The black worms, slick as oiled slag, had already begun their work. A warm, slick sensation spread across my chest, just above the crude binding that compressed my ribs, even through the soaked tunic. Roshan’s smirk widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as Qadir, still holding me half-submerged, finally registered the squirming parasites. His intense gaze flickered from the leeches to my face, then back again, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “The ‘Desert Sweats’ are a fickle affliction, Sun-Lord,” Roshan purred, stepping closer to the pool’s edge, a small, polished blade appearing in his hand. “They often find the most opportune moment to strike. Shall I… assist your bodyguard?” His tone was laced with too much false concern, his eyes fixed on my chest. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach, colder than the hammam’s steam. He knew. Or at least, he suspected enough to test me. My blood-pact thrummed, a frantic pulse that echoed the urgency of my predicament. “No,” I rasped, pushing Qadir’s hand away with more force than intended. “I’m quite capable of handling a few blood-suckers.” I broke free, scrambling backward onto the wet marble, my teeth gritted. The leeches were surprisingly tenacious. Qadir watched me with an unnervingly still intensity, his face unreadable. Roshan’s gaze, however, was sharp as a falcon’s, following my every move. “How… resourceful of you, Tzar,” Roshan said, his voice dripping with mock admiration as I began to pluck the leeches off, one by agonizing one, the wounds stinging with a peculiar heat. “It seems your resilience knows no bounds.” I simply glared, crushing each leech under my heel with brutal efficiency, leaving small, dark smears on the pristine floor. The blood-pact pulsed with a dull ache. My chest, already tender from the binding, felt bruised. “My gratitude for your concern, Apothecary,” I said, my voice flat, “but I believe I’ve had enough of the hammam’s… therapeutic waters. Sun-Lord, if you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, I stalked out, the lingering touch of Qadir’s hands, the heat of his breath, and Roshan’s insinuating whispers burning in my mind. The dampness clinging to my clothes felt like a shroud. I needed new bandages. And then, I needed to deal with Roshan. Back in my cramped quarters, I peeled off the soaked tunic, revealing the raw, red welts left by the leeches. They were shallow, yet typical of Roshan’s casual sadism. My chest binding, a crude contraption of linen and old leather straps, was soaked. I replaced it with fresh, dry strips, pulling them tighter than usual, the pressure a familiar, comforting ache. The small, folded note from my past self, stored in a hidden pocket of my dry mercenary vest, scratched against my ribs. *Keep the Sun-Lord alive. Don’t trust the fair-faced ones.* Roshan certainly had the looks for treason, and he was working hard to earn a blade. The apothecary’s tower was a skeletal finger of black iron and green glass, rising from the central Sun-Spire like a festering thorn. Its air reeked of sulfur, scorched mint, and acidic copper fumes. No one bothered to stop me. Most courtiers considered the tower a place of dark mysteries and dubious healing, a place to be avoided. For me, it was a target. I moved through the labyrinthine corridors with the silent precision of a ghost, my boots barely whispering on the flagstones. Flasks of bubbling liquids glowed with unnatural light from alcoves. The air hummed with bottled electrostatic power. Roshan’s personal chambers, I surmised, would be at the tower’s apex, far from prying eyes and sensitive noses. I found the door, heavy and etched with protective wards. Standard issue for any paranoid poison-brewer. A swift kick to the base, aimed at the weakest point of its antiquated locking mechanism, sent a shudder through the metal. A second, carefully placed boot to the ancient hinge, and the door groaned open, revealing a study that reeked of stale incense and human ambition. The room was a chaos of scrolls, dried herbs, and bizarre contraptions. A large, ornate desk dominated the center, covered in a disarray of papers. My eyes scanned for anything out of place, anything hidden. Behind a loose panel in the obsidian wall, camouflaged amongst dusty tomes on desert anatomy, I found it: a small, calfskin logbook. Its cover was etched with a stylized desert vulture, the emblem of the Vash’Makan raiders, a rival warlord faction constantly nipping at Zindaris’s borders. I snatched it, riffling the thin vellum. The precise strokes detailed sun-stone crates, imported nightshade pastes, and, worst of all, a schedule of 'remedies' meant for Qadir. Each entry was accompanied by a small, hand-drawn symbol – a wilting sun, a broken heart, a spiraling vortex. Hallucinogens. Potent ones. Designed to mimic Qadir’s perceived ‘Desert Sweats’ and drive him to the brink of madness. Roshan’s plan was laid bare: destabilize Qadir with a cocktail of mind-altering poisons, funnel Zindaris’s precious sun-stones to the Vash’Makan warlord, and then, at the winter solstice, with Qadir incapacitated and the empire weakened, orchestrate a coup. The Sun-Lord wouldn’t be assassinated outright; he’d be broken, a puppet or a public spectacle of insanity, and Roshan would rise to power as the Vash’Makan’s shadow regent. My blood-pact thrummed a furious rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't just treason; it was an insult to the very concept of a clean kill. A sudden clatter behind me. I spun, the ledger clutched in my hand. Two figures, shrouded in heavy, dark robes and wearing masks of polished bone, blocked the doorway. Surgically altered sentries, their movements unnaturally fluid. One held a staff crackling with contained lightning, the other a wickedly curved blade that pulsed with faint, green light. Roshan had anticipated my visit. “Clever, Tzar,” a voice echoed from the hallway, Roshan himself appearing behind the sentries, a slow, venomous smile spreading across his face. “But predictable. Did you truly believe you could outwit me? The Sun-Lord’s… *condition*… is a masterpiece, a symphony of subtle decay. And your presence, my dear ‘Tzar,’ is the discordant note I shall now silence.” The lightning staff flared. I dove, rolling under the glowing blade as a searing bolt of energy scorched the wall where I’d stood. The bone-masked sentries moved with clockwork swiftness. I kicked out, aiming for the staff-wielder’s knee, but he sidestepped with an eerie grace. The stolen log, still in my left hand, threw off my balance. My eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit, a weapon. A network of copper pipes ran along the ceiling, feeding the distilling vats. Pressurized steam. A dangerous thought, but an effective one. I feinted left, drawing the blade-wielder close, then slammed my elbow into his mask. The bone cracked with a sickening snap, and he staggered back, clutching his face. “The Sun-Lord will know!” I snarled, a lie, but one meant to buy time. “He’s not as blind as you think!” Roshan merely laughed, a cold, dry sound. “By the time he understands anything, he’ll be drooling into a basin, Tzar. Now, die.” The staff-wielder lunged, his aim deadly. I dropped low, scrambling towards a heavy, brass valve on a thick steam pipe that ran to a massive, thrumming alembic. The air grew hotter, thicker. With a desperate heave, I twisted the valve, grinding metal against metal. A shriek of tortured brass, and then a violent hiss as superheated steam erupted from a ruptured joint in the pipe, blasting outwards in a searing cloud. The two sentinels screamed as the scalding vapor enveloped their masks. Roshan recoiled, shielding his face. This was my chance. I bolted, the book tucked against my ribs, darting past the thrashing bodies and into the corridor. Behind me, the sound of metal groaning under immense pressure, followed by a deafening *CRUMP!* The alembic had exploded, sending debris raining down. A blast of heat washed over me, and I stumbled, falling to one knee. When I pushed myself up, I realized the small, folded note from my past self, ripped from my pocket by the force of the blast, was gone, buried under a pile of steaming rubble. My blood-pact pulsed with a renewed, insistent ache. *Keep him alive, Tzara. Don’t trust the fair-faced ones.* The apothecary matched the warning, and his poison craft was designed to break a warlord inch by inch. I ran, ignoring stealth, the thick booklet slapping against my thigh. Qadir had to know. He had to be warned. I burst through the ornate doors of Qadir’s private chambers, gasping for breath, the stench of sulfur still clinging to my woolens. The room was dim, thick wool hangings muffling the city din. Qadir was there, not on his throne, not at his strategy table, but sprawled across a low, silken divan, his eyes glazed, his skin flushed. A half-empty goblet rested on the floor beside him. Roshan’s latest ‘treatment.’ “Sun-Lord! Qadir!” I rasped, dropping the log on the carpet as I sprinted to him. “Roshan—he’s a traitor! He’s poisoning you, for the Vash’Makan!” Qadir’s head lolled, his intense eyes, usually so sharp, now unfocused and distant. He blinked slowly, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. He pushed himself up, his movements sluggish, almost dreamlike. His hand reached out, not to steady himself, but for me. Before I could react, he surged forward, trapping me against the heavy, inlaid door, his body pressing against mine. The blood-pact flared, hot and insistent. His breath, usually a furnace, was now a ragged sigh, laced with the sickly-sweet scent of Roshan’s potion. “Tzar,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, thick with a desperate, unfamiliar tenderness. His eyes, though unfocused, were burning into mine with an intensity that made my heart pound. “It’s… it’s you. I’ve known for weeks. I fought it. I tried to drown it in duties, in battle. But it’s you. I love you, Tzar. I’ll abdicate. I’ll give up everything. Just… stay with me.”

Prescription for Treason