The stench of wet limestone and stagnant canal runoff hit Zariyah Roshan first. Zariyah Roshan blinked, the gritty film in her eyes making the cavern walls blur. One second she was demonstrating a rather brutal armbar to a particularly stubborn cadet, the next she was staring at glowing fungal growths and the unsettling, guttural snarls of something *wrong*. This was the Sunless Qanat, wasn't it? The infamous underground labyrinth from ‘The Brazen Falcon’. Her ribs rattled with disbelief. She had transmigrated. Then she saw *him*. A boy, no older than ten, huddled beside a shattered column. His fine robes were torn, his dark hair matted with grime, and his eyes… or where his eyes should be, were raw, weeping wounds, crudely bandaged. The boy was Qadir. Cursed and blinded, the future warlord of the novel was about to be devoured by four scuttling, multi-limbed horrors whose carapaces reflected the bioluminescent fungi. “Oh, for the love of the Desert Winds!” Zariyah roared, her voice echoing with a martial instructor's practiced fury. Subtlety was for the weak, political maneuvering for the bored. Explosive violence? That was her jam. Her gaze swept the immediate vicinity, landing on a ridiculously heavy-looking stone chair, carved with faded, intricate patterns. It probably weighed more than she did. She grabbed it. The ancient stone scraped against the floor, a sound like grinding teeth. With a grunt that would put a seasoned stevedore to shame, Zariyah heaved the chair over her head. The tunnel vermin paused, their clustered eyes swiveling toward the noise. Too late. She launched the projectile with every ounce of her prodigious strength. It spun end over end, an ash-gray blur, and smashed into the lead stalker with a crunch. Chitin splintered, black bile sprayed the stones, and the thing dissolved into oily smoke. The other three recoiled, startled. One of them, a nimble thing with needle-like legs, tried to dart towards Qadir again. Zariyah was already moving, a blur of motion fueled by pure, unadulterated rage at the unfairness of it all. She refused to let a child die on her watch, royal or not. She intercepted the beast, her fist connecting with its carapace with the force of a battering ram. Another shriek, another spray of black muck. The remaining two, apparently having assessed her threat level, decided discretion was the better part of valor and scuttled away into the deeper darkness. Zariyah watched them go, breathing heavily, her knuckles stinging. “Are you alright, kid?” she barked, turning to Qadir. He flinched, curling further into himself. He looked like a wounded desert fox. Guilt, a rare and unfamiliar sensation, pricked at Zariyah. Maybe a gentler approach. Maybe. She knelt, her eyes scanning his wounds. The original story said his curse was unique, tied to his aura. Her own aura, usually a volatile, fiery orange that often manifested as spontaneous combustion when she got *really* mad, hummed under her skin. She reached out, a hesitant hand hovering over his brow. A faint, golden glow emanated from her palm, tentative at first, then blossoming into a warm pulse. Qadir gasped, a small, choked sound. The crust along the linen strip across his brows stopped seeping. Her aura wasn't healing him, not truly, but it was stabilizing the volatile corruption, making him less likely to just… fall apart. He slumped, unconscious but breathing evenly. “Right. That’s that, then,” Zariyah muttered, surveying her handiwork. She couldn't fix the curse. That was Shirin’s job, eventually. But she could deliver him to safety, and then she was *out*. This whole 'villainess who gets executed for treason' subplot wasn't for her. Quiet village life, perhaps farming simple greens, sounded far better. She slung the unconscious boy over her shoulder, surprisingly light despite his fine robes, and navigated the treacherous paths of the Qanat. It took hours, but eventually, she found the hidden passage leading to the Grand Vizier’s private audience chambers. She unceremoniously dropped Qadir, who stirred but didn't wake, at the feet of a startled Grand Vizier Tariq, his usually placid face contorted in an expression of shock. “Here. Found your missing prince,” Zariyah announced, dusting her hands off on her already grimy tunic. Tariq, her supposed mentor, the kindly old man who had taught her court etiquette – poorly, judging by her current disposition – blinked at the sight of the battered boy. Tariq was the grandfatherly snake who had maimed the boy in the first place, though she kept her knuckles down for now. But he was also her only ticket out. “Zariyah! Where did you… what happened to His Highness?” Tariq stammered, his eyes darting from Qadir to Zariyah’s battle-smudged face. “Qanat vermin. The usual welcoming committee. He’s stable now, but still cursed. Not my department,” she declared, crossing her arms. “I’m retiring to Firuza. I hear the loam is perfect for brassicas.” Tariq opened and closed his mouth several times, a bewildered fish. “Firuza? But your duties to the Sultanate…” “Are null and void. Consider my resignation tendered. In… a rather robust fashion.” She gestured vaguely at her still-smoking knuckles. “Inform the Emperor. Or don’t. I really don’t care. Goodbye.” And with that, Zariyah turned on her heel, leaving the Grand Vizier gaping at the boy dumped upon his Persian rug. Ten years. Ten glorious years of tending a small, verdant plot in the village of Firuza. Ten years of undisturbed cultivation. She had perfected her curly kale, her bok choy was crisp, and her heirloom Savoy heads were the envy of the valley. No court intrigue, no underground horrors, no execution block. Just red clay, well water, and quiet seasons. It was paradise. Then the imperial envoy arrived. The man, resplendent in gold-embroidered crimson and a towering silk turban, stood in her vegetable patch with sweat soaking his collar. His guards, equally terrified, stood at rigid attention, their spears glinting. Zariyah, wiping dirt from her brow with a calloused hand, eyed him with suspicion. Nobody this ornate ever brought good news to a farmer. “Lady Zariyah Roshan?” the envoy croaked, his voice cracking. “The one and only. What’s the trouble? Did my last shipment of Green Giants not meet the royal chef’s exacting standards?” she asked, a brow arching. Her tone was light, but her eyes held a spark that warned against wasting her time. “No, Lady Zariyah, it is… Prince Qadir. He has… returned.” The envoy swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the dirt around Zariyah’s bare feet as if expecting it to explode. Zariyah’s placid expression didn't waver. “Qadir? Good for him. I always hoped he’d find a good eye doctor. What’s that got to do with my crops?” The envoy wrung his hands. “He has conquered the northern steppes, Lady Zariyah. He commands an army that darkens the horizon. He has… taken the capital. And he is holding Emperor Rashid hostage.” Zariyah stared. The woven crate of heads she held slipped, spilling leafy globes across the furrows. “He… what? Why? What in the name of the Desert Serpent is he thinking?” “He demands you, Lady Zariyah. He says… he will not release the Emperor until you are delivered to him. As his bride.” The envoy practically whimpered the last word. Before Zariyah could spit an oath, daylight dimmed across the courtyard under a sudden, suffocating pressure. The imperial guards yelped, clutching their spears and backing away. A figure emerged from behind the simple mud-brick walls of her garden, a man of impossible height and terrifying presence. His long, black robes seemed to absorb the light, and his face, framed by dark, unbound hair, was a chiseled masterpiece of fierce beauty. His eyes, no longer weeping wounds but molten gold under heavy brows, swept over the scene, landing with unnerving intensity on Zariyah. In his hand, he held a delicate djinn-glass lantern, its magical light casting shimmering patterns on his dark skin. He squeezed it. The intricate glass *shattered* into a thousand glittering fragments, a soft chime filling the suddenly silent courtyard. His gaze never left hers, possessive and utterly absolute. “Zariyah,” Qadir’s voice was a low rumble, a sound that promised both devastation and devotion. “You promised.”

The Cabbage Farmer and the Warlord