The alchemical sun-stone pulsed, a faint, rhythmic thrum against my palm. Qadir. Target: Qadir. My own name, Tzara, beneath it, then *Final Payment: Winter Solstice*. The meaning settled in my gut like a mouthful of sand. This wasn’t just a random assassination hit; it was *my* past self’s order. The blood-pact. It clicked, a grim, cynical masterpiece of self-preservation. My past self, the legendary mercenary Tzara, had taken a contract to kill the Sun-Lord. But then, for reasons lost to my memory, she’d decided against it. Or rather, she’d found a way out. Not by simply refusing, no. That wasn’t her style. She’d leveraged the very magic of the Brass Wastes, signing a blood-pact to *protect* him, binding her life to his. A cruel, elegant trap, guaranteeing she couldn’t back out of protecting him without incinerating herself, thereby neatly ensuring she couldn’t fulfill her previous bounty. I almost admired the sheer, unhinged genius. Almost. If it wasn’t currently threatening to turn my insides into a bonfire. My past self was a complete menace, even to herself. A true mercenary, playing both sides of the coin. Now I had to keep a terrified, sexually confused warlord alive or spontaneously combust. Fantastic. The aroma of Qahwa-Sama suddenly tasted like ash. My bracer, now lacking its secret passenger, felt lighter, yet this revelation dragged heavier than iron plates.
My musings were cut short by a sharp rap on the door. “Tzar! The Sun-Lord commands your presence in the geothermal hammams. Immediate guard duty.”
“The… what now?” I muttered, already regretting the next few minutes of my life. The hammams. The thought conjured images of sweaty, naked bodies and echoing whispers. The last place a woman disguised as a man wanted to be. This was going to be excruciating.
The corridors leading to the Sun-Spire’s lower levels grew progressively hotter, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and minerals. Steam billowed from every grated vent, muffling the usual palace clamor into a series of indistinct murmurs. The guards at the hammam entrance were stripped to loincloths, their bronzed skin glistening. They nodded me through, their expressions a mix of grim resignation and envy at my fully clothed state. The heat hit me like a physical blow. I stepped into a vast chamber of polished obsidian and veined marble, where humid air swirled around massive, shallow pools. The ceiling, painted with constellations that seemed to shimmer in the steam, soared impossibly high. The sound of rushing water and distant, unintelligible chanting echoed through the space.
And there, in the largest pool, waist-deep in water that steamed like a kettle, was Qadir. He wasn’t relaxing. He was scrubbing himself with a bristly loofah, a furious intensity in his movements, like he was trying to scour the sin from his very skin. He recited military logistics, loud enough to carry over the gurgle of the water. “...the third division, stationed at Fort Khet-Sar, will require a resupply of alchemical sun-ore by the third moon-phase. The northern garrisons are to increase their patrols along the Whisperwind Pass by twenty percent. Re-evaluate the efficacy of the flame-thrower balistas on the eastern wall of Ziggur-Nabat.” His voice, usually a rumbling command, was strained, almost panicked. His eyes were wide, darting, as if expecting an attack from within his own psyche.
He didn’t seem to notice me at first. I stood by the marble steps, feeling the dampness seep into my heavy tunic, already slick with sweat. My blood-pact scar throbbed, a low, persistent hum. I considered my options: discreetly evaporate, or endure the impending awkwardness. Given the scar, evaporation was probably not on the menu. So, I leaned against a heated column, trying to appear nonchalant, like I frequently guarded half-naked warlords who self-flagellated with military strategies.
Just then, Roshan, the apothecary, glided in, a disturbing smile playing on his lips. He wore a simple, finely woven robe that seemed impervious to the humidity, his hair still perfectly coiled. He carried a small, covered porcelain bowl. He approached the edge of Qadir’s pool, his gaze predatory. “Ah, Sun-Lord. I trust the waters are sufficiently invigorating?”
Qadir flinched, his scrubbing motions faltering. “Roshan. I was just— strategizing.”
Roshan’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Of course. A mind such as yours never rests, even in repose. However,” he paused, drawing out the word, “your heart rate, my lord, is quite elevated. And your… countenance. Tell me, are you experiencing the ‘Desert Sweats’?”
Qadir’s eyes narrowed. “Desert Sweats? What fresh malady is this?”
“A fascinating condition,” Roshan purred, circling the pool. “The body, overwhelmed by internal fires, seeks release. A racing heart, an unbidden flush, a peculiar… attraction to that which usually brings you no interest.” He glanced pointedly at me, then back at Qadir, his gaze dripping with malicious amusement. “It is a disturbance of the humors, a fever of the spirit. But fear not, my lord. I have a cure.” He lifted the lid of his porcelain bowl. Inside, a dozen fat, obsidian-black leeches writhed, their suction cups glistening.
Qadir’s face paled further, if such a thing was possible under the flush of the steam. “Leeches? You wish to attach *those* to me?”
“For the heart, my lord,” Roshan insisted, his voice falsely soothing. “They will draw out the imbalanced humors, calm the racing pulse. Think of it as a cooling draft for your overheated desires.” He moved to the edge of the pool, preparing to release the squirming creatures near Qadir.
My patience, already frayed by the heat and the grotesque display, snapped. I shifted, intending to find a less visible corner, a less… leech-adjacent spot. My boot, slick with condensation, found no purchase on the polished marble. My feet flew out from under me. I windmilled my arms, a desperate, flailing attempt to regain balance, but it was useless. With a pathetic splash, I plunged headfirst into the steaming pool, fully clothed.
The water was scalding, a shock against my skin, and my heavy clothes immediately dragged me down. I surfaced, spluttering, my hair plastered to my face, vision blurred by steam and water. Before I could even tread water, a strong hand gripped my tunic, hauling me upwards with surprising force. My face was inches from Qadir’s. His eyes, usually fierce and calculating, were wide with alarm, and a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, or even a strange, raw protectiveness—passed through them before he could mask it. His breath, hot and mineral-scented, ghosted across my cheek. My ribs vibrated with frantic beats against the sudden proximity, against the blood-pact’s insistent thrum. And then, before either of us could react, a dozen slick, black leeches, disturbed by my sudden plunge, detached from Roshan’s bowl and, with an unnerving precision, latched onto my soaked tunic, just above my chest, seeking purchase through the wet fabric.
Roshan’s lips curled into a slow, dark smirk. “Well, well, Tzar,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rush of water, his eyes piercing through the steam, “it seems even the ‘Desert Sweats’ know where to find the sweetest blood. And I, for one, know exactly what you’re hiding under those soaked tunics.”