Karsan’s words hung in the stale air, a promise of escape laced with venom. Taryath felt Ravash tense beside her, his breath a quiet hiss. The boy’s instincts were sharp, even blinded. He recognized a predator.
“A price, you say?” Taryath’s voice was flat, betraying nothing. Her gaze swept over Karsan, noting the fine weave of his travel cloak, the glint of Ash-steel on his belt, the unnerving calm in his eyes. This man was not merely a scavenger; he was a broker of lives, a merchant of secrets.
Karsan smiled, a thin, humourless line. “Indeed. Your silence, for starters. And, shall we say, a certain… favour, to be called upon at my discretion. Once we reach the Garrison of Ash-Katar, of course. It’s a harsh place, but it offers opportunities. For those who know how to seize them.” His eyes flickered to Ravash, a knowing glint. “And for those who possess… unique talents.”
Taryath weighed the offer. Remaining in the Ziggurat of Murgal meant a slow, agonizing death. Trusting Karsan meant a swift, agonizing betrayal. But the Garrison represented a chance, however slim, to establish Ravash, secure a political marriage, and finally, escape. Her own survival was secondary to the mission.
“Agreed,” she said, the single word cutting through the quiet. Ravash shifted, a faint tremor in his arm brushing against hers. He could not see, but muscle locked hard in his forearm at her word.
***
Months blurred into a relentless cycle within the Garrison of Ash-Katar. The desert stronghold was a crucible of Ash-steel and grit, its perimeter trenches a constant battleground against burrowing Terral-eaters and quiet daggers. Taryath, stripped of her assumed noble facade, operated as a grimly efficient shadow-guard, her days a brutal ballet of combat training, patrol duties, and the quiet, merciless honing of Ravash’s skills. He was no longer just a boy; the labyrinth’s hunger and Taryath’s relentless tutelage had forged a dangerous edge into his every movement. His hearing tracked bootfalls across stone, his perception of pulse and marrow sharpened to an unnatural razor. He moved like a sand-viper, striking with precision that belied his blindness.
She taught him Blood-weaving, guiding his raw, untamed life-force into controlled bursts, shaping it into a shield or a blade. Every lesson was a near-death experience, every spar a fight to survive. He absorbed it all with a frightening intensity, his obsession with her growing with each shared kill, each drop of monster blood splattered across their faces. He never questioned, only demanded more. More training, more knowledge, more of her presence.
One scorching afternoon, as the twin suns of Qal-Tesh beat down on parched flagstones, silence swept over the ranks. A single, ornate Ash-steel carriage, polished to a mirror sheen, rolled through the main gate, flanked by an honour guard of Crimson Scourges. The air itself seemed to ripple with cold, concentrated power. Taryath felt a knot tighten in her gut.
“The Dawn Maiden,” a gruff veteran muttered, spitting dust. “And not just any seer. Zeshi herself.”
Taryath’s fingers twitched, her hand instinctively reaching for the concealed bone-dagger at her waist. Zeshi. The false saintess, the manipulator who had orchestrated Ravash’s blinding and exile. The woman whose sight peeled away flesh to read bloodlines with terrifying clarity, hunting down any surviving trace of Vel-Kesh royalty.
Ravash, standing beside Taryath in their usual training gear, caught the shift in the air, a minute stiffening in her sinew. He turned his head slightly, his sightless eyes scanning the space, his hand finding her arm, his grip surprisingly firm. “What is it?” he murmured, his voice low, a dangerous undercurrent to his calm.
“Stay still,” Taryath breathed, her mind racing. Zeshi’s arrival was a catastrophe. The false prophetess had arrived to purge suspected conspirators against the Hegemon, and Ravash, even scarred and blinded, carried royal marrow that condemned him. His surging current, even smothered beneath rough linen, threatened to draw her scrutiny like a flare. Taryath had to mask him, and quickly.
The carriage door opened, and a figure emerged, cloaked in robes the colour of dawn-sky, her silver hair braided with shimmering Ash-silk. Zeshi. Her face was serene, beautiful, a mask of piety that hid a calculating, ruthless mind. Her eyes, pale amethyst glass, raked across the assembled ranks, and Taryath caught the prickle of an unseen probe raking over her ribs.
Zeshi’s gaze paused, lingering on the section where Taryath and Ravash stood. Her head tilted, a faint frown marring her perfect brow. Her aura-sight was reaching, pushing, seeking out the anomaly she sensed.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced Taryath’s carefully constructed detachment. There was only one way. One violent, desperate act to release a jarring rupture of raw spirit that would flood the seer's perception, bury Ravash's signature, and leave room to lie.
Without a word, Taryath yanked Ravash towards her. His grip on her arm tightened, surprise flashing across his scarred face. Then she slammed her mouth against his, hard and fast. His lips were chapped, tasting of dust and raw strength. The kiss was not one of passion, but of desperation, a brutal, possessive claim designed to overwhelm, to confuse, to hide. She discharged her stored marrow-fire directly into the contact, generating an eruptive blur of force that eclipsed Zeshi’s inner gaze, a crude flare meant as diversion and shield.
Zeshi’s serene expression faltered. Her eyes narrowed, not at Ravash, but at Taryath. The flash of a boy, scarred and blind, being aggressively kissed by a garrison grunt, was a fleeting image, easily dismissed as a moment of raw, uncouth passion. Yet that erratic discharge of life-fire, unrefined and harsh, centered the seer's full glare directly on her.
Zeshi’s gaze settled on Taryath, cold and condemning. “Such… untamed energy,” she mused, her voice like chimes of ice. “An unusual display among common grunts. You. Step forward.”
Taryath pulled away from Ravash, his lips tingling, his face unreadable, still gripped by surprise. She stepped forward, her posture rigid, her face carefully blank. The gamble had worked for Ravash, but backfired spectacularly on her.
“Under Section Seven of the Hegemon’s Code, for dangerous and unlicensed blood-manipulation in a public yard, and on suspicion of treasonous intent, I, Zeshi, Dawn Maiden of Qal-Tesh, demand your immediate arrest.” Her voice echoed across the silent parade ground, chilling all who heard it. The Crimson Scourges moved, their Ash-steel blades hissing as they drew them.
Just as two guards reached for Taryath, a figure stepped between them, his hand raised. Karsan. He moved with an easy grace, a faint smile playing on his lips, though his eyes held a glint of something far less amused. “My apologies, Blessed Oracle. There seems to be a slight misunderstanding. This… individual, is already under my custody. My personal prisoner, you might say.”
He turned to Taryath, his eyes locking with hers, and his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, for her ears alone. “Consider your life… mine now.”