The wind carried Tavash’s words, sharp as crushed glass, across the barren plains. Tasmira, still pressed into Zarbek’s side, felt her fingers twitch. A familiar tremor seized her throat, the dry choke of terror locking her tongue against her palate. Defying her cousin in public remained an impossibility, every syllable trapped behind clenched teeth. But defiance was exactly what was needed. Not for her own pride, but for Zarbek’s. For the man who, in this life, would not die a slow, agonizing death from the Wasting Curse. Tavash would not diminish him. Not now. Not ever. Her grip on Zarbek’s wrist tightened, her knuckles white beneath her gauntlet. She could feel the hard flex of his forearm, the steady beat of his pulse beneath the leather. He was a mountain of quiet strength, but even mountains could be worn down by relentless sands. She pressed her cheek directly to his woolen cloak, her lips grazing his neck to mouth hot, ragged words against the gale. “The man leading them,” she hissed, glaring at the broad-shouldered brute in black-enameled mail who stood at the forefront, prism-rifle leveled with casual arrogance. “Break his legs. Make him crawl.” Zarbek stiffened. His stoic profile, usually unreadable, betrayed a flicker of something close to bewilderment. He shifted, his head tilting infinitesimally towards her, a faint crease forming between his brows. His leather-wrapped palm covered hers, thick and heat-baked, clamping her fingers tightly. He seemed about to speak, perhaps to question, perhaps to reason, but Tasmira’s grip only intensified, a silent, desperate plea. She lifted her head, just enough to meet his eyes. Her own gaze, usually downcast, blazed with a ferocity that seemed to siphon off her shyness, channeling it into an unyielding demand. *Break him.* The confusion in Zarbek’s eyes deepened, but then, slowly, a spark of understanding, followed by a terrifying, cold resolve, ignited within them. Zarbek turned toward the perimeter. His armor, forged of dark volcanic glass and pale steel, glinted beneath the blood-orange sky. “Lower your weapons,” he said, his flat baritone cutting clean across the gale. “Or die as mutineers.” The line officer, a burly thug with a notched cheek, barked a laugh. “Treason? Warlord, your ‘wife’ is a wanted criminal. The Emperor’s decree—” The man never finished his sentence. Before the last word left his lips, Zarbek moved. It wasn't a charge, not a wild swing. It was a single, fluid motion. His massive Sand-Cleaver, forged from sky-fall iron, cleared its sheath with an iron shriek. It arced through the twilight, a blur of midnight metal. The officer had no time to retreat. Zarbek reversed the strike, using the blunt flat of the broad iron slab to crush both patellas in a single concussive crack. The rifle spun away as the man collapsed into the grit, howling around pulverized joints. A collective gasp went through the other guards. Their formation wavered. They had expected bluster, negotiation, perhaps even a desperate charge, but not this cold, brutal efficiency. Not the immediate, unhesitating execution of such a savage, non-fatal command. Zarbek stood over the fallen captain, his Sand-Cleaver resting casually on his shoulder, the tip still glistening faintly in the twilight. “Anyone else?” Zarbek asked softly. The sentries backed away from their thrashing leader, barrel tips dipping toward the red sand. “Open the gates,” Tasmira whispered against his bicep. The sight of her tormentor's officer groveling on shattered bones uncoiled a hard heat in her gut. She could not speak to armies, but through Zarbek, she could break them. Zarbek nodded, a subtle tilt of his head. At his signal, the Glass Wastes veterans surged past them. Outnumbered three to one, they fell upon the demoralized line with shields and short-axes. Tavash's men broke, scattering across the dunes or throwing down their rifles. With a grinding groan, the leviathan's ribbed blast doors slid apart. The caravan rumbled across the threshold into the Obsidian Citadel, leaving the crippled officer behind. Interior passages arched overhead like petrified whale ribs, shot through with raw amber mineral veins. They hadn’t gone far when a slender figure emerged from a side passage, his robes the color of bleached bone, adorned with intricate, swirling patterns of black dust. Olema. He was ancient, his face a roadmap of deep creases and lines, his eyes the color of polished jade, holding a wisdom that seemed to predate the very dunes outside. He stepped forward with fluid grace, his staff of polished black glass tapping against the stone. “Commander Zarbek,” Olema rasped. “Lady Tasmira. A bloody entrance. The upper tiers crawl with Tavash's informants. I have prepared shelter below in the geothermal flues, away from prying ears.” His shrewd gaze settled on Tasmira for a beat, calculating, before dipping in respect. High above the central atrium, Tavash stood upon an iron catwalk, glaring down through the mineral haze. A thin sneer touched his lips. He had lost his vanguard line, but he was already retreating into the shadows of the council halls. The lower flues hummed with subterranean heat. Carved directly into the fossilized leviathan spine, the narrow bunks radiated orange light from rich, uncut mineral seams. The air tasted of ozone and dry sulfur. “Rest here,” Olema murmured. “I will bring food. Rest before the tribunal calls.” He bowed and vanished into the amber gloom. Zarbek ducked beneath the stone lintel and unbuckled his harness. Black plate and steel scales clattered against a wooden trestle. He stripped off the dust-caked cloak, baring the broad corded muscle of his shoulders. Tasmira watched his every movement from the doorway, her protectiveness fierce and sharp. He worked his way down, unlatching the breastplate, then the vambraces. His skin showed old blade furrows and shrapnel burns earned across a decade in the Wastes. As he reached for the gorget at his neck, the one that protected his throat, Tasmira’s gaze snagged on something. Something that hadn’t been there before. A fine, blackened thread crept from his clavicle toward his jaw, branching like frozen soot beneath the flesh. The Wasting Curse was already rotting his veins.

Shattered Knees and Sanctuary