The scent of burning leather mingled with sulfur as the diary tumbled into the steaming vent. Laleh watched the last leaves char to black ash before the updraft scattered them across the scree. The gesture was final, severing whatever fragile thread remained between her and the man kneeling in the crust. Her gaze returned to Zhafir alt-Nadim. He remained precisely where she had left him, stripped of his cloak, exposed to the biting wind. His dark robes, once pristine, were now stained with the fine grey powder that constantly dusted the wastes. A tremor, barely perceptible at first, now ran through his frame. His head, previously held with that infuriating, quiet dignity even in defeat, began to sag. Laleh felt a dull ache behind her ribs. It was not pity, she told herself, but the residual sting of betrayal. Yet, the sight of him, so utterly diminished, was... unsettling. This was not the arrogant spymaster, the man whose every deduction had been flawless, whose every move had been a perfectly executed sting. This was a man losing his fight against the cold, his pride crumbling with each involuntary shudder. His lips, once so precisely formed, were turning a faint blue. He tried to push himself up, a slight shift of his shoulders, but the movement was sluggish, uncoordinated. He paused, a low, guttural cough rattling his chest, and sank back onto his heels, his head lolling. The Zhafir she knew would have resisted the cold with sheer force of will. This Zhafir was simply human, failing. She took a step towards her cabin, then hesitated. The wind tore at her hair, whipping strands across her face. The logical part of her screamed for vengeance, for him to suffer. The other, an unfamiliar voice, pleaded for something else entirely. She had wanted him dismantled, and he was. But the sight brought no satisfaction, only a hollow emptiness. A glint of metal caught her eye. Beyond the distant, jagged peaks, a procession of figures on swift-striders appeared, small against the vast, desolate landscape. Imperial Inquisitors. Roxana. Ice settled hard in Laleh's stomach. They were undoubtedly here for her, tipped off about her forbidden abilities. Just as Laleh considered retreating into the cabin, Zhafir stirred. His eyes opened, dull with frost, then fixed upon the approaching mounts. He dragged himself onto his knees, his boots slipping in the frozen silt before he forced his spine straight. His joints popped against the strain as he locked his gaze on the riders. He stumbled towards her, his movements jerky, ungraceful. “Inside,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, barely audible above the wind. “Now.” Before she could react, the swift-striders pulled to a halt, forming a semi-circle around the cabin. Four riders, cloaked in the sombre grey of the Imperial Inquisitors, dismounted. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, strode forward. “Lord Zhafir alt-Nadim,” the lead inquisitor said, his voice flat against the wind. “Far from the thermal baths of the Citadel. Lady Roxana assured our prefect you would be occupied elsewhere.” His eyes swept over Zhafir’s exposed, shivering form, then lingered on the ash-stained snow around Laleh’s feet, searching for any tell-tale signs. Zhafir swayed, but somehow held himself upright. His mind, even through the haze of cold and exhaustion, was already spinning a desperate narrative. He raised a trembling hand, a ghost of his former authority in the gesture. “Inquisitor. A surprise. I confess, I had not anticipated your… diligence.” His teeth chattered, but he forced a weak, disdainful smile. “As you can see, I am merely here to ensure the Moradi viper stays precisely where she belongs. Ruined. Stripped of all power.” The inquisitor narrowed his gaze. “An extreme measure, Lord Zhafir, to personally oversee an exile without your retinue or even a mantle.” “A moment of… indulgence,” Zhafir managed, the words catching in his chest. “The last satisfaction of seeing a once-proud House brought to its knees. I stripped her of everything. Her title, her lands, her crown. She is a toy, shattered and cast aside. I came to mock her misery one final time. To ensure her spirit was as frozen as this land.” His voice was laced with a venom that sounded entirely convincing, entirely Zhafir, yet it cost him everything to utter. Laleh watched him in silence. To publicly claim such a petty grievance, degrading his standing before an inquisitor of common birth, was an astonishing descent for Zhafir alt-Nadim. This was a deeper loss of face than any public defeat she could have imagined. His icy logic, his perfect deductions, his legendary arrogance… all reduced to this pitiful charade to protect her. The inquisitor curled his upper lip. “A discarded plaything, you say? Perhaps. But discarded vipers still carry venom.” He reached into his grey cloak, his hand emerging with a rolled parchment, tied with a crimson ribbon. A blood-writ. “Roxana alt-Salar’s testimony suggests otherwise. She claims Moradi continues to practice the forbidden arts. I require your signature, Lord Zhafir, as a high noble, to authorize the immediate execution of Laleh Moradi for treason against the Crown.”

The Emperor's Hounds