My back hit the polished marble with a thud, scattering a delicate arrangement of glazed dates across the floor. Qadir, still radiating the heat of his sudden proximity, stood over me, chest heaving like a forge-bellow. His golden eyes, though no longer fixed on my collar, showed the whites all the way around, flared in outright panic. Then, with a curt, wordless gesture to a hulking guard, he spun on his heel and strode away, his crimson robes vanishing around a corner. The guard, a mountain of muscle named Borak by the glinting insignia on his breastplate, merely grunted, helping me up with a grip that threatened to crack my wrist. “To your quarters, sellsword. A physician will be sent.” “A physician for a bee sting?” I muttered, flexing my hand. The puncture mark was small, but the skin around my blood-pact scar throbbed with a deeper ache. Not quite a bee sting, then. The dart was laced with something, something insidious and slow-acting. My memories might be gone, but my body remembered toxins. A physician wouldn’t cut it. What I needed was industrial-strength coffee. My assigned chambers were surprisingly opulent for a mere bodyguard – gilded panels, woven rugs, and a heavy wooden brewing station complete with an array of exotic herbs and a gleaming copper alembic. Clearly, my past self had negotiated well. Or, more likely, had just taken whatever was offered. I rummaged through the supplies, bypassing the sedative-laced teas and the shimmering elixirs. My target was the dark, oily beans piled in a ceramic jar labeled ‘Qahwa-Sama’ – Sky-Coffee. I ground them with vicious satisfaction, the scent a potent antidote to the encroaching lethargy. As the alembic hissed and spat, filling the room with the rich, bitter aroma, a knock echoed on my door. Before I could answer, it opened. A man glided in, his movements fluid as oil, his slender frame draped in robes of pale jade. This was Roshan, the court apothecary, whose reputation for both brilliance and casual cruelty preceded him even in the whispers of the Zindaris underbelly. He smelled faintly of spiced incense and something acrid, like burnt sugar. “Tzar, I presume?” His voice was a silken whisper, but his eyes, dark and sharp, missed nothing. They lingered on my throbbing hand, then flicked to the pulsing blood-pact scar. “A curious injury. And an even more curious marking. A blood-pact, perhaps? With the Sun-Lord himself?” He smiled, a thin, unsettling curve of his lips. “Such a binding can be… demanding. Especially for one so new to our unique brand of hospitality.” I scowled, pouring the thick, black coffee into a chipped ceramic cup. “It’s a contract. I’m here to keep him breathing, not to dissect ancient ritualistic tattoos.” I took a long, fortifying swallow. The bitter liquid burned a trail down my throat, sharpening my senses, chasing away the creeping fog from the dart. “Unless you have a cure for a magically enhanced needle-poison that isn’t ‘rest and prayer,’ I’ll stick to my brew.” Roshan’s smile widened, revealing teeth that were just a little too white. “Oh, I have cures for many things. And ways to make those cures… interesting. But your current malady is minor. A simple paralytic, nothing more. A childish attempt. No, my interest lies elsewhere.” His gaze once again settled on the scar, a predatory glint in his eyes. “The power of such a pact… it resonates. I confess, I’m intrigued by its properties. And yours.” He took a step closer, his hand reaching out, before I slapped it away with my good hand. His expression didn’t change. “A volatile one, aren’t we? Good. The citadel favors those with fire.” He bowed, a mockery of respect. “I trust we will speak again, Tzar. Perhaps when your… attachment… to the Sun-Lord ripens.” He left as silently as he’d arrived, leaving behind the faint, unsettling scent of acrid smoke. I finished the Qahwa-Sama, feeling the caffeine surge through my veins, chasing away the last vestiges of poison-induced sluggishness. The scar still pulsed, a dull, insistent throb, but the immediate threat had passed. My past self, it seemed, wasn’t entirely useless. She’d left me with a powerful, albeit infuriating, defense mechanism. Barely an hour later, a heavy-set guard, not Borak, knocked. “The Sun-Lord demands your presence, hireling. Training rings. Now.” His tone left no room for negotiation. I followed him through winding corridors, the air growing warmer as we descended, the scent of sweat and metal replacing the citadel’s usual perfume of spices and ambition. We emerged into a vast, sun-drenched courtyard carved into the very heart of the citadel, where steam snaked from vents in the floor and the clang of steel on steel echoed off the high walls. A dozen warriors were sparring, their movements precise and brutal. And in the center, a solitary figure stood, his back to me. Qadir. He was stripped down to a simple linen tunic, his formidable physique on display. Shoulders wide, arms corded with muscle, every inch of him coiled power. He didn’t turn as I approached, his gaze fixed on the warriors. I noted the faint tremor in his hands, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was still agitated from our earlier encounter. Good. Better him rattled than me. “Mercenary.” His voice was flat, devoid of the earlier intensity. “My captain of the guard, Commander Varek. He will test your mettle. Do not disappoint.” He still refused to meet my eyes. Commander Varek was a mountain of a man, even larger than Borak, encased in polished bronze armor. He wielded a two-handed scimitar that looked like it could cleave a lesser man in half. He sneered, a glint of contempt in his eyes. “A new pet for the Sun-Lord? He grows soft. Come, ‘Tzar.’ Let’s see if your reputation holds more than your skinny frame.” I stepped into the ring, pulling a worn, but well-balanced, blade from my belt. It was plain steel, nothing fancy, but it felt right in my hand. “Skinny frames are harder to hit, Commander,” I deadpanned, adopting a stance that was less formal martial art and more coiled street dog. “And sometimes, the softest parts are the easiest to exploit.” Varek roared, charging like a bull. His scimitar arced in a terrifying sweep, designed to end the fight in one blow. I didn’t block. I didn’t parry. I sidestepped, letting the momentum of his swing carry him past me, then slammed the hilt of my blade into the back of his exposed knee. He grunted, stumbling. Before he could recover, I kicked his other knee, sending him down to one knee. The crowd of guards, previously silent, murmured in surprise. He bellowed, turning to face me, his face contorted in fury. I didn’t wait. My blade was too light to go toe-to-toe with his. So I didn’t. I ducked under another wild swing, slipping behind him, and snagged the back of his knee-plate with the tip of my blade, tripping him again. He crashed to the ground, armor clanking loudly. “Dirty fighting, cur!” Varek snarled, struggling to rise. “Coward’s tactics!” “No such thing as dirty fighting when your life is on the line, Commander,” I said, my voice dry. As he pushed himself up, I spun, swinging my blade in a low arc designed to trip, not kill. He hopped back, avoiding it, but in doing so, he presented his exposed side. I didn’t hesitate. I drove my foot into his ribs, hard. The air left his lungs in a wheezing gasp, and he folded in on himself. I didn’t wait for him to stand. I pressed the flat of my blade against his throat, just above the gorget. “Surrender, Commander. Or get a permanent tracheotomy.” Silence descended over the courtyard, broken only by Varek’s ragged breaths. His face was purple with rage and humiliation. After a long moment, he slammed his fist on the ground. “I yield!” I stepped back, sheathing my blade with a casual flick. A few low whistles came from the guards. Even Qadir’s usually impassive warriors looked impressed. I glanced at Qadir, expecting a sneer, perhaps a grudging nod. Instead, he stood utterly still, pupils blown wide, staring at my sweat-stained collar with unblinking ferocity. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his lips slightly parted. He looked… mesmerized. For a moment, I saw a flicker of something raw, something akin to desire, before his golden eyes darted away as if burned. He clutched his hand to his chest, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His breathing grew more erratic, his face paling to an ashen grey. He swayed, as if struck by a sudden blow, then turned and bolted from the training rings, his powerful strides carrying him away in a desperate flight. “What in the blazes was that?” I muttered, watching him disappear. “Did he just have a cardiac arrest because I beat his lackey?” The blood-pact scar on my palm pulsed, a faint echo of alarm. Whatever that was, it wasn’t good for my continued existence. Dismissed, I returned to my quarters, the lingering scent of Qahwa-Sama a welcome comfort. My weapons gear was piled in a corner, waiting to be sorted. As I picked through the various pouches and straps, my hand brushed against a peculiar bulge in the lining of my right bracer. It wasn’t just thick padding. Intrigued, I worked my fingers into the seam, prying it open. Inside, nestled snugly in a hidden compartment, was a perfectly polished alchemical sun-stone, pulsing with a faint, internal warmth. Etched into its smooth surface, in the unmistakable script of the Brass Wastes, was a single, stark assassination contract. And the target, emblazoned in bold, ancient runes, was Qadir, Sun-Lord of Zindaris. My own name, Tzara, was inscribed beneath it, beside the ominous words: *Final Payment: Winter Solstice.*

Caffeine and Cardiac Arrest