mind wrestling with the intertwining histories. "So, you consider the Bugr legends to be real, then?" he asks, seeking clarity amidst the historical confluence.
Puripal brings his face even closer to Dukar, their eyes locked in a moment of shared intimacy. "I never dared imagine that they were not," he whispers, his voice carrying a hint of reverence.
Dukar absorbs the implication of Puripal’s words, the idea that myth and history might not just coexist but be indistinguishably intertwined, shaping their understanding of their world and their place within it. The weight of this realization deepens his contemplation, as he looks back down at the ancient text, seeing it not just as a record of past deeds but as a living narrative that continues to shape the destiny of the Yohazatz—and perhaps his own.
Puripal’s eyes gleam with a mischievous spark as he observes Dukar’s deepening frown. “Consider this,” he begins, his voice playful yet probing, “if our ancestors chose to remember Demoz as both a legendary conqueror and a unifier, who are we to say where the line between myth and history lies?”
Dukar prepares to retort, his belief in the clarity of historical truth unwavering. But before he can articulate his thoughts, Puripal’s laughter cuts through the tension, light and unfettered.
“You see, Dukar,” Puripal continues, shaking his head with a grin that softens his teasing. “History is like a river that has been fed by countless streams. Some are clear, and others are muddied by time and tales. Can we truly claim to know which waters ran pure?”
Dukar’s certainty wavers as Puripal’s analogy sinks in. His eyes drift back to the manuscript, the words of the past now seeming less like declarations and more like echoes of a time too distant to decipher fully.
Puripal leans back, his amusement fading into a thoughtful expression. “The truth is,” he says, his tone more earnest, “it’s impossible to know for certain what really happened. All we have are the stories that have survived, and each one carries its own version of the truth.”
The room falls silent, save for the soft crackle of the lantern. Dukar lets the ambiguity of history settle around him, the realization dawning that perhaps the mystery of the past is not a puzzle to be solved but a narrative to be appreciated in its many hues.
Dukar, his mind whirling from their exchange, nods slowly, his voice thoughtful. "You're right... For all we know, Demoz could have been a woman."
Puripal's response comes not in words but in action. With a sudden playful shove, he pushes Dukar, sending him tumbling backward. Dukar's back hits the floor with a soft thud, his breath catching in surprise. But before he can react further, Puripal falls over him, their bodies tangling in an impromptu heap. Looking down, Puripal meets Dukar's gaze, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Or for all we know, he could have been two men."
Their laughter melds in the air, a shared moment of humor and closeness that wraps around them like a warm cloak. They hold each other in a spontaneous embrace, the earlier weight of their conversation giving way to a lighter, more intimate connection.
Just as they settle into the moment, a woman's voice pierces the stillness from behind the door, formal yet tinged with concern. "Your Highness? Are you awake?"
Puripal gathers himself, his expression hardening into one of composed royalty as he rises and strides towards the door. He opens the door slightly to reveal Kan, his loyal maidservant, standing with a posture rigid yet softened by concern.
"Your Highness," Kan begins, her voice steady but tinged with urgency, "there was an incident because of Ta earlier today."
Puripal's brow furrows slightly, a sign of his immediate attention. "I know," he replies calmly, his tone resolute. "I was the one who offered him the use of the palace bath. I take full responsibility."
Kan nods, acknowledging Puripal's ownership of the situation, then continues. "The issue, Your Highness, is that your older brother, Nemeh, returned from his travels today. He saw Ta in the palace and, unable to contain his anger, he burst out in fury and ordered his sworn brothers to lynch him. But the boy fought back..."
Puripal’s expression darkens, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Fought back?" he echoes, a mix of pride and concern in his voice.
"Yes," Kan confirms, her voice lowering. "His Highness Nemeh couldn't fathom that Ta dared to fight back. He plans to sentence him to exile tomorrow morning."
The room thickens with tension as Puripal processes the information. He remains silent for a long moment, his eyes distant as he weighs the implications. Finally, he nods. "Thank you, Kan. I will speak with Third Brother and see if his opinion can be swayed."
Kan bows deeply. "Please rest well, Your Highness," she says, her voice softening with genuine concern for his well-being.
Puripal settles back into his bed with a weary sigh, his gaze not meeting Dukar's. He seems detached, almost resigned to the unfolding events concerning Ta.
Dukar's brow creases with concern, and he leans forward, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disapproval.
"What exactly did Ta do to deserve such harsh treatment?"
Puripal’s eyes flicker with a shadow of cynicism as he responds, "Sometimes, being born under the wrong star is enough to earn punishment." He pauses, a sardonic smile briefly crossing his lips. "But don't waste your pity on Ta. He's a shrewd boy, and his prospects are darker than you might imagine."
His hand unconsciously drifts to his belly, fingers tracing the faint scar left by an arrow. "I always suspected that he's been plotting revenge against the royal family," Puripal confides, his voice lowering. "That arrow he shot at me in the desert...."
As he speaks, the memory of the pain flickers across his face. Then, as if to dismiss the gravity of the conversation, Puripal reaches out, caressing Dukar’s cheek. "Don't be saddened by Ta's fate, Dukar. It's the same for all those who can't accept the fate the spirits have chosen for them."
In the deep silence of the night, the palace of Qixi-Lo transforms. The grandeur of daylight, with its bright tapestries and echoing footfalls, gives way to a haunting stillness that pervades the vast halls and sweeping archways. Shadows cling to the intricate carvings on the walls, and the dim light from the occasional flickering torch casts an eerie glow, painting ghostly figures on the floor.
Dukar lies awake, his mind restless. He rises silently, careful not to disturb the deep, even breathing of Puripal. Dressed swiftly but quietly, Dukar slips out of the room, his footsteps soundless on the cold stone floor.
Navigating the palace corridors by memory and instinct, he moves like a shadow, dodging the sparse night guards with a practiced ease born of his years in stealth and survival in harsh terrains. His destination is clear—the dimly lit dungeons where his kinsmen from Tepr are held captive.
The dungeon, a stark contrast to the ornate luxury above, reeks of damp and despair. The air is thick with the heavy breaths of the imprisoned, each exhale a whisper of lost freedom. As Dukar approaches the first cell, the sight of his people, curled up on the hard floor trying to snatch rest from their miserable plight, tightens his chest with a mixture of anger and resolve.
He crouches near the bars, his voice barely a whisper. "Arban," he calls softly. His heart beats loudly in the stillness as he waits for his dearest comrade to stir.
Startled from a fitful sleep, Arban moves toward the sound, his face emerging into the faint light, lines of hardship etched deep. Seeing Dukar, his eyes light up momentarily with hope. "Dukar," he whispers back, his voice rough with disuse.
Dukar forces a smile, though it does not reach his eyes, heavy with the burdens he carries. "I haven't forgotten you," he assures, his voice steady despite the ache in his heart. "I'm working hard to free you all. It won't be long now. We'll be going home soon."
Arban presses his face against the cold bars, his expression a mixture of hope and skepticism. "Really? After all this time?" he asks, desperation lacing his tone.
Dukar nods, his resolve hardening. "Yes, I promise. Just hold on a little longer." His hand reaches out to grip Arban's through the bars, a tangible sign of his commitment.
"Brother!" The urgency in the voice makes Dukar whip around, his eyes widening at the sight of Ta. Even in the dim light, the marks of recent beatings are evident on his face, yet he stands cleaner than their earlier encounter that day, his eyes shining with a mix of hope and desperation.
Arban, watching from behind the bars, furrows his brow in confusion. "Do you know him?" he asks Dukar, his voice laced with suspicion.
Dukar nods, offering a brief, "I'll be right back," to Arban before approaching Ta's cell. The contrast between the hopeful light in Ta's eyes and the bleakness of the dungeon is striking.
"I'm so happy to see you again, Brother! Can you give me a hand? I need to get out of this jail absolutely!" Ta’s voice carries a fervent plea, his gaze locked on Dukar’s.
Dukar’s expression hardens slightly as he takes in Ta’s eager demeanor. "I know what they did to you, Ta... and I know what fate awaits you," he responds, his tone heavy with unspoken implications.
Ta’s laughter rings out, hollow in the dank air of the dungeon. "Ah, I'm glad you know, then I don't have to explain! Isn't it unfair?" His eyes search Dukar's face, looking for an ally in his injustice.
"But if I save you now, what are you going to do? Where are you going to go? There is nobody that wants you, Ta. You are to be exiled." Dukar’s words slice through the air, blunt and unyielding.
The smile slips from Ta’s face, his confusion and hurt flashing momentarily before being masked by defiance. "What do you mean, Brother. Aren't we... Don't you think I deserve..."
Dukar cuts him off, his voice stern, "We are not brothers. You have made an attempt at Puripal's life. You tried to finish him off when you saw him in a weak spot. Is it false?"
Ta shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes as his voice cracks with emotion. "It's false! We Yohazatz value honorable deaths; and granting one to Brother Puripal was the best possible decision at that moment! He admitted it himself!"
"Do not lie, Ta. I am the only one that can save you, so don't lie to me. Am I worthy of your trust? Or are you going to try to manipulate me and fail. What are your true intentions?" Dukar’s gaze is piercing, searching Ta’s face for any hint of deceit, his posture rigid with the burden of the decision he might have to make.
Ta's eyes gleam with a fierce intensity, his voice barely above a whisper yet laden with a chilling resolve. "I... I want justice."
Dukar's gaze narrows, his voice steady and probing. "What is justice for you, Ta?"
For a moment, Ta is silent, his breath heavy in the damp, still air of the dungeon. Then, slowly, a smile creeps across his face—an eerie, unsettling expression that belies the deep scars of both physical abuse and a wounded spirit. His eyes, though marked by the shadow of recent beatings, spark with an undiminished fire. "I want to kill them all! The princes and the Khan! For treating me as nothing more than a mistake that shouldn't be shown to the public. I want to kill the guys from that house that killed my mother and the ones that sold me to the courting house. I want to reshape the whole Yohazatz society so no such injustice can happen again!"
Dukar recoils slightly, his expression a mix of disbelief and dismay. He shakes his head slowly, his voice firm and resolute. "Unrealistic. Completely ridiculous."
Ta's face darkens once more, his fleeting smile giving way to a scowl, his features twisting into a grimace. "So you're not going to help me..." His voice is thick with betrayal and resignation, his fleeting hope dissolving into bitter disappointment.
Dukar's actions are swift and calculated. With a sudden motion, he slams the lock, opening the jail door in one fluid movement. He grabs Ta by the collar, the intensity in his eyes reflecting a hardened resolve. Without a word, he throws Ta onto the cold, stone floor. The impact is sharp, echoing off the dungeon walls. Dukar towers over him, his fists clenched, and strikes him a few times.
"I am a guard that felt like lynching you to cool off. Repeat after me."
Ta, his body tense with shock and confusion, stares up at Dukar. The words struggle to form as he repeats, "You are a guard that felt like lynching me to cool off."
"Good," Dukar replies curtly, his expression unreadable. He leaves the cell, leaving Ta alone with his thoughts, each one more turbulent than the last.
Moments later, Dukar returns. In his arms, he carries the lifeless body of a guard, his throat neatly slit. Without a word, Dukar tosses the body into the cell next to Ta. The thud of the corpse hitting the ground is a gruesome sound. He then pulls Ta to his feet, his grip firm.
"You slit his throat while defending yourself. Repeat after me," Dukar commands, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Ta, his mind reeling from the rapid turn of events, complies without hesitation. "I slit his throat while defending myself," he repeats, his voice a mix of fear and forced conviction.
"Good. Now you are free. Come or I kill you," Dukar states flatly, turning to leave the cell. His tone leaves no room for argument, compelling obedience through the sheer force of his will.
Ta follows, stumbling slightly as he catches up to Dukar's brisk pace. The corridors of the palace dungeon are a maze, but Dukar navigates them with purpose, each turn and passageway bringing them closer to an uncertain freedom. Ta's mind races, trying to piece together Dukar's plan, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and dread. He doesn't understand where he's being taken, only that his fate now lies irreversibly intertwined with Dukar's mysterious intentions.
"You are so weak, you won't be able to kill anyone like this. And don't get me started on reshaping the whole Yohazatz society," Dukar's voice cuts through the silence with sharp precision. "Even if, with a thousand miracles, you killed the whole royal family, that doesn’t mean you will be a good leader. Nobody will listen to you because you lack a ruler's legitimacy. Royal blood flows in your veins but in everyone's mind, you will still be a bastard, and a regicide."
Ta's face falls, the weight of Dukar's words pressing down on him, forcing him to confront the futility and naivety of his violent aspirations. His steps falter slightly, but Dukar’s grip ensures he doesn’t lag behind.
Dukar continues, his tone slightly softer but no less stern, "Puripal must sit on the throne. He has the legitimacy of noble blood, and the charisma and empathy of a great leader. He will listen to your pleas and be able to reshape Yohazatz society."
As they near their destination, the intensity in Dukar’s eyes reflects the gravity of the situation. "But your fate is between his hands," he asserts. "I am taking you to Puripal, and if you can convince us that you will not make an attempt against his life again, and vow to help him sit on the throne, then you will be granted a place of choice for the rest of your life."
An amusing thought tickles Dukar. What if Demoz was two men, and a slightly deranged boy. It makes him smirk uncontrollably.
Dukar sits at his desk in the dimly lit room of the Qixi-Lo palace, the soft glow of a lantern casting shadows that dance across the parchment before him. The characters etched into the paper are a blend of Bugr script and Moukopl signs.
The room, enveloped in silence save for the occasional rustle of paper, serves as a sanctuary for Dukar, a space where the weight of his impending mission recedes into the background, allowing him a momentary respite. He traces the lines of text with a steady finger, absorbing the accounts of strategists whose wisdom guided the Yohazatz to their fabled unity, and warriors whose valor secured it.
Dukar's brow furrows in surprise as he pores over the ancient text, his finger pausing over a name that reverberates through the annals of history and myth alike—Demoz. The storied figure, known in legends as the formidable conqueror of the vast Bugr empire, now emerges as a pivotal architect of Yohazatz unity. The revelation sends a ripple of intrigue through Dukar, his earlier belief challenged by this new layer of historical depth.
The room, a haven of tranquility, shifts subtly as Puripal approaches, the faint sound of his footsteps melding with the rustle of parchment. He leans over Dukar's shoulder, his long hair cascading onto the scattered books and papers, a silken curtain briefly obscuring the texts. His presence carries a hint of curiosity.
"What has captured your attention so deeply in these dusty scrolls?" Puripal's voice, low and tinged with amusement, breaks the stillness, his breath warm against Dukar's ear.
Dukar turns a page gently, securing it down with one hand, his gaze not leaving the text. "History," he begins, his voice steady with a newfound reverence for the past, "is not just about what's been written down. It's about understanding the spirits of those who made it."
Puripal's eyes narrow slightly, a spark of interest flickering within. He straightens, brushing back his hair as he regards the historical documents with a renewed perspective. "And you find this fascinating?" he probes, his tone balancing between skepticism and genuine curiosity.
"Yes," Dukar replies, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. "Because it reminds us that legends and reality often weave together. What we think we know about our heroes can change with just a few words."
Puripal leans closer, his interest piqued by the animation in Dukar's voice. "Why are you saying that?" he asks, his gaze shifting between Dukar and the manuscript.
Dukar points to the name on the page, his finger resting firmly under the word 'Demoz.' "This figure here," he explains, "I always believed he was the legendary conqueror of the vast Bugr empire, a figure that spread his rule across the whole world. It's puzzling to see him also woven into the fabric of Yohazatz history."
Puripal chuckles, the sound rich with amusement. "Silly Dukar," he teases, his laughter echoing softly in the quiet room. "Bugr history is Yohazatz history. Demoz Khan's unification of the lands is a shared tale, celebrated everywhere."
Dukar frowns, his mind wrestling with the intertwining histories. "So, you consider the Bugr legends to be real, then?" he asks, seeking clarity amidst the historical confluence.
Puripal brings his face even closer to Dukar, their eyes locked in a moment of shared intimacy. "I never dared imagine that they were not," he whispers, his voice carrying a hint of reverence.
Dukar absorbs the implication of Puripal’s words, the idea that myth and history might not just coexist but be indistinguishably intertwined, shaping their understanding of their world and their place within it. The weight of this realization deepens his contemplation, as he looks back down at the ancient text, seeing it not just as a record of past deeds but as a living narrative that continues to shape the destiny of the Yohazatz—and perhaps his own.
Puripal’s eyes gleam with a mischievous spark as he observes Dukar’s deepening frown. “Consider this,” he begins, his voice playful yet probing, “if our ancestors chose to remember Demoz as both a legendary conqueror and a unifier, who are we to say where the line between myth and history lies?”
Dukar prepares to retort, his belief in the clarity of historical truth unwavering. But before he can articulate his thoughts, Puripal’s laughter cuts through the tension, light and unfettered.
“You see, Dukar,” Puripal continues, shaking his head with a grin that softens his teasing. “History is like a river that has been fed by countless streams. Some are clear, and others are muddied by time and tales. Can we truly claim to know which waters ran pure?”
Dukar’s certainty wavers as Puripal’s analogy sinks in. His eyes drift back to the manuscript, the words of the past now seeming less like declarations and more like echoes of a time too distant to decipher fully.
Puripal leans back, his amusement fading into a thoughtful expression. “The truth is,” he says, his tone more earnest, “it’s impossible to know for certain what really happened. All we have are the stories that have survived, and each one carries its own version of the truth.”
The room falls silent, save for the soft crackle of the lantern. Dukar lets the ambiguity of history settle around him, the realization dawning that perhaps the mystery of the past is not a puzzle to be solved but a narrative to be appreciated in its many hues.
Dukar, his mind whirling from their exchange, nods slowly, his voice thoughtful. "You're right... For all we know, Demoz could have been a woman."
Puripal's response comes not in words but in action. With a sudden playful shove, he pushes Dukar, sending him tumbling backward. Dukar's back hits the floor with a soft thud, his breath catching in surprise. But before he can react further, Puripal falls over him, their bodies tangling in an impromptu heap. Looking down, Puripal meets Dukar's gaze, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Or for all we know, he could have been two men."
Their laughter melds in the air, a shared moment of humor and closeness that wraps around them like a warm cloak. They hold each other in a spontaneous embrace, the earlier weight of their conversation giving way to a lighter, more intimate connection.
Just as they settle into the moment, a woman's voice pierces the stillness from behind the door, formal yet tinged with concern. "Your Highness? Are you awake?"
Puripal gathers himself, his expression hardening into one of composed royalty as he rises and strides towards the door. He opens the door slightly to reveal Kan, his loyal maidservant, standing with a posture rigid yet softened by concern.
"Your Highness," Kan begins, her voice steady but tinged with urgency, "there was an incident because of Ta earlier today."
Puripal's brow furrows slightly, a sign of his immediate attention. "I know," he replies calmly, his tone resolute. "I was the one who offered him the use of the palace bath. I take full responsibility."
Kan nods, acknowledging Puripal's ownership of the situation, then continues. "The issue, Your Highness, is that your older brother, Nemeh, returned from his travels today. He saw Ta in the palace and, unable to contain his anger, he burst out in fury and ordered his sworn brothers to lynch him. But the boy fought back..."
Puripal’s expression darkens, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Fought back?" he echoes, a mix of pride and concern in his voice.
"Yes," Kan confirms, her voice lowering. "His Highness Nemeh couldn't fathom that Ta dared to fight back. He plans to sentence him to exile tomorrow morning."
The room thickens with tension as Puripal processes the information. He remains silent for a long moment, his eyes distant as he weighs the implications. Finally, he nods. "Thank you, Kan. I will speak with Third Brother and see if his opinion can be swayed."
Kan bows deeply. "Please rest well, Your Highness," she says, her voice softening with genuine concern for his well-being.
Puripal settles back into his bed with a weary sigh, his gaze not meeting Dukar's. He seems detached, almost resigned to the unfolding events concerning Ta.
Dukar's brow creases with concern, and he leans forward, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disapproval.
"What exactly did Ta do to deserve such harsh treatment?"
Puripal’s eyes flicker with a shadow of cynicism as he responds, "Sometimes, being born under the wrong star is enough to earn punishment." He pauses, a sardonic smile briefly crossing his lips. "But don't waste your pity on Ta. He's a shrewd boy, and his prospects are darker than you might imagine."
His hand unconsciously drifts to his belly, fingers tracing the faint scar left by an arrow. "I always suspected that he's been plotting revenge against the royal family," Puripal confides, his voice lowering. "That arrow he shot at me in the desert...."
As he speaks, the memory of the pain flickers across his face. Then, as if to dismiss the gravity of the conversation, Puripal reaches out, caressing Dukar’s cheek. "Don't be saddened by Ta's fate, Dukar. It's the same for all those who can't accept the fate the spirits have chosen for them."
In the deep silence of the night, the palace of Qixi-Lo transforms. The grandeur of daylight, with its bright tapestries and echoing footfalls, gives way to a haunting stillness that pervades the vast halls and sweeping archways. Shadows cling to the intricate carvings on the walls, and the dim light from the occasional flickering torch casts an eerie glow, painting ghostly figures on the floor.
Dukar lies awake, his mind restless. He rises silently, careful not to disturb the deep, even breathing of Puripal. Dressed swiftly but quietly, Dukar slips out of the room, his footsteps soundless on the cold stone floor.
Navigating the palace corridors by memory and instinct, he moves like a shadow, dodging the sparse night guards with a practiced ease born of his years in stealth and survival in harsh terrains. His destination is clear—the dimly lit dungeons where his kinsmen from Tepr are held captive.
The dungeon, a stark contrast to the ornate luxury above, reeks of damp and despair. The air is thick with the heavy breaths of the imprisoned, each exhale a whisper of lost freedom. As Dukar approaches the first cell, the sight of his people, curled up on the hard floor trying to snatch rest from their miserable plight, tightens his chest with a mixture of anger and resolve.
He crouches near the bars, his voice barely a whisper. "Arban," he calls softly. His heart beats loudly in the stillness as he waits for his dearest comrade to stir.
Startled from a fitful sleep, Arban moves toward the sound, his face emerging into the faint light, lines of hardship etched deep. Seeing Dukar, his eyes light up momentarily with hope. "Dukar," he whispers back, his voice rough with disuse.
Dukar forces a smile, though it does not reach his eyes, heavy with the burdens he carries. "I haven't forgotten you," he assures, his voice steady despite the ache in his heart. "I'm working hard to free you all. It won't be long now. We'll be going home soon."
Arban presses his face against the cold bars, his expression a mixture of hope and skepticism. "Really? After all this time?" he asks, desperation lacing his tone.
Dukar nods, his resolve hardening. "Yes, I promise. Just hold on a little longer." His hand reaches out to grip Arban's through the bars, a tangible sign of his commitment.
"Brother!" The urgency in the voice makes Dukar whip around, his eyes widening at the sight of Ta. Even in the dim light, the marks of recent beatings are evident on his face, yet he stands cleaner than their earlier encounter that day, his eyes shining with a mix of hope and desperation.
Arban, watching from behind the bars, furrows his brow in confusion. "Do you know him?" he asks Dukar, his voice laced with suspicion.
Dukar nods, offering a brief, "I'll be right back," to Arban before approaching Ta's cell. The contrast between the hopeful light in Ta's eyes and the bleakness of the dungeon is striking.
"I'm so happy to see you again, Brother! Can you give me a hand? I need to get out of this jail absolutely!" Ta’s voice carries a fervent plea, his gaze locked on Dukar’s.
Dukar’s expression hardens slightly as he takes in Ta’s eager demeanor. "I know what they did to you, Ta... and I know what fate awaits you," he responds, his tone heavy with unspoken implications.
Ta’s laughter rings out, hollow in the dank air of the dungeon. "Ah, I'm glad you know, then I don't have to explain! Isn't it unfair?" His eyes search Dukar's face, looking for an ally in his injustice.
"But if I save you now, what are you going to do? Where are you going to go? There is nobody that wants you, Ta. You are to be exiled." Dukar’s words slice through the air, blunt and unyielding.
The smile slips from Ta’s face, his confusion and hurt flashing momentarily before being masked by defiance. "What do you mean, Brother. Aren't we... Don't you think I deserve..."
Dukar cuts him off, his voice stern, "We are not brothers. You have made an attempt at Puripal's life. You tried to finish him off when you saw him in a weak spot. Is it false?"
Ta shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes as his voice cracks with emotion. "It's false! We Yohazatz value honorable deaths; and granting one to Brother Puripal was the best possible decision at that moment! He admitted it himself!"
"Do not lie, Ta. I am the only one that can save you, so don't lie to me. Am I worthy of your trust? Or are you going to try to manipulate me and fail. What are your true intentions?" Dukar’s gaze is piercing, searching Ta’s face for any hint of deceit, his posture rigid with the burden of the decision he might have to make.
Ta's eyes gleam with a fierce intensity, his voice barely above a whisper yet laden with a chilling resolve. "I... I want justice."
Dukar's gaze narrows, his voice steady and probing. "What is justice for you, Ta?"
For a moment, Ta is silent, his breath heavy in the damp, still air of the dungeon. Then, slowly, a smile creeps across his face—an eerie, unsettling expression that belies the deep scars of both physical abuse and a wounded spirit. His eyes, though marked by the shadow of recent beatings, spark with an undiminished fire. "I want to kill them all! The princes and the Khan! For treating me as nothing more than a mistake that shouldn't be shown to the public. I want to kill the guys from that house that killed my mother and the ones that sold me to the courting house. I want to reshape the whole Yohazatz society so no such injustice can happen again!"
Dukar recoils slightly, his expression a mix of disbelief and dismay. He shakes his head slowly, his voice firm and resolute. "Unrealistic. Completely ridiculous."
Ta's face darkens once more, his fleeting smile giving way to a scowl, his features twisting into a grimace. "So you're not going to help me..." His voice is thick with betrayal and resignation, his fleeting hope dissolving into bitter disappointment.
Dukar's actions are swift and calculated. With a sudden motion, he slams the lock, opening the jail door in one fluid movement. He grabs Ta by the collar, the intensity in his eyes reflecting a hardened resolve. Without a word, he throws Ta onto the cold, stone floor. The impact is sharp, echoing off the dungeon walls. Dukar towers over him, his fists clenched, and strikes him a few times.
"I am a guard that felt like lynching you to cool off. Repeat after me."
Ta, his body tense with shock and confusion, stares up at Dukar. The words struggle to form as he repeats, "You are a guard that felt like lynching me to cool off."
"Good," Dukar replies curtly, his expression unreadable. He leaves the cell, leaving Ta alone with his thoughts, each one more turbulent than the last.
Moments later, Dukar returns. In his arms, he carries the lifeless body of a guard, his throat neatly slit. Without a word, Dukar tosses the body into the cell next to Ta. The thud of the corpse hitting the ground is a gruesome sound. He then pulls Ta to his feet, his grip firm.
"You slit his throat while defending yourself. Repeat after me," Dukar commands, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Ta, his mind reeling from the rapid turn of events, complies without hesitation. "I slit his throat while defending myself," he repeats, his voice a mix of fear and forced conviction.
"Good. Now you are free. Come or I kill you," Dukar states flatly, turning to leave the cell. His tone leaves no room for argument, compelling obedience through the sheer force of his will.
Ta follows, stumbling slightly as he catches up to Dukar's brisk pace. The corridors of the palace dungeon are a maze, but Dukar navigates them with purpose, each turn and passageway bringing them closer to an uncertain freedom. Ta's mind races, trying to piece together Dukar's plan, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and dread. He doesn't understand where he's being taken, only that his fate now lies irreversibly intertwined with Dukar's mysterious intentions.
"You are so weak, you won't be able to kill anyone like this. And don't get me started on reshaping the whole Yohazatz society," Dukar's voice cuts through the silence with sharp precision. "Even if, with a thousand miracles, you killed the whole royal family, that doesn’t mean you will be a good leader. Nobody will listen to you because you lack a ruler's legitimacy. Royal blood flows in your veins but in everyone's mind, you will still be a bastard, and a regicide."
Ta's face falls, the weight of Dukar's words pressing down on him, forcing him to confront the futility and naivety of his violent aspirations. His steps falter slightly, but Dukar’s grip ensures he doesn’t lag behind.
Dukar continues, his tone slightly softer but no less stern, "Puripal must sit on the throne. He has the legitimacy of noble blood, and the charisma and empathy of a great leader. He will listen to your pleas and be able to reshape Yohazatz society."
As they near their destination, the intensity in Dukar’s eyes reflects the gravity of the situation. "But your fate is between his hands," he asserts. "I am taking you to Puripal, and if you can convince us that you will not make an attempt against his life again, and vow to help him sit on the throne, then you will be granted a place of choice for the rest of your life."
An amusing thought tickles Dukar. What if Demoz was two men, and a slightly deranged boy. It makes him smirk uncontrollably.
