Najla’s exhaustion might have kept her eyes closed until the heat of the desert was at its worst, but she would find no such luck. She would not awaken as she normally did, at her own leisure and in her own bed, but at the soft touch of a slave. The feeling of a hesitant hand on her shoulder roused Najla, and she awoke to find herself without any of the comforts of home, on a bed that offered her little of the relief her own did. When her eyes snapped open, she felt the hand draw back quickly, as if her awakening had burned her.

<“Forgive me Sultana. I tried to rouse you, but you would not wake. You asked me to-”>

<“It’s alright.”> Najla’s mumbled words cut through the girl’s worried words, and when she looked up at her, she could see that her head was bowed, her eyes not on Najla, but on the ground beneath them. She would not have much time to recover from the haze of sleep, Najla found, for her tired eyes suddenly widened, and a hand snapped up to her neck, only to find it covered by a tangled mess of hair. Her haste had left her bruised wrist exposed, but the girl’s eyes were firmly on the ground, and Najla let out a silent exhale in relief before hiding her wrist again.

<“Is my brother awake?”>

<“I don’t know, Sultana.”>

<“Make sure he is. Get a guard to wake him, if he is not already. Go now, I’ll ready myself.”>

The slave girl bowed her head, and Najla would not move to rise until the girl had ducked under the flap of the tent, the movement exposing a small beam of light before it was hidden once more. Najla gave herself little time to adjust to the morning, forcing herself to stand up and walk towards a bowl of water that had been laid out for her. She washed her face quickly, ridding it of sleep and sand alike, before moving to dress herself. Najla had allowed no slave to help her since the incident with Osman, for though there were those few she had entrusted to witness their relationship, she did not trust any enough for this. Once again, the marks were covered with gold, and her circlet was settled atop a sheer white cloth that covered the short scar the night before had left. Once more, she donned the golden mask her cousin had gifted her, and once she was satisfied that she was only showing what she wanted to, Najla went to wake her brother.

It seemed the slave girl had done her job, though the poor girl had only done it as best as she could. When Najla entered the tent, she saw her brother still seated on the cushions, a cup of water settled in his hand. Basim looked quite disheveled, especially in comparison to the sister who stood before him, perfectly put together and smiling in amusement.

<“You overestimated yourself.”>

<“Shut up.”>

Najla’s amusement only grew with that, and she was still smiling as she continued to speak. <“Drink your water. Throw up now if you need to, I won’t have you running off in the middle of breakfast to do it.”>

<“I’ll be fine, I’ve drank before. Can you leave?”>

<“If you’re annoyed with my talking now, you’re going to hate the negotiations.”>

She’d leave him to his headache then, though she would not move to join Thamud quite yet. Instead, she found Zahira in her tent, alone, where she had stayed behind as her husband went to breakfast. They would join, yet not before a final bit of business was accomplished.

<“These negotiations are going to be pointless, you know that. We’re going to argue with Thamud all day, until the Banu Dunya come, then we’re going to listen to them argue with him. Can’t you just ask Thamud for the Servant’s head and be done with it? Tell him you’ll trade your cunt for it.”>

Najla grinned at Zahira’s crass words, more amused by how rapidly her cousin had accustomed herself to the tribesmen than she was by the words themselves. They both knew the complaining was useless, they had come here to do the negotiations after all, even if Thamud would only be a barrier until his death. Beyond that, neither of them were quite so certain that any would dare to face the Servant after they watched one of their warriors burn the night before. She could promise whatever parts of her she wanted, it would hardly be worth a man’s life.

Nothing was worth that. Najla would never forget that night. Even now, she recalled the horror vividly, remembering the way she’d watched with wide eyes as Ketill strode under the canopy, blood dripping from his body and axe. She’d never seen a man nor beast so dedicated to bloodshed, so hungry for a kill, and then, she felt as if she’d remember little else from that night. Ketill had sought to prove her wrong, as he so liked to do, and had succeeded.

She’d watched with revulsion as he pressed the man’s face to the fire, and if she had been able to look away, Najla would have seen the same on the faces of the audience. The screams of the man had reverberated through the empty desert, echoed by the wails of his widow, and yet, Najla felt as if she could hear nothing but the lick of the flames. She forced herself to choke down a wave of nausea, though it rose dangerously in her throat, listening as the screams were replaced with a roar, and a name she’d heard once before. When it was all over, she’d speak briefly to the guards, ordering them to escort Ketill to the healer immediately, but those words were all she’d be able to say for some time. It was only as the noise of the camp had risen that Najla was able to join her voice to it once more, without the burden of a man’s burnt corpse on her expression. Even now, her words were still light, her smile remained, and yet the memory lingered.

<“I do not know why you are so eager to see me become a whore. Even if I were to do such a thing, Thamud is no longer fool enough to fall for it. At least not so deeply that he will risk burning to obtain it.”>

<“I don’t believe that. You know what they say, a honeyed tongue and a gentle hand could lead a wild horse by a hair.”>

The old saying made Najla’s grin widen, for it was a saying past their time. She recalled her mother repeating it to her, when she had tried to teach her the courtesies of a lady. It would be repeated to her more as she grew older, though when her cousins spoke those words, it typically had a meaning quite unrelated to courtesy. Regardless, Najla was not too worried about whether Thamud would fight Ketill. It would be the easiest way to dispose of him, but it was not the only way.

<“If it is necessary to kill him, I will, without fail. Do not worry cousin, and do not go offering me to tribesmen so soon. I promised you I could begin this process, so long as you are able to finish it.”>

It had been simple enough, though carefully coordinated so that no suspicions had been aroused. Najla had obtained the tools to end Thamud’s life, having brought the Servant if she found Thamud to be bold, and another weapon if Thamud was even bolder. Zahira only had to ensure that whatever injuries the man sustained would kill him, and they had done so by ensuring the loyalty of the Al-Uba’yd’s chief healer. This had not been difficult, for most of the women of these tribes only ever wanted better for their children, and it was well within Najla’s power to grant them such. The healer’s daughter had been granted an advantageous marriage to a wealthy trader, taken away from the hardships of the desert to live in the ‘luxuries’ nearby cities could provide. All the old woman had to do was see that Thamud succumbed to whatever illness he saw, and she would join her daughter to live out the rest of her days in peace and comfort. Whether the promise would be fulfilled remained to be seen, and was entirely dependent on whether Zahira was confident in her silence or not. Either way, Najla’s part in sending the girl off had been accomplished successfully, the healer himself would be left to her cousin.

<“What will you tell Basim?”>

<“The same I will tell the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“You do not trust him?”>

<“It is not that, I know him too well. He has Jalil’s distaste for what he called ‘the weapons of women and cowards’. Basim will not understand, only because Jalil and Harith always refused to.”>

<“Uncle taught them well. What happened to you?”>

The teasing remark brought a smile to Najla’s face, and she stood, taking it as a sign that they were done here. Zahira followed, and the two began to walk out of the tent together as Najla replied. <“You and that relentless horde of cousins, who loved to treat me like a bird for your gossip. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”>

---

Breakfast was an easy affair, taken at the same time as most of the camp, though not within their presence. While the people of the Al-Uba’yd arose to eat in and around their tents, the leaders of the clan had invited their guests to eat with them in the shade of the oasis. The gentle water and tall trees were welcome, though little compared to the thick gardens of flowers she was used to. Basim would join them, looking nothing like the mess she had seen minutes before, and far more like a prince. There, they took breakfast as a family, for truthfully they were all related through Zahira’s marriage, and would speak to each other as such until breakfast was cleared away, and they could finally speak of the reasons they were here.

<“The people of the Banu Dunya are going to arrive today, no?”>

<“If God wills it, Sultana.”>

It was a formal response that would not have brought her pause in the Sultan’s court, but here, Najla knew better. She knew her people too well, after all, and had heard such ambiguous answers often from those that did not like to answer questions. A glance up at Zahira was all it took to confirm her suspicions, and while her cousin remained silent beside her husband, Najla spoke up again.

<“The Sultan has willed it, and God has given them nothing to hinder their travels.”>

There was a moment’s pause then, but it was Thamud’s voice that answered her question. Though his voice was far deeper and rougher than Najla’s softer tones, yet somehow, there was no question that he was answering to her now.

<“Sultana, we sent word of your arrival as soon as you reached. We hope that they will be here by nightfall, but do not know if they are ready to treat with us yet.”>

<“Why is that?”>

<“They said they're only going to ride to us on the horses we stole. Sultana.”> The voice that answered her now was not Thamud’s, but one of his brothers, who was clearly frustrated at the conversation. Najla had not missed that he nearly forgot her title, but after her eyes raked over his figure once, she understood. Basim would have had the same pained expression on his face if he had not been trained better than that, and she almost felt pity for the man who would have to remain speaking in this heat for hours to come.

<“They’ll ride here on their own horses, or I’ll have the Servant drag them here.”>

Najla left her threat hang in the air, despite the fact that it was not for them, she knew the weight such a sentence would carry. She ignored Zahira’s pleased smile, turning instead to motion a slave over to her. While she gave the girl a few commands in a whispered voice, ordering her to prepare a guard to ride to the village, she could hear Zahira and Basim resume the conversation behind her. Basim still seemed somewhat silent in these discussions, either due to timidity or his headache, yet Najla was pleased to hear his voice as she returned to the discussion.

<“You have already dealt with the men who defied you?”>

<“Yes, we do not deal with such matters lightly I assure you, Sultanim. Those who have committed the crime have been punished.”>

Thamud’s answer caused Najla to frown, though this would be hidden behind the golden mask she had donned once again. She did not believe him, and though her words could not betray this fact yet, she did not want Basim to accept this answer so easily.

<“Not too harshly, I hope?”>

Her words were spoken softly, as if she was genuinely concerned for the severity of the punishment. They had only taken horses after all, had the raiders taken women, they would have been able to demand a greater punishment.

<“I did not think violence worried you so, Sultana.”>

<“When necessary, it does not, but I believe in following the teachings of a merciful God. Yet I have seen no man amputated here.”>

Her words were spoken harmlessly, but the pause that they brought on was not quite so harmless. The implication was left hanging over the small group, though Najla pretended to be ignorant to this as she reached out to pluck another grape. There were only two punishments for theft, a piece of the man’s hand, or his life. It was a barbaric practice when she had seen Ketill pay a debt with his finger, but it was a common punishment for thieves. Had they taken women, she would have been able to comment on the unmarked skin of his warrior’s backs. Seeing as how such a mutilation was considered the most merciful punishment, Najla spoke as if she believed Thamud had executed every man that ‘defied’ his orders and violated the treaty. Yet he knew better, as did all those sitting on the cushions around them, for Najla had spent a night among the woman, and would have known if there were several new widows among them. The one Ketill had created last night was already too easy to spot.

<“The Banu Dunya have demanded no flesh, Sultana.”>

<“I am pleased to hear that. Thank God they only want their horses.”>

Though her words were not entirely subtle, Najla knew there was nothing in them that could bring them to feel as if they had been insulted. Besides, she doubted there was anything in her tone that they had not heard before from Zahira. All Sultanas had perfected such an art, after all, to speak a man’s words in a woman’s voice, to confess their knowledge under the guise of ignorance. The question of whether she believed Thamud’s words regarding the punishment was left ambiguously answered, and Najla fell silent again as Basim spoke. She knew her brother, and thus could see in his face that he understood the message she had been trying to impart with her gentle questioning. Thamud was lying about punishing his men, and thus, had to be lying about the nature of the attack.

<“Which they will have, Sultana. We have only asked that they correct the number and approach the Ta’arof with honor.”>

The negotiations would continue for some time in this manner, though as they went on, Najla found that she needed to prod at Thamud less for Basim to catch on. After all, his nature was revealed rather early, and it had become clear that Zahira was not lying. Thamud was not holding on to two dozen horses for honor, though it was a cause his people would fall behind without question. As the Al-Uba’yd continued to make claims regarding their possession of the horses, pushing trivial claims here and there, Najla could only find it tiresome. It was not as if they cared about the horses, after all. Najla knew Thamud was pushing for more. Regardless of what it was, she would not concede so easily.

Thus, they moved off the subject of the horses, and into the heart of the pact they had broken. This proved to be far worse for Basim, who had managed to push through the arguments easily. His headache would only worsen as they were forced to move through every inch of the pact to determine what the Al-Uba’yd wanted renegotiated regarding their trade with the Banu Dunya. It was Najla that suffered most of the renegotiations here, and as the sun reached its peak, even she was beginning to feel her mind give in to the growing exhaustion. They broke to eat and rest, and though Basim would head to his tent instantly, eager to find shade and rest against the scorching sun, Najla’s business was not quite finished. Instead, she kissed her brother’s cheek goodbye, offering him a short praise on his abilities before leaving him to find the healer’s tent.

---

For once, Najla would come to Ketill. Rather than have him flanked by guards and forced to speak to her in whatever splendor she sat in, she ducked under the flap of the healer’s tent, where she would have instructed them to keep Ketill the night before. Two guards followed, positioning themselves behind her as Najla glanced around the tent. Though her eyes sought out Ketill first, she did not say a word until an older voice spoke up.

<“Sultana.”> Najla turned her head to see an old woman bowing her head, to which she smiled gently. For a moment, Najla felt as if the woman was going to try and bow lower, and she reacted as she had with Thamud’s father, stopping the woman by taking her hand.

<“Mother, I did not mean to disturb your work.”>

<“Not at all Sultana, I am grateful for your presence.”>

Najla released the woman’s hand then, stepping back. She would not spare Ketill another glance as she continued to speak to the woman, as if it had been her true intention to do so. She would continue to call the old woman ‘mother’ throughout the brief conversation, a respect granted by the Sawarim to older midwives. It held a particular respect in these tribes, for there were not many that lived long enough to earn it.

<“My cousin tells me your daughter has been recently been married.”>

<“Yes Sultana, just a few weeks ago.”>

<“May your eyes be lightened by their happiness, Mother, and may the Sawarim grant them many children.”>

Najla spoke to the woman kindly, as if genuinely pleased to hear of this stranger’s marriage. Her ignorance was a lie, of course, for she had been the one to arrange this match. However, she had happily granted all the credit to her cousin Zahira, who was just as glad to take it. It was a great kindness done for a respected woman, and it could only help elevate the Al-Uba’yd’s respect for the Sultana that lived amongst them. Najla was just pleased to keep her name off the endeavor as far as she could. They spoke briefly, before Najla politely requested a few moments to speak to her slave. The woman bowed and moved to shuffle out of the tent, but Najla’s voice would cause her to pause.

<“Mother, no, I would not kick you out of your tent, especially not in such heat. Please, you are more than welcome to stay.”>

<“No need, Sultana, please, the tent is yours. I am expected to help prepare Yazan anyways.”>

Najla nodded at that, for it seemed the name of Ketill’s victim had been enough to silence any further protest. It had not been as difficult as she’d thought to hide her horror at the night before, but something about the man’s name seemed to give her pause. Najla waited until the old woman had left the tent, before turning to face her slave, no trace of that gentle smile lingering on her lips now.

“Ketill.”

She spoke Ketill’s name softly as always, though it was difficult to do so. The thick accent upon her tongue made her force an awkward gentleness upon his name, one that did not fit the name nor the man that bore it. Najla turned towards him as if she had just noticed him, closing some of the distance between them in a few slow steps. As always however, there was a distance between them, one that felt even more pronounced when Najla stood before him, forcing him to look up at her if he wanted to meet her gaze. Perhaps it was a conscious gesture, to try and keep Ketill’s eyes from boring into her, and yet Najla knew from experience that she had little control over what her slave chose to see, say, or do.

“She says you will heal, easily. I hope your wounds do not trouble you too terribly until then. I would hate for my blood to have gone to waste.”

At that remark, Najla reached up, her bracelets clinking as she softly touched the small scar on her forehead, just below the hairline. The scar was not long at all, easily hidden if necessary, and yet, she would never be rid of it. It had been opened before, for purposes far greater than the protection of a Servant who did not know its meaning. She would not be the one to explain to him further, allowing him to assume what he liked. At this moment, she would move towards a cushion placed some ways in front of Ketill, guided by a guard’s hand. It was here that she sat, so that she was somewhat closer to being eye level with him. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, Ketill would notice that she hesitated to do so, as if unwilling to meet his eyes. Whatever exhaustion she was feeling would not be hidden from her expression now, though it only served to make her look uninterested in her slave, as if he were a task to be dealt with, not a man. The guard stood before her, between his Sultana and Ketill, while another stood beside Ketill himself, as it seemed that Najla wanted to make doubly sure that he would not hurt her now. She would not mention this added protection as she reached up, removing the golden mask from her face slowly, her tired gaze never leaving Ketill’s.

“Did you burn him on purpose?” The mention of the fight before was rather sudden, yet Najla showed little disgust or horror at the thought. After all, it was not the first time she had seen him commit such an act. Then it had been brief and necessary, and Najla had been allowed to show her horror without fear of appearances. Then, the act had not been committed under her command to kill. “You must have. Servants cannot be ignorant to the Qawanin Al-Harb.”

Though spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, there was a reason Najla believed the words themselves would be familiar. She was speaking of their laws of war, a list of rules scattered throughout their holy books that dictated exactly how their warfare must operate. Some were easy to understand, for they rested in practicality, such as the law against burning the few fields the Sawarim had. Others, like the one Ketill had broken, were rooted far deeper, in meanings the Servants would not always care to understand, but one that Najla would continue to explain.

“Man or Daab, you are most certainly not a God. It is not for a man to decide who burns and who does not, that is a power to be dealt at God’s discretion.”

Her words betrayed her assumptions easily, as Najla had no intention of hiding them now. It was obvious that she believed she understood why Ketill had committed such an act. It was unspoken arrogance for a Sawarim to burn another man, an expression that they believed they were level with their God. Najla assumed that had been Ketill’s purpose, to insinuate he was above their God, and it was clear that she was not pleased at such an act. It seemed Najla would require far more than the life of a single tribesman for that. Yet she was not entirely displeased with him either, for she would not seek to punish him for what he had done. He had served his purpose, and as always, Ketill was little to her beyond that.

“I am not here to punish you for doing as I asked, despite how…distastefully it was accomplished. You may call yourself God, beast, or man, it does not matter. You can only climb so high with another on your shoulders.”

It was a strange statement, translated somewhat awkwardly from her native tongue, though it held a hint of truth. It was not as if the Sawarim could be angry with a Monarchist for violating their laws of war, it was simply another reason they could consider them savages and infidels. His brutishness had only fueled a new admiration for the Sultana that had survived it, and a respect for the Sultan that had managed to enslave him.

“You were not like this before.” She spoke these words softly, as if she were a concerned friend, not a horrified mistress. “You were a savage, always, but I fear you’ve gone mad. I suppose that would be my fault, but I am not so arrogant as to believe I could do this to you. Perhaps Tahir-” She paused for a moment, only to shake her head slightly. “No, but it doesn’t matter. Tell me, what are you sustaining yourself for?”

The question was spoken as confidently as it was sudden, and Najla would quickly reveal the reason why. It might have seemed odd, for it was a subject she spoke on little, but she had few other experiences to draw on in order to understand Ketill’s position.

“Life by itself is not enough. I did not endure my time as Saina because I valued my life so dearly. Death would have been easy, quick, and I would be free from any further humiliation at their hands.” She stopped talking for a brief moment, allowing herself to breathe deeply, as if she was gathering her strength. When her eyes opened to meet Ketill’s again, there was no pain in them, nor sympathy. She was speaking only of distant memories now.

“They took much from me, but I had many reasons to withstand it all. You have endured worse, even caused yourself worse, and for what? So far as I know, you have no family to return to, no lover waiting for you, no wealth or power, only an order that has forgotten your name. I had all of those, and some days, even that was not enough. If it had not been for my brother, I might have slit my throat the day I was given to a Servant.”

If the mention of her time as Saina was strange, the mention of her brother was even stranger. Ketill knew he was dead, though she did not know if he had ever cared to find out more regarding Jalil. Her words could either mean she had failed to keep him alive, or he had needed her after his death, though Najla would not tell Ketill that she had failed in that endeavor too.

“I believe I know why sustain yourself. If I am right, I am afraid you will find your life wasted in a fruitless pursuit. If I am wrong, if you have something, someone to return to…” Her words trailed off now, and her gaze turned into something a little more mischievous, almost as if she was playing a game with Ketill. It seemed Najla would never grow tired of seeking to understand her slave, even if she understood there was no chance of securing his loyalty now. She did not ask the question itself, only pushing herself off the cushions delicately, then taking the guards hand to raise herself the rest of the way. She had gotten nothing from Ketill, and she doubted that he enjoyed his time in her presence.

“I hope I am wrong, Ketill. Until then, I offer you what I can.” It was a sentence that was spoken effortlessly, betraying how easily Najla was able to manipulate her tongue. Ketill was her slave, fulfilling her demands to kill, and yet, Najla spoke as if she was doing him a favor in offering him blood. “I will ask you to fight again, not just here, but elsewhere. You will not be allowed to kill all of them, and I cannot allow you to kill in this manner again. If you cannot control your bloodlust, I ask you to tell me now, so that I may find you more disposable opponents.” With that, Najla moved the golden mask back onto her face, struggling somewhat, as it was an unfamiliar accessory to her. “Rest, and heal. If you are not well enough to fight, I will not ask you to do so, though that will be have to be decided at my discretion, not yours. May you rest easily, knowing that you have robbed me of the same.”

Najla would leave Ketill to rest after that, for though it seemed she was eager to relax as well, that was not an option quite yet. Instead, she’d have to drag those two guards to the village, to meet with the family of the bereaved until negotiations had to begin again.

---

The heat was settling unpleasantly in the desert afternoon when Basim would call Ketill into his tent, forcing him to walk through the piercing heat of the day briefly before he found respite in the prince’s tent again. The negotiations had started up once more, yet regardless of what they had accomplished, it all seemed meaningless unless they were ready to hand back the spoils, which the Al-Uba’yd seemed reluctant to do. The discussions seemed to be all for show now, and the true negotiations would begin again when they broke once more. Though everyone else had dispersed, Najla had asked Thamud to take a drink with her, and they had returned to speak privately in her tent. Basim was not asked to join, though he did not seem to mind, nor care what they were speaking of in there, so long as this problem would be resolved.

Basim was laying on his back, staring up at the cloth of the tent while he spoke to one of his guards. It was a conversation born out of boredom, not necessity, and thus easily interrupted when Ketill was escorted in. Basim would dismiss the slave that escorted him, but not his own guard. He had not forgotten the night before.

For a moment, there was only silence. Basim looked upon Ketill with a look quite unlike what he’d studied the Servant with before. He was still curious, clearly, though he no longer looked at Ketill with the same sense of wonder one did a curiosity from a foreign land. There was something new in the way he considered Ketill, an emotion nestled somewhat between horror, confusion, and respect. If he had considered Ketill a violent savage before, the way his sister did, there was no telling what he thought of him now.

“There’s water if you want it.”

It was a strange way for a prince to greet a slave, but as Basim gestured to the pitcher on the small table, it seemed absent-minded. It was as if he had done so out of habit, for no reason beyond the fact that it was hot outside. He pushed himself off his back then, moving so that he was seated on the cushions lazily, looking up at Ketill with that same look in his eyes, the one that betrayed a new confusion regarding his sister’s slave.

“You did not need to do that, last night. You could have given him a clean death.” Though answering Basim’s questions was not an unfamiliar process to Ketill, this held none of the boyish curiosity he’d exhibited before. This question was spoken soberly, without excitement, as if he was dreading the answer. “Why didn’t you?”

Whatever Ketill’s answer, Basim listened intently. He was not quite so ready as Najla to determine a purpose for his actions, and perhaps he would get a better answer out of Ketill as a result. The incident had clearly had a greater impact on Basim than on Najla, and he would not move on quite as easily. Though he did not sound like he was chastising Ketill, there would be no doubt that Basim was unhappy when he spoke up again.

“His wife is a widow now. Najla said she tripled the Mahriyeh, but she still had to watch her husband burn to death.”

Basim spoke as if Ketill would know what the Mahriyeh was, though perhaps he had been too deep in his thoughts to translate the word. It referred to the gift a husband promised his wife upon his death, enough to help her live comfortably until her death if she was old, or remarry if she was young enough. Though the man’s widow had been young, Najla had made certain the girl could live as a widow forever if she chose. She had spoken to Basim as if that had been enough. It was not enough for Basim, but when he looked upon Ketill, it seemed as if the distaste had been far more about his actions than the man himself. He was smart enough to understand that the man had volunteered, and that Ketill’s actions had been done under his sister’s orders. Whatever kindness she had done the girl afterwards, she had asked Ketill to kill him.

“They will ask you to fight again. I don’t know when the negotiations will be over, but it has to be then, we are not allowed to break bread with them again until they are.” He paused for a moment then, but would resume speaking almost immediately. “You know, Najla told me a lot about her time in Broacien. She told me about how scared she was to pray after the first time she was caught, especially after she was given to you. She never told me what they did, or what you would have done, but I know what they would do to you. Still, it’s not fair.”

He spoke as if it was common knowledge to Ketill, clearly assuming that Najla had revealed more about herself than she truly had. It would likely hardly be a surprise however, and there was little for Ketill to draw sympathy from, for she had not suffered for her religion as drastically as he had. Yet at these words, Basim pushed himself off the cushions swiftly, moving to stand. It became obvious that he was moving to walk towards Ketill, at which the guard behind him would begin to say something, only to have Basim’s words cut him off. The guard would not be pleased by them, but could not fight his prince.

<“It will be fine. Stay right there.”>

He did not walk towards Ketill, but to the table upon which the offered water sat. As he did so, Ketill would notice Basim begin to pull something out of his pocket, though it was small enough to be hidden by his fist. He would not reveal it to Ketill just yet, but laid his hand on the table, keeping his back to his guard. His voice was softer now, and he would reveal his purpose in calling for Ketill almost as slowly as he had to Najla the night before, uncovering his secret in hesitant pieces.

“Would you have let her pray? She told me she has not forbidden you to pray, but I’ve never seen you do it. If you are risking your life here, I think you should be able to pray, no?” With that, he slowly lifted his hand off of the small cross, revealing it to Ketill even as he hid it from his guard. Slowly, he pushed it under the edge of the tray, before pouring himself a glass of water, as if that had been his intention all along. “Quick, take it. Don’t let anyone see, not the guards, especially not Najla. She’ll have both of our heads if she finds out.” With that, Basim took the cup and walked back to his seat, though his eyes studied Ketill curiously, waiting for him to take the cross when the guard was no longer paying attention. Despite his nerves, he seemed hopeful that Ketill would find some relief in this kindness.

“Why won’t you take it? Are you worried? I can hide it for you, if you are. They won't kill me for it.”

After the fight, Ketill had been brought to the healer’s tent. Although he did not quite need the medical attention, it was a welcome luxury. The woman, old and stern, had asked him to lay down, but Ketill had refused, instead sitting on a cushion and crossing his legs, sitting directly in front of the tent. The festivities continued outside, but something seemed to have dimmed the voices of the men and women now – something that Ketill was quite sure he had caused. And though stern the woman may have been, she did not dare ask him to lay down again, and instead sat down behind him, beginning to clean the wound of the raking axe that the man had left behind before his death. It was one of the few wounds, and wasn’t dangerous whatsoever, but making the trek back to the capital with an opened wound was probably on the bottom of Ketill’s wishlist.

The process did not take long this time, when compared to the lashings he had received before. Her hands moved over the scars that had been left there, but she made no remarks, seemingly understanding that this was common place for slaves, especially those with Ketill’s nature. A regular house slave was often free of scars, or they were placed in places harder to see. After all, nothing was less prestigious than having a beaten and trampled slave. But Ketill was not a houseslave, nor a working slave. He was… somewhat special in that regard. She mumbled something under her breath about this ‘’Daab’’ in her tent, but Ketill did not speak up, merely looking at the tent flap that offered entry to the tent, looking at the flickering of shadows coming from the people around the fire.

This continued while the woman patched Ketill up, becoming more bold in her mumbling when she found out that Ketill wasn’t particularly dangerous on his own as long as she didn’t purposefully taunt him. Never the less, she seemed wary of him, and with good reason.

---

The next day, Ketill found himself waking up in the tent again. He got up, and looked around, finding himself alone, the woman having gone somewhere else for the time being. Cautiously he stepped towards the tent flap, and opened it with his hand, holding it up and peeking outside, finding two guards standing there. Brazenly he opened the tent further and stepped out, and only when he stood nearly next to the guards did they stop him. <‘’Go back!’’> one yelled, pushing his hand onto Ketill’s chest.

‘’There is no escape from here,’’ Ketill said, looking at the man. ‘’No horse, no water, only desert. I can’t escape. Let me go,’’

<‘’Back!’’> the man yelled again, pushing Ketill harder. His companion even went as far as to put his hand on his sword, perhaps as a threat or a preparation for when Ketill struck out.

<‘’Not so loud,’’> the same man hissed at his friend, who was yelling quite loudly. <‘’We were told to keep him here, not to yell loudly and show everyone that we can’t control him with our swords. Not after our Sultana has shown them his power. May the Sawarim rest that man’s soul.’’>

<‘’How else will we keep him here? This dog can’t even speak our language.’’>

‘’I’ll go back. Bring me water,’’ Ketill then demanded, before repeating the word in their tongue. <‘’Water.’’> This surprised the two guards, but the surprise quickly left their eyes. After all, you did not live in the desert for years on end without learning the Sawarimic word for water. That would be as much a death sentence as traveling alone without a horse. The guards nodded, and Ketill was satisfied. He then stepped back into the tent and sat down on the cushion again, crossing his legs while staring at the tent flap, waiting for his ‘order’ to arrive.

But, his order never arrived. Instead, the healer arrived back into the tent and started working on some things, ignoring Ketill for the most part. Not much later a new face arrived in the tent, one that Ketill had assumed wanted to stay as far away from a place like this as possible. It was coincidentally also the one face he did not want to see today, but much to his demise, it seemed that one of the gods enjoyed tormenting him with her presence. It was well known that some of the Gods had a cruel sense of humour, after all. She talked to the healer for some time, and after that discussion had ceased, the healer left. Najla then turned to him, and spoke his name. Ever the Sultana, Ketill thought, the way she spoke his name being nothing like how it was meant to sound. To her credit, most of the Broacieniens could not mimick the Northerners proper pronunciation, but to hear a Sawarim speak it had always been something of an annoyance to him. No attempt was made to even convey an attempt to do it properly, instead it was just assumed that they were speaking it the correct way, and if it was not the correct way before, then it would be so now.

He did not have the strength to argue with it, however.

Though perhaps she had expected him to stand up for her presence, he would make no such attempts, and nor did he look up to see her face, instead opting to simply look at the area between her crotch and her stomach. Although he knew that Najla never visibly reacted to him looking at her regardless, he did not want to appear like a lesser at this time. He would’ve not had any problems looking at her from the ground beforehand, but after last night’s performance, he felt like that score had been settled. She would have to acknowledge him as more than merely a slave at this point if she wanted his continued cooperation. Temporary continued cooperation. Until whatever event the ravens had signalled occurred and he could take her life.

As always, she started a discussion that had no real relation to what she wanted from him. He had grown accustomed to it by now, and had even been able to learn that this was likely something she had done in her time as Saina, too. To talk about things that did not matter in order to obtain things that did matter. Hollow her words may have been, Ketill decided to engage with them, as silence would no longer win him the battles like they could have done before.

‘’Your blood had no influence on the fight,’’ he said, subconsciously touching a slice on his left arm with his hand. ‘’These are tribal men, I have fought against them before, under different circumstances. They were scary then, always appearing and disappearing, throwing spears and jarids at us, shooting their arrows, before disappearing in the dunes.’’ Momentarily he recalled the vision he had during the early hours of the festivities the previous night, but he decided not to think about them, because they’d probably give him a headache. ‘’But one on one, they are pitiful excuses for soldiers. Your brother fights better. I don’t know why you made me train for this.’’

During his answer, she had sat down under the guidance of a guard, who took up a position next to her while the other guard stood between them. She was wise to be careful, but not wise enough to see that Ketill had no intention of harming her here. After all, he wanted her to suffer like she’d made him suffer. Killing her in front of some guards and peasants was hardly suffering. She’d see her family burn before that. That was suffering.

But he was now forced to look at her, as it would seem dishonest and unlike him to look away now. So he engaged in that confrontation too, staring at her eyes, ignoring her disinterested look. Although she asked suddenly, Ketill had predicted the topic already – there was no real other reason to speak to him so soon after the fight. ‘’Yes,’’ he answered to her question. There was no other suitable answer. ‘The fire was there, and the man had to die. It was the easy option. Or would you rather that I had chased him around the camp a few more times? You wanted a show, right, to show your tamed brute? You got your show. Leave me alon-’’

She would not heed his demand, instead coming forth with another argument as to the burning of his target. She appealed to her God, but did not seem to think that Ketill had nothing to do with that God. As if all those inside the desert would follow Sawarimic law. Perhaps he would be subject to their punishments, but he did not feel like he was obligated to follow the laws. ‘’The title of Sultana is ordained by the Sawarim, no? And you blessed me in order to fight that man, no? Then is my act of burning him not an act of God, or otherwise an act of someone supposedly in Gods’ favour?’’

Her continuation of this argument earned a pained sigh from Ketill, who did not follow her train of thoughts as well as he could have before. She assumed there was purpose in his actions and although admittedly he burned the man in order to give the ‘show’ that she had sought, he did not do it because he thought himself a God. He did not answer her anymore, instead picking at a scab on his leg with his fingers, occupying himself while he stared at Najla with his hollow eyes, expecting her to give meaning to the words, but finding none.

She did not take long to continue, seemingly understanding she would receive nothing from Ketill when it came to this subject any longer. Ketill found her too entrenched in her beliefs that he did this on purpose, and even Ketill himself wasn’t quite sure if he did it out of spite towards the Sawarim, or for pragmatism. Instead, she brought up his personality and the events that formed him. Something he didn’t want to talk about. Instead he listened to her, once more attempting to find meaning in her words, attempting to see why she was talking to him about this. It was not as if this mattered.

The answer to her question was simple, but he did not answer it yet, instead letting her ramble about her own life. Her comment about slitting her throat when she was given to him earned a grin. ‘’If only the Gods had been so kind to me, Saina,’’ he answered to that comment, unsure if she heard or not, uncaring about that fact too. It wasn’t a loose remark either, wishing death upon her. More so it was based upon the knowledge that he’d be dead or in Broacien if she had never shown up.

When she was about to leave, she spoke about his reasons for sustaining himself again, claiming to know why he did what he did. Regardless of what she thought, he would answer her before she could leave. Although the reality was that he purely sustained himself as an innate survival instinct, he would answer differently. ‘’I sustain myself because I can,’’ he said, putting his elbow on his knee and resting his head on his head now, seemingly tired of the discussion. ‘’You sustained yourself because I made you do so. I protected you at every turn, believing in your capability to become useful. To pull your weight. Had I known you were a Sultana earlier, then I wouldn’t have accepted you as my slave. You are too weak. You can never become useful. Perhaps here you fulfil some use as the whore of the court, sent here to solve the issues with tribals, like there is no better way to spend your time. But I thought you were a merchants’ daughter, so you could cook, wash, perhaps maths. Things I cannot do.’’

He stared at Najla more intently now, looking her up and down, not seeing her as a superior at that moment, gawking at her like some man in a tavern. ‘’But no, even that, you cannot do. Too weak to survive and thrive on your own. Pampered.’’ When he was done staring at her, he leaned back and let himself fall onto a cushion behind him, in an attempt to annoy her with his lack of respect for her authority as a Sultana.

‘’But even that is a half answer, and we both know that,’’ he spoke, putting his hands behind his head, further increasing his lack of respect for her. ‘’We both know what I want. It’s something you cannot give me and never will give me. But…’’

He stayed silent for a few seconds, enough to make her begin to leave if she wished, but not enough for her to leave the tent in full. He then veered up again and sat up straight, locking eyes with her immediately. ‘’In truth, I sustain myself for the Raven.’’ He looked at her in silence for a few more seconds before he grinned at her, and then let himself fall backwards. It seemed like last night had not done well for his attitude towards his master, but what had she expected? His hatred had been given space and release to fester and grow stronger, and it would almost seem that there was nothing she could do right when it came to Ketill – if she killed him she’d lose a valuable tool. If she let him live, she would live her days looking over her shoulder whenever she was around. There was no winning.

Only loss.

When she was about to step out, he’d speak up once more, and after that he’d finally give her time to leave in full. ‘’As for the man that was killed – perhaps you believe it to be my fault, but I did it in your name. If these tribals think ill of anyone now, it will be you, whether you see that or not. You let me do it, after all. You gave me the blessing that I needed to fight.’’

She disappeared afterwards, and Ketill was left to rest, lazing about on the cushions, until new guards came to fetch him. That was a real surprise, as he had expected Najla to be quite angry with him for the rest of the day – or even week.

---

When he was escorted into the tent, he was surprised to find the younger prince, Basim. Once again it seemed like Basim was going to pester him with questions, which Ketill would answer only because he felt like it. Basim gestured him to the water, waving him away like some nobleman rather than a slave, which was a welcome change in attitude. Ketill was surprised, but quickly adjusted, nodding quickly and stepping towards the water, taking a cup of wood and filling it with a ladle, before drinking the entire cup empty in a matter of seconds.

He placed the cup on the table again and then stepped back to the tent flap, waiting for an order or command. But, rather, he was faced with another question, which was not unexpected either. The subject was not, either, but was much more annoying to Ketill than Basim might have assumed. Then again, Basim likely didn’t know that Najla had interrogated him not long ago either.

‘’It was a clean kill,’’ the stern voice of Ketill answered, the annoyance audible within. ‘’That you do not understand that is not my fault. I am not Sawarim. I have nothing to do with your laws. Punish me if you wish, prince, but you will not have my apologies, just like your sister didn’t get them. Or would you rather that I had let him crawl around while he was on fire for a while longer? I ended his suffering. He fought well, but not good enough.’’ When he spoke the word ‘prince’ it almost sounded mocking, as if Ketill didn’t really believe such a meagre man to be fit for the title of prince. This was mostly because Ketill was annoyed with discussing this subject multiple times, especially since Basim didn’t seem to understand, just like his sister hadn’t.

‘’And speaking about your sister, I find it remarkable that both you and her wish to discuss this with me. She ordained me to fight. She didn’t tell me how to fight.’’

Basim’s next remarks didn’t make it any better. ‘’Be that as it may, I killed under her orders. And unlike you, I did not have a chance to decline coming here. I did what I was told to do. I am a tool to be used at her discretion. You seem to not understand something, prince.’’ Although he did not use the word prince mockingly now, he was still somewhat talking down to the boy, as if he was lecturing him. But how couldn’t he – Basim asked him to explain, and so he did.

‘’You seem to view your sister as a woman with remarkable morals. I advise you to get rid of that vision soon. I am here to do her bidding – everything I do, I do in her name. So when I burned that man, I did it as her tool. Now, do her morals still seem to be as good, then? To think that I am here to scare some tribal nobodies into submission?’’ He asked the question not really expecting an answer, and even if he did receive one, it would be a lie, because Ketill realized full well that Najla was well-liked within her family.

‘’It would not surprise me, prince, if you are here purely because she saw a use for you, either. You may be her family, and she may see you as more than a tool, but that is what you are to her ultimately,’’ he continued, looking Basim in the eyes. He was dead serious now, and seemed to have gotten over his annoyance with the topic, instead getting to talk about the reality of the situation as he saw it. ‘’Though I doubt she brought you here to fight tribals like I did. Maybe just to seem smart. That’s what you are good at. Whatever it is – you’re here for a reason more than being her brother.’’

Basim then continued to inform him about having to fight again – which was not at all surprising. Why else would she bring him here. To kill a peasant? Some nobody? Impressive as the fight may have been, Najla was smart enough to realize this would hardly be enough to get what she wanted. Because there was an ulterior motive here. Ketill did not react, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have had the time to utter a word, as Basim was quick to continue with something that pressed his mind more heavily. It showed that despite his calm demeanour now, he was eager to ask and tell more. A bit predictable, perhaps. A welcome change from Najla, who did and did not as she pleased.

‘’I did not know she prayed, or wanted to do so. She never told me. I also never forbade her from doing so. Perhaps she did not understand. I never knew she was a Sultana, as she told me she was a merchants’ daughter. I knew she was Sawarim – she did not convert. If she had converted, I would have released her. I would have refused to have a Monarchist as a slave. The only reason I kept her then, even as a Sawarim, was because she was given to me as a gift.’’

His expression was not very expressive at that point, and it would be hard to pinpoint how he felt about this – if anything, he was telling cold hard truths, facts that could not be contested. Or at least, that’s how it’d sound. For Najla, there would’ve been enough reason to doubt what he would have done. Ketill watched as Basim moved around, stepping to the water now after exchanging words with his guard, who seemed upset that Basim was so carelessly approaching the Daab al-Broacien.

‘’Regardless, I would have let her pray,’’ he answered his question. ‘’Does that strike you as strange, prince? That I am not so savage as to denounce her God as invalid? It should strike you strange. In this desert, the only God that exists is Sawarim, and anything else is uncivilized, is it not?’’

After his answer, Basim revealed his secret, showing the Monarchist cross. Ketill’s eyes flashed at the sight of it, but not because of gratitude. His hand curled into a fist as he struggled to stop himself for walking over there and grabbing Basim by the neck to chastise him for being so foolish.

‘’You’re a fool to bring that here,’’ Ketill answered, not yet walking to the cross in favour of waiting for the guard to relax. ‘’Are you trying to get me killed, prince? Because I can assure you there are more efficient ways of doing that, like stabbing me between the ribs.’’ He sissed the words between his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he was angry, annoyed, or both at the prince. He understood what the prince had done – to do him a favour – but he did not expect the prince to be so ruthless as his sister. He had expected the young boy to be kind hearted and thoughtful, careful and thorough in his deeds. Not so brash as a young horse that did not understood the dangers of crossing a deep river yet. ‘’Not only are you endangering us both, it is without reason too, prince. You are two years too late. The Monarch is not real, and if he is, he is dead at the hands of my Gods. This cross is little more than wood for the fire to me.’’

He glanced at the guard, who seemed to still be inspecting Ketill, and relaxed slightly, realizing that being uptight only made things worse. ‘’You are young, prince, and you are eager to learn. So allow me to show you why you are a fool.’’ Without even thinking about it, he stepped closer, and extended his hand towards the prince with an open palm, as if expecting an item. ‘’Give me your dagger.’’

Though the guard might have raised some qualms about this, Basim would undoubtedly hand over the dagger, which Ketill would take and then step back, offering some space to calm the guard. He unsheathed the dagger and raised it, putting up his other hand for the prince to see. ‘’This is Audrun,’’ he explained, before putting the tip of the dagger on the back of his hand, before carefully carving a figure in it, deep enough to draw blood but not deep enough to cause lasting damage. The rune was not sharp, and was made with an unsteady hand, and represented little more than the idea of Audrun in Ketill’s head. But it would have to be enough for Basim – he did not understand anyway, and could not see the glaring imperfections in the rune.

Once Ketill was done, he wiped the dagger on his pants, and sheathed it again, before wiping the back of his hand on his pants as well. He inched closer to Basim, and extended both hands, one holding the dagger, the other showing the back of his hand, the rune now somewhat more clear without the blood covering it. ‘’He is the All-father and rules over man. He has a wife, and many sons and daughters, who are infinite and continue to be birthed. He is wise and knows all wisdoms of men, because the ravens fly for him and spy for him. He did not create us, but he is certainly involved in the shaping of man. See it as… a herbalist mixing ingredients.’’

The explanation was somewhat vague, especially as it had been a while since Ketill had spoken to a seer or seiðsmann to teach him the stories of old. But again, Basim would not know this, and had little reason to doubt him.

‘’He is the one that guides me, and his wife and children,’’ he then said, looking at the cross before pulling back his hands after Basim had grabbed his dagger again. ‘’So you understand why this cross is meaningless, and is not worth anything except a threat to my life,’’ he said slowly then, to make sure that Basim understood, before adding, ‘’.. and yours, of course. They may not kill you for having this, but they will remove you from the eye of the public. You will be an outcast, a sympathizer of the Monarchists. For no reason other than your stupidity.’’

Slowly Ketill stood back, and walked towards the water, taking the ladle and splashing some water over his hand. He put the ladle back and quickly grabbed the cross, hiding it inside his pants, after which he pretended to wipe his hand on them again to avoid drawing the eye of the guard. ‘’So I will take care of this, because I do not trust you enough to get rid of it completely. And you will not speak a word of anything I told you in this tent to anyone. Especially Saina – or Najla, as you know her. You are lucky that the Sawarim guards are dumb as oafs, and do not speak my language. I will leave now, and you’ll forget I ever visited. For your own sake and mine.’’

He looked at Basim with a serious expression then, before he bowed his head lightly to please the guard. Basim would have to be really stupid to believe that he did so to honor him, since he knew Ketill and his personality by now. But the guards were easily fooled. They still believed that a sword could control the Daab one day, if they tried hard enough.

Ketill was returned to the healers’ tent, where he sat down again, this time with his a hand inside the pocket of his pants, holding on to the cross. He figured there were numerous ways to get rid of it – he could just dump it somewhere and hope nobody found it. Burying it underneath the healer’s tent was likely the most suitable option, but he could also plant it in someone’s belongings. If he didn’t know better, he would have planted it in Najla’s items, but there was little to gain from that. She could have explained the cross as being something she received from a tribal here as an offering for her to burn, or something. The lie she would tell wouldn’t even need to make sense – none would question her as a sultana. With Basim it was little different, though Ketill thought he lacked the subtle nature Najla held, and he would be unable to lie effectively.

But, in the end, Ketill decided to just dig a hole. He began digging with his hands, pushing aside the loose sand at first before he reached the more coarse, thicker sand that was underneath, damp from the water of the nearby oasis. It wasn’t much more wet, but it made the digging a little bit easier. He pushed the cross into a hole and pushed the same back to where it came from, making sure to make it look smooth as he could so that nobody would suspect a thing. Now, the only thing that could betray him was Basim.

---

No one could touch her nerves quite like Ketill could. Others could annoy, frustrate, and anger her, but Ketill seemed to anchor himself in the recesses of her brain. After all, no name besides Saina would have been able to draw that same flash of anger from her eyes, pulling it from behind that ever-present gaze of disinterest. At least, Najla had believed so, until Ketill had continued to speak.

Perhaps it would have been slightly amusing under other circumstances, for Najla realized that there were few others who would see her status as a weakness the way Ketill did. However, Ketill did not leave her any room to find amusement, and Najla did not seem inclined to take it that way. At the word ‘whore’ the carefully constructed expression on her face would fall away for a brief moment. For that moment, her expression held nothing but contempt. There was no attempt at remaining regal, no chance to brush off his words, only a slight snarl and narrowed eyes, nothing but hatred in her expression.

She did not care that she had not been of use to Ketill. Najla did not care that she could not cook or wash, those were tasks for slaves, not a Sultana. Perhaps she could have been useful to Ketill in that way, but Najla no longer served him. She served the Sultan and the Sawarim. But Najla cared for the disrespect he showed her. The contempt could not move off her expression completely, and as Ketill fell back onto the cushions, Najla found that it was even harder to keep it off her face. It felt strange, to have the word ‘pampered’ spat out at her like an insult, but Najla knew he was not wrong. It did not hurt her, for she knew she would never have to operate without the luxuries she was granted again. Even if she wished to argue, his next words would silence her completely. She was right, then. He wanted her to suffer, and she could not allow him to do so.

Najla turned to leave then, clearly irritated at her slave’s disrespect, and frustrated that she could garner nothing new from him besides more insults. His voice stopped her, and when she turned around to look at him once more, Najla held an annoyed frown. He was dictating the conversation, knowing that she would want to hear whatever answers he would offer. His cryptic remarks would only cause that angered frown to fall into one of confusion, and she returned his gaze, only breaking it when he grinned. She hated that smile, it would likely haunt her until her final days.

“You have gone mad.”

She could not fathom what he meant by raven, but it did not seem to matter. She did not have time to decipher the ramblings of a madman, after all. Once again, she would move to leave, only to find that Ketill was not quite done. Turning to look at him once more, Najla crossed her arms as he spoke. For a moment, she parted her lips as if to say something, but quickly decided against it. She found no point in explaining the ways of the Sawarim to a savage who wouldn’t care to hear them, nor did she see a purpose in defending her people’s view of her. Instead of replying, Najla’s expression only hardened as her gaze flicked over Ketill once more.

He was not entirely wrong, Najla found. It was not as if she believed her people would think less of her as a result, or if they did, none would speak as such in front of her. They would not think less of Ketill either, for none believed a Daab could be civilized, only tamed. But it had been under her command that he’d committed this act, and it would be under her command that he’d need to commit others. These were the thoughts that occupied her as she visited Yazan’s family, doing her duty as delicately as she could manage, all the while wondering if she was responsible for causing them such grief. Still, she had warned the Al-Uba’yd as to Ketill’s nature, and Najla would quickly seek to forget Ketill’s words, despite how deeply they’d clawed their way into her.

---

Basim did not seem surprised to hear Ketill’s tone when he answered his questions, after all, he had not expected the Servant’s attitude to improve overnight. Even he had still been surprised to hear him speak to a prince in such a manner, Ketill’s words would clarify the reason rather quickly. Apparently Najla had already spoken to him regarding the matter, a fact that would cause Basim’s expression to finally turn to one of slight surprise. Najla had not sought to tell him of that conversation, likely never considering that her brother would bring the Servant in as well. It hardly mattered, for Basim’s surprise seemed minute in comparison to the subject matter, and he was far more preoccupied with the manner of Yazan’s death.

He would hardly have time to consider Ketill’s words regarding that, however. It seemed a strange notion, that burning a man could be considered a clean death. Basim’s frown betrayed this confusion, even as he wondered if Ketill was correct, in some strange sense. Burning a man was no mercy, it was a violation of their God’s will, but the blow of the axe itself would have been considered clean. Yet before this one issue could be clarified, the Servant would only seek to add on another.

He understood that his sister had ordered the Servant to kill. She’d spoken as if it was a favor to her slave, to be granting him the blood he’d so eagerly sought. From what Basim had seen of Ketill, he’d have little reason to doubt this, until this moment. Now, he ignored the derisive way the Servant spoke his title in favor of satisfying his curiosity, a feat Najla’s pride would not have allowed her to accomplish.

Ketill spoke as if burning that man had been a task, the way house slaves would speak of scrubbing floors, Basim imagined. Would he have declined, if given the opportunity? Najla did not seem to think so, but the way Ketill spoke was enough to raise some doubts. But when he began to speak of Najla’s morals, Basim found that his frown deepened. He would not seem angry, for while there was plenty in Ketill’s words that would offend just about anyone, Basim was not quite as concerned with taking offense. He would not respond, for though Ketill’s questioning of Najla’s morals had led to many questions, none of these were for the Servant to answer. It was not as if Basim had expected Ketill to speak highly of the woman that had enslaved him, and realized that Ketill’s answers would always be biased in that sense. Najla’s would too, but he had little to go off of besides either’s words. Instead, his mind began to consider Ketill’s words as a possibility, as if testing them cautiously within his own mind.

He knew that Najla had brought him along for a reason. There was no doubt as to that, the hours they had spent preparing him with Osman would have been wasted otherwise. Najla had not been shy about discussing the nature of Sawarimic culture with her brother, and he would have understood even if she hadn’t. Perhaps not to ‘seem smart’ as Ketill had so derisively stated, though Basim would not yet rule this option out. If anything, he had been brought along solely as an escort, to have the negotiations conducted under his name without relying on any particular skill. But if that was the truth, she could have brought Harith, who fought far better, or any number of male cousins, many of which would not have required the time they’d spent preparing with Osman. Yet again, this question would have to be shoved aside in order to deal with another.

He’d heard much from Najla regarding her time in Broacien, mostly in the form of long-winded answers to excited questions. She’d told him that they had mistreated her for her religion, she’d even spoken of the men who tried to attack her, though certainly not in full detail. It was not surprising to hear that his sister had not converted, but the thought that Ketill would have let her go if she had certainly was. They did not do that to slaves here, he knew, though they would be treated far better if they did convert. Whether it was Ketill’s own morality or a law of the Servants, Basim did not know. It seemed the former, based on Ketill’s next words, and Basim would have to agree that it was a strange notion. Yet those words made it feel as if it would have been cruel not to give him the cross, to allow him to pray as he would have allowed Najla.

He had believed that he was doing Ketill a favor, even if it was a dangerous one. Clearly, Basim had not expected the Servant’s anger, and he caught the flash of anger in his eyes with a confused frown, as if he did not quite know what to do with it. Najla had warned him of the dangers, just as Ketill was now, but Basim had not listened. Had Najla been there to witness, she might have remarked that his carelessness made him far more similar to Harith than he’d ever wish to be, but it was a lucky thing she was not. While she would have responded to Ketill’s words with venom, Basim held none of that in his voice.

“I am not trying to kill you.” It was a statement, nothing more, and would do little to clarify his true intentions. In fact, he seemed almost confused, as if the Servant had rejected a basic kindness. He would not try to convince Ketill that he was doing him a favor, for his next words were enough to distract Basim from nearly all that they had spoken before. When Ketill continued to explain why the cross was meaningless, the shock would be clear to read on his expression, and in his tone.

“Your Gods?” The emphasis he put on the final letter was enough to determine a large source of his confusion, though Ketill had given him plenty. “I don’t- there cannot be more than one.”

Though Ketill’s anger would soften, at least visibly, Basim’s confusion only increased as he extended his hand towards him. Any other time, the demand would have caused him pause, but it seemed his curiosity overwhelmed any concerns for his own safety. Again, it seemed even Basim could not shed all the attitudes of a prince, believing his safety would be secured by the guard regardless. It seemed almost a thoughtless gesture as he handed over his dagger then, and though he could hear his guards voice behind him, Basim would not think twice regardless.

<“Sultanim, surely this is too dangerous-”>

<“If he wanted to kill me, a dagger wouldn’t make a difference.”>

Though he did not outright demand the guard’s silence, the manner in which he’d interrupted him was out of character for the young prince. It was spoken as sharply as a command, though the reason would not be difficult to see. He only wanted the guard’s silence, and was too distracted by the sight in front of him to care how it happened, only eager to see what Ketill wished to show him. The word Audrun had been enough, it seemed, for Basim could not have forgotten it after the night before. In fact, it caused him to step closer. Though the guard would raise no more concerns, Basim nearly protested as he watched Ketill dig the tip of the dagger into his hand. There were other ways, surely, yet he watched with wide eyes as Ketill continued, choosing to comment on the word itself.

“I remember the name. Najla thought it might have been the name of your lover, I could not have imagined…” His words trailed off as he stepped closer, watching as Ketill finished carving his flesh. His expression was a mix of fascination and disgust, as if he wanted to ask Ketill to stop carving, but his curiosity demanded otherwise from him. He did not even seem to realize that he had betrayed what Najla thought, or had vaguely guessed at, regarding the name, only eager to see the truth. Therefore, as Ketill extended his hand again, Basim took the dagger, attaching it to his belt clumsily, for his eyes did not leave Ketill’s other hand. Instinct almost demanded that he take Ketill’s hand and hold it up for a closer look, but he would not move to touch him.

“So his children are your Gods as well? Even his daughters?” There was no derision in his voice, no scorn for that which were false Gods to his people. Only fascination. He simply wanted to understand, to ask more about these Gods he had never heard of. A part wondered if he should mention it to Najla, but this thought was hardly important now, and Basim only studied the bloody marks as if they would tell him more. “Whose Gods are these? I have heard of no people who worship a God such as Audrun.”

As Ketill continued to speak, Basim listened curiously, though these next words were not quite as surprising as the former. Najla had warned him, after all, and Basim was not entirely a stranger to the ways of the court. Ketill’s demand to keep this quiet would not have been immediately agreed to, especially not after having been spoken to in such a manner, but Basim was not about to tell his sister why he had brought the Servant to his tent. Despite the multitude of thoughts swimming in his mind, trying to process the information that Ketill had converted, and wondering what to do with this, Basim understood the necessity of silence now, for both of their sakes. Perhaps he would not have responded to Ketill’s words, allowing him to leave and dispose of the cross as he wished, but as he watched Ketill bow his head, Basim thought otherwise. He knew it was not for him, he had never seen the Servant bow, and did not believe he’d start so soon after calling a prince stupid.

“Find strength in your Gods then.”

It would have been a strange statement, had Basim not been so willing to help Ketill pray to the Monarch before. Still, it was a dismissive one, for though Basim had many questions left to ask, he was not fool enough to sit and ask now. Ketill’s harsh tone and readiness to leave was enough to convince him otherwise. Besides, the Servant had already given him a great deal to think on. The brief introduction of a new religion would only be enough to push away Ketill’s words regarding Najla briefly. They would return later, perhaps, but they seemed unimportant now, when compared to this flurry of new Gods.

---

When Najla had invited Thamud to her tent, neither party had any doubts as to the purpose, and yet the way they spoke would reveal none of this. They lounged upon cushions across from each other, and Najla had even removed the golden mask that covered her face. To Thamud, this indicated that she was comfortable with his presence, but Najla had done the same before Ketill earlier, company she was far less comfortable with. Still, she allowed Thamud to believe as he liked, and the pair spoke lazily for some time, as if recovering from the heavy heat with easy words. Their pleasantries could not last forever, and inevitably, the conversation returned to that which Najla did not wish to discuss.

<“You were kind to help Aliya, but it was not necessary, Sultana. We take care of our own within the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“I did not do so out of necessity, Thamud Khan. I know the Al-Uba’yd have both the means and desire to care for all those who share and serve your blood. I wanted to do so, I had no motives beyond that.”>

<“It will be an expensive feat, even for the Great Sultan, to provide for every new widow the Servant leaves behind.”>

Najla hid her emotions behind a soft laughter, though her mind raced. Thamud spoke as if the Servant would continue fighting, yet Najla did not know if he meant among the Al-Uba’yd or elsewhere. She did not doubt that there would be volunteers if Thamud allowed them to come forward, though significantly fewer than before, there were still men foolish enough to do so. Whether Thamud would be one of them would take some more time to know.

<“I agree, yet I am prepared to do so. Every man that perishes at the Servant’s hands is a witness. As the Sawarim provides for his witnesses, so we must provide for their blood.”>

<“It is an honor to be a witness for the Sawarim, truly.”> Najla was silent for a moment, watching Thamud as she waited for him to continue. It was a respectful phrase, usually one given to end a conversation like this, and yet, Najla felt as if there was more he wished to ask. Perhaps he would have, but the few seconds of silence were enough to break Najla’s patience.

<“We are friends now Thamud, speak as freely as you like. I witnessed the same fight as you, I know it is difficult to see such an end as an honor. May the Sawarim rest Yazan’s soul.”>

There was a moment in which Thamud would not reply to the rest of the words, merely repeating the last phrase back softly. His dark eyes moved over her quickly as he did, nothing like the disrespectful gawking she’d seen from Ketill. Najla caught herself remembering Ketill’s words, wondering if perhaps he’d been right in claiming the tribals would blame her. It was not as if she’d had a choice, for he would’ve been unable to fight without her blessing, but she knew people did not always see that. Then again, if Thamud did blame her, he would never tell her. Perhaps no one but Ketill would.

<“I’ve seen witnesses made before, I was nearly one myself, once. But never in such a manner. You are right, Sultana, it was not easy to see it as an honor then, and it is more difficult now that the Qawanin had to be violated for it. Yazan’s death was honorable but the act of it was less than human.”>

He spoke carefully, Najla noticed, never putting blame on any one party. They ‘had’ to be violated, he was speaking as if God’s will had done this, though their God would never urge another to betray his laws in this manner. It was a difficult issue to answer. If Najla admitted she had little control of Ketill, those who were meant to follow her would see her as weak, or at least far weaker than she’d presented herself to be. Letting the rumors fester would not be an option however, and neither would be telling the Al-Uba’yd that this violation had been done with her blessing. So she reverted to that which she knew to be true, and that which the tribesmen now knew to be true as well.

<“The laws did not have to be broken, no civilized man would have done so. But the Servant is neither civil, nor a man. He is the rabid dog of a false god, a beast that has only been given the capability to harm, and too savage to be taught otherwise.”>

<“Yet you have tried Sultana, I saw the lessons upon his back.”>

<“Will you believe he did not feel it?”> Thamud’s surprised expression was met with a slight shake of Najla’s head, as if she herself could not believe the words she was repeating. <“Not one lash was met with a cry.”>

<“Is he capable of feeling pain at all? I saw none upon his expression, not from any blow of the axe or even when he-”> Thamud hesitated then, looking up at Najla as he caught his words. She knew what was coming next, he was speaking of when Ketill had pressed Yazan’s body into the flames, as if he could not feel their caress himself. The unthinking way Thamud had been about to speak those words indicated that he’d likely already said them to another, perhaps a brother or friend, but he could not describe such violence in front of a woman, even if she had been there to see it.

<“I do not know.”> Her voice was soft as she answered, and her gaze rested on a cushion beside Thamud, rather than the man himself. It felt as if she could see Yazan’s face in it, locked in a scream as it blistered into something unrecognizable. A familiar, harrowing scream began to grasp at her conscious, though Najla shoved this away by looking up at Thamud once more, her expression no different than what he’d seen from her before. <“I suppose it would be far easier to punish him if he did.”>

<“You intend to punish him for this then?”>

<“Of course.”> Najla replied quickly, as if she had already thought this through long before. <“He must be punished. Yazan did not deserve to perish in such a manner, and the Servant cannot be allowed to break our laws so easily. Not here, however, I will not burden your people with such violence.”>

<“I do not believe Yazan’s family would mind, Sultana. They should be glad to see the Servant pay for this.”>

<“Perhaps, until the punishment begins and they come to see just how little the Servant feels. It will only bring them more pain. Besides, I believe it would make little difference to his behavior regardless, not so long as he believes his God to be above those who enslave him. I had hoped to find a sword among the Sawarim to humble him. But I cannot imagine a man brave enough to face him now.”>

<“There is no need to imagine, there are many of us who could not resist the call to best a Servant. Even if they are faced with such a violent end, there is far too much to accomplish in such a victory.”>

<“Us?”> Najla raised an eyebrow at that, as if Thamud had aroused a new concern. <“I do not doubt that you could beat him Thamud, but I also do not doubt that he could beat you. I would not ask a friend to gamble his life, you are too dear to the Sultan and I already.”>

<“Those are kind words, but I do not intend to gamble, Sultana. I believe I could beat him, though I cannot test this with my life. Not in front of my people.”>

<“You’re a confident man, Thamud. I could not doubt that this comes from your skill as a warrior, though I have only heard stories.”>

<“Is that why you came here, Sultana? The stories?”>

The shift in tone was rather sudden, but Najla was quick to adjust. Their subject was still somewhat heavy, but Thamud’s tone had turned slightly more teasing. Perhaps he was simply sick of speaking of the Servant, just as Najla was, and hoped to make the most of his time with this princess that seemed so fond of him. Perhaps he was aching to fight him as well, to test his luck, but even that would have to wait. As desperately as Najla wanted to have Thamud killed so she could be free of this chore, she’d have to close the negotiations beforehand.

<“Well, if the Al-Uba’yd cannot beat him, I would be wise to give up on that quest entirely.”> Najla replied with a slight hint of a smile, continuing before Thamud could answer. <“But no, I did not come here to entice such violence. I came to meet you, and to do what I can for your people.”>

With one comment, the conversation reverted back into negotiations. They kept their tones friendly, even teasing at times, and Najla spoke with little of the bite she’d had before. There were few other differences between the previous negotiations and this one however, for Najla found that Thamud was just as entrenched in his goal as before. He would not return the horses to the Banu Dunya, not without some payment for their loss, which would have been a grave insult if the villagers were forced to hand it over. Najla suspected he hoped she’d have the Sultan reach into his vast pockets to clear such a small issue, especially considering that it would have to be solved before the negotiations between both parties could even truly begin. It was not the large concession that her cousins Akbar and Zahira had assumed, though as Najla watched him speak, she knew it would get there quite soon. To her, that felt even more dangerous, a fool would ask for a princess outright, an intelligent man would see just how much the Sultan was willing to give before doing so. Unfortunately for Thamud, he was not intelligent enough to see how quickly it would be taken from him.

<“Thamud Khan, the Banu Dunya bring a great deal of trade to your people. The value of the horses could be reimbursed tenfold in this manner alone.”>

<“I am not so dependent on their trade that I am willing to give up the pride of my people.”>

Najla let out a soft sigh, before leaning back in the cushions slightly. Briefly, she allowed her eyes to close, as if thinking, preparing her words of concession. When she opened her gaze, she rested in on Thamud for a moment, his lips curled in the hint of a smile. <“You care for your people dearly, I see that. I have only been among the Al-Uba’yd briefly, but it has been enough for me to understand why. I would not ask your people to give up their dignity for anything.”> She ignored the growing expression of hope, or perhaps satisfaction, on Thamud’s face, continuing to speak as if she could not see it.

<“All I would ask is that you agree to return their horses when they arrive, and that you abandon your request for a Diya.”> He would not be able to obtain it anyways, Najla knew, for no property had been stolen from him. Perhaps he’d done it to insult the villagers or to extort someone in the Sultanate, likely her, but Najla didn’t care. She only knew that it would never be formally granted to him, and Thamud likely knew that as well, though clearly he did not care too much.

<“Then you are asking my people to abandon their dignity to those who call us thieves, Sultana.”>

They called you thieves because you stole from them.

It took far more willpower than she’d considered to keep from speaking those words, but Najla had made her silence doubly certain by raising her glass to take another sip of wine. Thamud was tiring to her, and this only made it harder to pretend as if she believed his lies. It would have been easier to speak with him if Ketill had not worn her nerves down to nothing earlier. The exhaustion hardly helped, she felt as if she’d barely given herself time to rest since the travel, and the endless amounts of wine and desert drinks were little pleasure under the heat of the sun. If anything, it was motivation to end the job before Thamud asked to strip another Sultana from the luxuries of the palace to rot here.

<“I am asking them to abandon nothing but a few horses. Do not force them to abandon more. You must realize, your request for a Diya will never be granted if you do not abandon it formally. It will only insult the Banu Dunya, who could halt their trade here.”>

<“I would not make a request if I thought it would not be granted. We cannot allow their insults to go unanswered.”>

<“Unfortunately, that is not what a Diya is for. It is meant to compensate stolen property, not pride. There is no judge of the Sawarimic law that could grant this request, even if they believed it to be justified.”>

Much of the subtlety in her voice had been lost, swept away by the dust and heat, stripped by Thamud’s endless arguing. It wasn’t as if it mattered, he was getting what he wanted anyways, and Najla doubted he would tell anyone. He’d be stupid to, a Diya would have to be shared otherwise.

<“But I am not a judge. Your request can still be granted, but I cannot do so unless it is formally renounced.”>

<“Sultana, this is assuming greed of us, this request is not of greed.”>

<“This is not an assumption Thamud, it is an option. You could still pursue this request, but negotiations will only be stalled to find you returning to the table empty-handed, and with two insulted parties facing you. You know what is best for your people, I only seek to accomplish that for you.”>

Though Thamud seemed taken aback by the sudden directness in her words, he would adjust quickly. Perhaps it was the victory that had done it, or the promise that he’d be granted the worth of two dozen horses for himself. Regardless, he would continue to press for some time, gently insisting that this request was only to heal a wounded pride, without ever outright refusing her offer. Najla had expected this, as exhausting as it was, for she knew he would not be able to accept so quickly without being turned into a liar in the Sultana’s eyes. She already believed him to be one, but now he knew her to be just as underhanded, so perhaps they had been made into equals. Finally, it seemed her directness has served her, and he agreed, to which Najla had to suppress a sigh of relief. It was a major task completed, and she would never have to continue the process of granting the Diya, at least, not unless her cousin picked up the request.

They would not seek to continue negotiations afterwards, nor would they resume talks of the Servant. Najla saw no reason to, Thamud had already made it apparent that he was somewhat eager to fight him, or at least curious enough to test his strength. Najla had encouraged this as subtly as she could, even going so far as to confide the secret of her betrothed’s bruises in him. It was hardly a secret, everyone in the palace knew of the incident, and Najla had little doubt that it had spread beyond. Osman would have been upset if he knew the words she was speaking, and furious if he knew the suggestions that had come along with it, the hints that she would be able to resist no man who could best the Servant. It was a lucky thing that he was in the capital then, for though she knew a flirtatious suggestion would not be enough for a man to risk his life in such a manner, she would not ask Thamud to risk his life. Instead, she’d watch as his words grew perpetually more brazen, pushing them as best as she could, until they would halt their conversation to prepare for the arrival of the Banu Dunya. It would only be tedious and tense, and Najla was just as grateful for the solitude Thamud’s deparature gave her as she was for the life he’d give her soon.

---

Despite the progress they made, the following day of negotiations felt just as tedious as the first. The Banu Dunya had brought a small delegation, their leader Ramzi, a man slightly younger than Najla’s father, though he was not quite a warrior yet. Only the Banu Dunya were surprised when Thamud told him he would return the horses without a Diya, as Najla knew he had conferred with his brothers before doing so. Zahira had told her, stating that Thamud knew it would never be granted, and they had decided to move past it in the spirit of forgiveness. It felt strange, for a thief to forgive their victim, but it suggested the beginning of the end here, and Najla was grateful for it. Yet while she believed the Banu Dunya to be the only ones surprised, a break in the negotiations would soon prove otherwise. As they tried to return to the tents, Zahira gripped Najla’s arm, whispering in her ear. It felt like a snake had coiled around her arm to hiss in her ear, though it looked like nothing but an affectionate grasp between cousins.

<“Salim says Thamud may fight.”>

<“Are you sure? He still had many reservations…”>

<“Yes, but only if it is till first blood. Salim was worried, he is trying to tell Thamud otherwise.”>

<“Are you going to let him?”>

<“Yes. My husband is a fool, he keeps telling Thamud that he does not have the Servant’s skill. How long do you think he’ll let that stand?”

Nothing in Najla’s conversation with Thamud could have brought about as much hope as Zahira’s final sentence. She would begin to respond, parting her lips to whisper in her cousin’s ear again, only for her words to halt in her throat. Basim stood some ways before them, speaking to another of Thamud’s brothers, but would quickly turn to walk towards the pair of women. Unwilling to risk her brother hearing, or even raise his curiosity about the nature of their gossip, Najla fell silent and nodded at her cousin. Thus, when Basim met them, there was nothing for him to interrupt, and his polite request to speak with Najla privately was granted easily, and she obliged, allowing her brother to escort her to her tent.

<“So what convinced Thamud to give up the Diya?”> Najla looked up at Basim in surprise, though a glance around their walking path proved there were none within earshot. Though it would seem as if she had little faith in her brother, it was an action born mostly of surprise, brought on by the sudden question.

<“Common sense, I’d say. He knew he’d never get it.”>

<“He didn’t know that yesterday.”> Something in Basim’s tone was off, and when Najla glanced up at him again, there was a slight frown on her face. Basim knew that she had met with Thamud privately, their talk had lasted quite a long time, after all. She had not tried to hide it from anyone, though she had not expected to be questioned as to the nature of their conversation in this way.

<“It took some convincing to make him see it, but at least now we can move forward with negotiations.”>

<“What convinced him?”>

<“I did.”>

Najla did not look up at her brother then, though she could feel his eyes on her. She did not know what answer he was seeking, or why he even cared as to this matter, but it was a line of questioning she wanted to end soon. While Najla usually held a near endless patience for his curiosity, this conversation was not a curious one.

<“Don’t worry, I didn’t offer him any of your cousins.”> Even this was not a full truth, she knew. They had not spoken on the subject directly, but they had hinted at cementing this friendship between the Al-Uba’yd and the Sultan even deeper. There were many ways to do so, but Najla’s playful tone had only left a few possible options. Thamud would not accept a Diya on its own, but it was not difficult to dangle a Sultana before these tribesmen. It was a sign of favor for the Sultan to grant his daughters and nieces to these tribal lords, and in terms of an indication of status, there were few to match it. <“He only wanted the Diya for now, thank God. That’s all he’s going to get.”>

<“I thought you said he wasn’t going to get anything. We had only negotiated for a day, don’t you think he would have given up eventually?”>

<“Perhaps, but I didn’t want to take that risk, not while the Banu Dunya are here. It’s tense as it is, imagine if they had come to hear that. Trust me Basim, this was the easiest route for everyone, and it’s not as if Uncle cannot afford it.”>

They fell silent as they neared the entrance to Najla’s tent, quieting themselves before the guards. While Najla had done so on purpose, Basim’s silence lingered a few moments longer even as he entered her tent behind her. Najla moved to remove her golden mask slowly, still staying silent, waiting for her brother to speak first.

<“Why did you bother to bring me then?”>

<“What?”> Whatever Najla had expected was weighing down on Basim’s mind, this had not been it. She had half-expected him to repeat the concerns about Ketill’s prayers, or even tell her that she’d gone back on her word, both issues she could have dealt with. This was unexpected, as was the slightly annoyed tone Basim found when he repeated himself.

<“Why bother to bring me? If you’re going to do all the work hidden away in your tent, I don’t see why you need me.”>

<“I thought you wanted to come.”>

<“Sure, but I don’t see why you wanted me to. You said you wanted to teach me, but you didn’t bother to tell me about this.”>

<“It’s not that I intended to give it to him, but as we began to speak, I realized it would be the most peaceful way. I am sorry, my blood, I did not hold this as a secret. But you have learned, and quickly. You’re doing quite well, they all respect you a great deal, and it will help us get to the end of the negotiations far faster. The next round of celebrations will be well-earned.”>

Again, there was another moment of silence, heavier than the one before. Their conversation had been tense, for though Najla was used to answering her brothers questions, she was not used to the tone he had asked them in. Something felt rather off about Basim, and Najla studied his expression for a brief moment before walking towards him.

<“Are you feeling well? It is rare to see you so quiet, I hope I have not upset you. I would make this right if I could.”>

<“No, I’m fine.”> Basim waved her off then, though when she looked up at him, she could see his lips curling up into a slight smile. It felt forced, but she would not have much longer to question it. <“I just need to rest, that’s all.”>

<“Go then. You will be speaking a great deal at the negotiations tonight, it will be vital.”> Clearly, Najla believed she knew why he was so upset. She hoped that by giving him a greater role in these negotiations, stepping back to allow more room for her brother, he would be sated in his role. It would not work, for Basim knew that these negotiations were far less vital than those she’d had with Thamud. Besides, it had been the mention of a celebration that had dulled his spirits even more, though Najla had not noticed this, still preoccupied with the issue of the Diya. Hopefully, Basim would understand, and she let out a soft sigh as he left her tent, as she was unable to do much else.

---

The next few days of negotiations had passed in a rather tedious manner, and had been spent carefully balancing egos between the two parties, though it was finally coming to a close. They had agreed upon the terms, Thamud would send the horses back with them, and upon her return to the capital, Najla would send him a Diya even greater than the one he’d asked for. At least, that’s what she had told him, though she did not know if it would ever reach him. It seemed Thamud had not told any of his family this, for Zahira had come to Najla, telling her of Salim’s complaints that Thamud had given in so easily. He had much to complain on, it seemed, and his wife relayed these to Najla in a cheerful tone, before asking for that which Najla had promised her.

<“I don’t know how you find this. I live in the desert it comes from, and yet I have had less luck.”>

<“You need to offer a higher price, cousin.”> Najla replied with a smile, handing her cousin the delicate bottle. It was too small to be a normal perfume bottle, dwarfed by their jeweled hands, though it held no markings that would clarify what it could be. Had they been accompanied by guards, they would have seen nothing but two women passing a strange perfume from one gilded hand to another. The pair were alone, however, and their words betrayed what their relaxed demeanor couldn’t.

<“So you won’t tell me?”>

<“And make my own blood pay for it? Whenever you need some, just ask, I will always be happy to gift it to you.”>

The knowing look on Zahira’s face proved that she had seen past her cousin’s words, but Najla would ignore this. She had not expected differently, after all. Zahira had always been older than her, already well-versed in the ways of the court just as Najla was finding her way, and so there were few tricks Najla could use that her cousin would be unaware of. Thus, despite the fact that she manipulated her words easily, far too quickly and without a change in tone, Zahira knew the truth. Najla would not reveal her source, even if she had no issue delivering the product itself.

<“Sa’am-e Soosk.”> Zahira spoke the Sawarim word for ‘Beetle’s poison’ as delicately as she held the vial, turning it over in between jeweled fingers. <“It takes a week, no?”>

<“It depends on the man. The larger he is, the longer it takes.”>

<“So your bear-”>

Najla smiled slightly, as if she already knew the joke, but quickly cut her cousin off. She was sick of speaking of Ketill, exhausted by his name and presence already, and it was only made worse with the knowledge that she had brought him here.

<“A year, perhaps.”> Her cousin’s grin quickly grew to match hers at that, but Najla continued to speak before Zahira could mention the Servant once more. <“But yes, for Thamud, I assume a week.”>

Zahira did not respond to that, and Najla watched as her cousin opened the vial. Her motions were careful, and almost excruciatingly slow, but finally, she lifted the vial to her nose and inhaled softly.

<“The smell is barely there, but it’s not a good one.”>

<”That’s good, it means it’s real beetle shit.”>

It was far rarer for Najla to speak crassly than it was for her cousin, so this comment was quick to elicit another grin from Zahira. It was clear that Zahira was somewhat familiar with the poison, even if she did not have access to it, but Najla had made certain she understood all that she could about it. They were made by crushing young beetles that feasted on the roots of plants used for perfumes, and so it was immensely difficult to obtain. First, a Sawarim had to be convinced to uproot a plant that would bring them continual profit, then they would have to hope to find a beetle at all, let alone some young enough to be suited for this purpose, and only then would the careful procedure of obtaining the poison from these beetles could begin. Rather than rely on such an unpredictable supply, Najla had found predictable people and rewarded them well, so long as these wares were never far from her reach. These people were precious to her, as dear as a friend would be, and it was partially by hiding their names that she sought to repay their services.

<“Will it be a painful death, do you think?”>

<“Yes.”>

Najla answered quickly, and though her tone made it so that she was stating a fact, it also betrayed that it was an unfortunate one. She knew Zahira would continue to ask, but rather than explain herself, Najla watched as her cousin wrapped a fabric around her hand to close the bottle delicately. The silence made the brief moment feel far tenser than necessary, so that Najla exhaled in relief when Zahira managed to close the bottle without issue.

<“Well, how much more painful than an infection will it be? I do not want it to be suspicious.”>

<“Do not worry cousin. If it did not mimic an infection so well, I would have brought another weapon. He will feel the Djinn’s grasp at his wound, as if he is becoming trapped within his own flesh, but to your healer and his family, it will look like the wound or fever has taken him. So long as your healer does her job, and keeps quiet.”>

She spoke of the poison as a weapon the same way her father would speak of a sword or axe. Her actions were far less honorable. Najla seemed to feel some the weight of this knowledge, though perhaps not heavily enough to halt herself. It was necessary. Other poisons could kill him painlessly and with little delay, but this was the best way to avoid suspicion. Her tone was matter-of-fact, with little care as to the harshness of her words. Regardless of the cruelty of the act itself, Najla was breaking no Qawanin, and so her God could not be displeased with her.

<“She is mine to deal with, have faith in me. Between the Mother, your….supplier, and the two of us, there is no one who would know.”>

<“Osman knows.”> Najla replied quickly. It should not have been a necessary name to mention, for there should have been no fear that her lover would speak. But what ‘should’ have been was not always the truth. Zahira already knew that Osman was displeased with Najla’s actions, and though she had not dared tell her cousin the extent of it, she had told her more than most. The reason would be clear when Zahira replied, she held none of the surprise or anger Najla’s siblings would have held, though perhaps she would have if Najla had removed her bracelets. She treated the matter as she had all their previous intimate gossip throughout the years, and it seemed Najla would have it no other way.

<“He seemed in better spirits when he came to say farewell, I assumed he had come to terms with the situation.”>

<“He’s still not pleased, but he’s accepted it. Otherwise, I suppose I wouldn’t be here.”>

<“Liar.”> Zahira replied. Najla returned her cousin’s grin with a softer smile, suddenly very aware of how the necklaces pressed into the bruising on her neck. <“Osman has grown too used to women like Elif, but he will remember that you are not her. Either that or you will remind him. Then all will be as it was.”>

That comment was enough to reel Najla’s thoughts back in, and she let out an amused exhale, not quite a giggle or laugh. She had very little knowledge of how Osman treated Elif, whether he would ever speak to her or bruise her in the manner he had done to Najla. His wife had likely never given him a reason to. Regardless, she knew that Osman could not have grown too used to Elif, or else he would not have returned to Najla’s chambers as often as he did.

<“If you are right, then I hope he remembers soon. I can think of no other way to remind him, and I will only grow weary if my husband always intends to be so difficult. Is it easier to keep them ignorant? So far as I know you have never sought to inform Salim as to your ways.”>
<“I've never had to. There's nothing out here but sand, there's hardly even a secret to keep. He did question me once, some rumor that came from the palace about something I did before our marriage. I don’t remember about what, I suppose it didn’t matter. I told him what I knew would ease him, and he has not spoken of it since that night.”>

<“What words eased him so easily?”>

<“Any would have quieted him. I could have spoken nonsense, men will believe anything if they’re distracted the right way. You know this, and from the way Elif looks at you, she knows as well.”>

<“What does she know? That she’s about to compete with a Sultana, or that she already is?”>

<“The latter, if Osman remains by your side as often as you say. She cannot be as daft as Ammar’s wife is.”>

It was lucky that Zahira should have made such a comment, for rather than focus on her troubles with Osman, or try and seek more advice from her cousin, they could turn to gossip quickly. Their sentences were now punctuated with laughter as they discussed their cousin’s new wife, making light of the poor girl’s excuses for the nights Ammar spent within the clutches of the harem. The stresses of the task ahead were forgotten within this gossip, and they would only be reminded of it briefly when the pair was finally interrupted. As the entrance of the tent began to move, Najla quickly glanced over to watch Zahira hide the vial they’d so easily forgotten about in the folds of her dress. When her eyes reverted to the door, it was Basim’s image that entered, approaching the pair as if he was interrupting their gossip in the gardens at home. He had shown little desire to speak to Najla after their last tense conversation, though he was smart enough not to try and show this in public. Not even Zahira had noticed, for Basim spoke pleasantly before them. Najla had noticed however, enough that she was rather surprised at his presence.

<“I didn’t mean to interrupt, it sounded important.”>

<“It was. We’re betting on which of the harem girls Kalila’s going to find first.”>

Basim let out a soft chuckle at his cousin’s response, taking a few steps towards the pair. <“You’re just wasting a chance to rest then.”>

<“Aren’t you supposed to be resting too? They’re going to be signing the pact tomorrow, do you have any idea how much of that snake venom you’re going to have to drink again?”>

<“I’ve got some idea.”> Basim replied, still smiling. He seemed much more like his usual self, though Najla wondered if the distance had been bridged because of Zahira’s presence. It would be answered shortly however, for Basim was quick to clarify his presence. <“I’m about to go rest, I just wanted to talk to my sister for a few moments before. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”>

<“You aren’t. We’re-”> She glanced over at Najla for confirmation, at which she nodded. <“We’re done here. I suppose I should find Salim.”> Zahira began to push herself off the cushions, and Basim rushed forward, quickly offering his hand to help her stand. It was a movement the princes of the Sultanate learned under the sharp tongues of their mothers and sisters who expected such treatment. Yet the awkward way Basim held out his hand would make anyone believe he did so out of free will rather than any sort of conditioning. Najla watched as Zahira took his hand softly, the other clutching a fistful of her skirts, hiding a vial in her hand and the fabrics. Salim was not going to see his wife for some time, they had other tasks to accomplish. The celebrations were beginning tomorrow, and many were itching for it, tired of the tense few days the negotiations had brought on. Though they had not forgotten the horror of the last celebration, there were still many who itched to test their strength against Ketill, Thamud included.

<“I can’t tell you how well you did, Basim.”> Najla began to speak immediately after Zahira left, smiling kindly at her brother. She had not asked why he had been so distant the past few days, assuming that the tense negotiations had only put an even greater strain on him. <“You were clever, confident, much better than I was the first time. I knew I was right to bring you.”>

<“Thanks.”> Basim’s voice was somewhat softer, and he plopped himself across from Najla, almost precisely where Zahira was sitting before. <“It wasn’t that hard to pick up, honestly.”>

<“Don’t start bragging now.”> Najla teased, her smile widening at her own remarks. <“Just because you’re a natural doesn’t mean it was so easy for all of us.”>

Basim chuckled softly as that, though he did not seem too moved by her praise. She had not expected him to be now, for she knew there was a reason he had come to speak to her. Najla would quickly seek to know the reason why, eager to be able to rest before the next day.

<“So what was it you wished to speak with me about?”>

<“I heard Thamud’s going to fight.”> The answer came suddenly, and Najla raised an eyebrow at that, surprised at the fact that Basim knew, and curious as to how he had found out. It seemed he had misinterpreted her expression as surprise, a lucky thing, she supposed. <“I don’t know for sure,”> He added hastily, <“His brothers were just talking about it to me, they were asking about what he was like during training.”>

<“What did you tell them?”>

Basim just shrugged at that. <“The truth, I guess. Are you going to let him?”>

<“I have no control over Thamud. If he wishes to fight Ketill, he will.”>

<“You control Ketill, he doesn’t have to fight him.”>

Najla hesitated for a moment then, but she knew her brother well, and as such, believed she knew what was troubling him. She was not entirely wrong, it seemed, though she was not quite as close as she believed.

<“You’re worried about the violence? Don’t worry, Thamud will not fight him until his death. Ketill can kill any man who tries to kill him. Thamud is not going to try to kill him, they will only fight until first blood.”>

<“But you’re still going to make Ketill kill the others?”>

<“If they try to kill him, he can kill them. Is that not fair?”>

There was little for Basim to disagree with there, it seemed, but their conversation would not cease. It seemed Basim was still uncomfortable with the violence they’d have to show, but there was little he could do beyond it. He would not ask Thamud not to fight, and Najla would not be convinced to ask Ketill not to fight. They would face each other the next day, it seemed, regardless of how many of the Al-Uba’yd fretted at the thought. Though Basim did not leave entirely satisfied, Najla was simply satisfied that he had left. Zahira would douse Ketill’s weapon in the poison, Thamud would seek to test his strength, and in a week, the Al-Uba’yd would have a new leader.

---

Their final full day with the Al-Uba’yd felt much like the first night, though it was a far longer process. With both their prides satisfied, the Banu Dunya and Al-Uba’yd had finalized their pact, and would finally be able to break bread together once more, a celebration their people had prepared for some time. As before, they settled under the canopy at night, Najla and Basim between the leaders of the Al-Uba’yd and the Banu Dunya, indulging far more than they had the first night. If there were men brave enough, they’d be allowed to challenge the Servant, but Najla could not have cared less about any of them. They were peasants, either too drunk or too proud, none of their deaths would help her. Instead, she continued to distract herself by drinking, indulging in a luxury she hated, chatting with men she did not particularly like, up until the main event. Finally, she approached Ketill.

Thamud was preparing under the canopy still, talking excitedly to his brothers, as if he was not about to face death. He was not drunk, only eager, and Najla would have lamented this fact if she cared to. Thamud would die regardless, it did not matter what he drank before.

“Ketill.” She spoke his name with that thick accent as ever, though there was little softness in it now. Najla had not come to see him since their last conversation, and her tone would leave little question as to why. She was still rather angry with him, and her eyes narrowed over that golden mask as she spoke to him, though the guards that flanked her would not see this. “No need to spit insults, I just wished to tell you that this would be your last task here. We will leave tomorrow.”

She glanced over to see Thamud walking towards the fire, knowing that the Sawarim were likely going to begin the ritual again soon. Once more, she’d have to give Ketill her blessing to fight, though this time, it would not be to kill. It was clear however, that there was more she wished to say to him. Najla had never been concerned with telling Ketill his duties, nor warning him about travel, only with having him accomplish whatever task she asked of him. Surely, this time would be no different.

“He will not try to kill you, this fight will be to first blood only. If you can manage not to kill him, I promise you a horse for the journey back to the capital. If not, there will be no punishment.” She glanced at Thamud again, and it seemed Najla knew she had run out of time as she looked up at Ketill once more. She did not care to control her voice before, knowing that none of the tribesmen could speak Ketill’s tongue, but now, she spoke somewhat more softly. It indicated far more about the nature of her words than who she was worried would hear, though she would not explain herself much further.

“By no means should you touch your own blade. Understood? Now come, they’re ready to start.”

Due to the negotiations, Ketill was left alone for the remainder of his time in the village until the deal had been sealed, and they would celebrate with new festivities. Although the first night had already been hellish, this one would prove to be setting up to be worse. Merely the presence of the envoys from the other group of people would be enough to raise festivities to a new level and Ketill had no doubt in his mind that he’d be a part of that.

It did not come as too much of a surprise then when he was retrieved from the healers’ tent, late in the evening. The guards guided him outside and gave him a moment to stand still, looking at the horizon, where the sun was gently dipping underneath the sandy dunes. It would’ve been a beautiful sight in different circumstances, but all it did now was remind Ketill of how isolated they were. How impossible escape would be to him. Once the guards found they had given him enough time they gently pushed him further and continued towards the center of the festivities, near the fire. It seemed like they had not learned from their mistake the last time, and Ketill wondered if they’d ask him for another show with the fire present like that.

Najla had warned him of that, after all.

He was put more or less in the same location as last time, near the slaves that were not currently busy serving the others, close to the fire. It was perhaps the only enjoyable thing about sitting there, as despite the deserts harsh climate, the scorching sun made way for the cooling moon, and depending on the time of the year, you could very well freeze to death in some of the cooler places at night. Luckily it was not that time of the year yet, but even so with the sun settling slowly, he was happy that there was a fire.

As usual, Ketill was ignored for much of the night until the men, and particularly the peasants, had had enough to drink to lift their bravery to a new level. Though they stood far away at first, they came closer inevitably, looking at Ketill and discussing among themselves. This went on throughout the night with new faces appearing and leaving at a whim, making way for others that wanted to see the Bear of Broacien and talk about him.

<‘’Go and prod him with that stick, Azir,’’> one of them said in a hushed tone, glancing at his friend with a grin.

<‘’Sure, and then he will rip my throat open like he did Yazan,’’> the man replied, not taking his eyes off of Ketill.

<‘’He is the Daab al-Broacien, right? Bears in cages get prodded with sticks all the time so that they will dance, you’ll be fine.’’>

<‘’I don’t see a cage.’’>

<‘’I guess it doesn’t matter, I’ve heard from some others that Thamud will tame the bear for good tonight. The Sultana, may the Sawarim bless her and her family, may have tamed the beast to do her command, but a beast will always be a beast. Thamud will put him down like the mangled dog he is.’’>

<‘’Is that so? That’s good.’’>

Whether the men had wanted to continue the discussion or not was not really of importance, as they quickly scurried away when the Sultana herself made an appearance. She walked up while speaking his name, the accent thicker than before it almost seemed. Her face spelled books to Ketill and he did his best to suppress a grin. Her words, however, told him that there was no need to prepare for another inquisition as to why he did what he did. Thankfully Najla would not lecture him about the other fight, and would not tell him what to do – beyond some very specific instructions. When she spoke of the blade, Ketill was slightly confused. In his mind, this fight was only taking place to show Thamud the power of the Sultan. But this instruction spoke of far more than that. Before Najla could walk away, Ketill reached forwards and grabbed her wrist. ‘’I can fight until first blood, we’ve passed the point at which I will do what you tell me to for no reason other than your command. I don’t need a horse – I’ve walked the way here so I can walk the way back.’’

From the corner of his eyes he could see the guards coming closer as a reaction to him grabbing her wrist, so he promptly let go and began getting up from his sitting position, standing up straight when the guards arrived. <‘’Is everything okay, Sultana?’’> one of them would ask her, but Ketill didn’t worry about it, given that the fight was about to start.

‘’The harem girl that your brother granted me after our first fight – she visited me a few more times, and seems to be around whenever I went to practice with your brother. She will be my new servant. That’s my demand. It’s easy for you, no? A harem girl is a tool, after all. Like me. You can manipulate her to do what you want. After that, you give up on her, and won’t ask her to talk to you anymore. In exchange for…’’

He did not finish his sentence, only looking over to the canopy where Thamud was standing, the last few straps of his armour being tightened by his brothers, who seemed more concerned than excited for this fight. Of course, it was only a fight until first blood, but the savage had ignored holy laws before – why would he follow the rules of a duel? They didn’t even know if Ketill understood anything that he was being told, the only evidence for that being that Najla claimed to have tamed him. Perhaps they had no reason to doubt her – but that did not mean much in the face of the possible death of their brother.

‘’… a life. That seems like a fair deal.’’ Though it was posed like a question of sorts, it took more so the shape of a demand. Even though he’d fight if she denied him, she would likely have to deal with an even more annoying Ketill if she said no. The request for her not to talk to the girl anymore would go ignored – and that much Ketill knew – but Najla was equally stupid if she thought Ketill had no idea that Najla used whatever means she could to gain insight on how to control Ketill. Women were not the answer, however, and Najla would’ve likely learned that by now.

When they were done, Ketill would begin approaching the fire, under the watchful eye of the spectators that were waiting for the same ritual to commence. But before he got to the center of the crowd, he was tapped on the arm. When he looked over to see who it was, he saw Basims face contoured by the light coming from the fire. Next to him stood one of Thamud’s brothers, who seemed concerned, but still maintained a stern and stoic look in his eyes. ‘’Prince,’’ Ketill stated, waiting for an answer of sorts.

‘’This is one of Thamud’s brothers. He wanted to know how long you’ve been a soldier for. I told him that your prowess in combat would give him a hint, but he insisted that he had to know before he let his brother commit to the fight.’’

Ketill glanced at the man again, trying to see just how nervous the man was. ‘’We fight to first blood. There is no risk. Why worry?’’

Basim merely shrugged, either not knowing the answer or not finding the answer important enough to argue about. It was probably easier to just answer at this point. ‘’In the end they still see you as a savage. They probably don’t expect you to uphold the rules.’’

Ketill looked away from the man’s eyes to his hands for a moment, folding his fingers together and stretching his hands then, the knack of his joints relaxing his hands a little, to prepare himself for the upcoming duel. He thought about what he would answer – he had not been a soldier for long, mostly spending his time as a knight or a Servant. He supposed that a Servant was a soldier in the broad sense of that word, but Ketill wondered if the Sawarim understood the definition of a knight at all. The systems were very different after all, even if they showed similarities at times. When he made up his mind, he glanced back at the man first and then at Basim. ‘’I’ve been a soldier for a long time, but I’ve been a warrior my entire life. Tell him I’ve fought for the king for four years to ease his mind. I’ll uphold the rules of the duel. There is a difference between religious laws and honour. Killing someone is easy – giving them an honourable death while maintaining your own honour is harder.’’

‘’Four years is too little. Thamud is not a guard – he’s a tribal leader. I’ll tell him eight, it’s more believable. I hope you’re right, about upholding the rules of the duel.’’ Almost immediately, Basim translated to the man that Ketill had been a warrior for eight years, at which the man nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

‘’I merely serve my purpose as a tool, no? That I fight honourably is not much of a question. Whether your sister does the same is a different question. You should ask her that.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

To this question Ketill gave no answer, instead directing his attention to the brother. Ketill bowed his head lightly, similar to how he had bowed his head for Basim before. ‘’My condolences.’’

<‘’What did he say?’’> the man asked Basim while Ketill walked away to the centre again, standing near the fire to prepare himself. Basim merely stared at Ketill’s back as he walked away, pondering to the meaning of Ketill’s words, absent mindedly answering the man.

<‘’He.. wished your brother good luck.’’>

---

The ritual began soon enough and Ketill was, once more, left standing alone while everyone else around him kneeled. He looked around, but found no ravens this time – perhaps Audrun had not been interested in him tonight. It would make sense – although there was no teaching of the Allfather or Allmother that spoke out against poison, it was not typically considered a brave weapon. Audrun would have to forgive him this time, however, as it seemed to be out of his hands.

When the ritual had finished, taking the same shape as it had last time, a man approached with a straight edged sword. He handed it off to Ketill, who swung it a few times to get a taste for the weight of the blade. Thamud was handed a curved sword of his own, and seemed to be getting ready for the initial assault. Almost immediately Thamud stepped forwards, seemingly having learned from the previous fight that if Ketill was given any chance to go on the offensive, there would be no chance to counter attack. But it seemed that he underestimated Ketill, as he rushed forwards blindly.

All Ketill had to do with bring up his sword and hold it out towards Thamuds throat to stop the man from charging in. Luckily for Thamud, he stopped before impaling himself on the sword, to which one of his brothers called out from the crowd. <‘’Patience brother, do not wish to kill yourself so soon!’’>

The comment earned little more than a frown from Thamud, who took a step back, more carefully this time as he positioned himself to attack once again. Ketill similarly also stepped back, swinging the sword back to a ready position in front of him, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The two circled around each other, slowly becoming entranced in the state of battle where everything else was filtered out as some sort of deafening sounds that were indistinguishable at this point. It seemed that the prospect of fighting to first blood had made the fight safer, but also meant that both sides were unwilling to strike first at the risk of opening themselves to an attack. It seemed to take several seconds before Ketill stepped forwards and slashed at Thamud with his sword, who deflected the strike with his own sword. The sound of metal against metal sounded and for a moment it seemed like the crowd would cheer them on, but the attacks continued from Ketill’s side, quickly swinging his arm around for a second strike before Thamud could do so himself.

The two exchanged blows a few more times, until Ketill swung his sword at Thamud again, which was blocked rather well. But Thamud failed to account for Ketill’s fist that swung at him from the left, hitting him square in the nose. Thamud reared back, stumbling a little bit, and almost instantly put his hands toward his nose. He raised his hands afterwards, shouting triumphantly, <‘’no blood!’’>

The crowd seemed pleased but did not offer any encouragement as the fight continued quickly. Ketill did not offer Thamud much chance to recover, instead opting to finish the fight rapidly. He stepped forwards twice, making a swinging motion with his sword from left to right at first, then right to left, before using that momentum to swing through, arcing the sword over his head before coming down diagonally towards his shoulder.

Thamud’s sword could not move fast enough to stop the blade and his body, likewise, did not move fast enough under the impression that he could block the strike.

The blade connected with the area between his shoulder and neck, near the collar, where the cut went deep. It cut through what little armour had been protecting him there, and with a slicing motion Ketill pulled the blade through, making the cut even deeper. He was quite sure that he cut some of the muscles there, as Thamud dropped to one knee clutching his shoulder with one hand while the other hand hung awkwardly, the sword dropping from his hand.

Thamud attempted to get up again, but promptly fell to a knee again as the blood flowed more heavily, looking up at Ketill with a mixture of anger and fear. Before anyone could intervene, Ketill approached him, his posture being entirely calm, his sword being dropped into the sand. With a firm grip, Ketill extended his left hand towards Thamuds face, pushing his face sideways so that he’d face the fire, before grabbing the back of his head, his fingers grabbing at the hair. For a moment it would’ve looked like Ketill would push him in just like he had Yazan, but rather Ketill kneeled down next to him and spoke to him.

‘’It’s a beautiful sight. I’ve been asked to spare your life. Don’t think I did that because I want to. Everything inside of me screams ‘’push him in.’’ But I can’t. I have something I need to do, and I can’t put myself in a position that would harm those things. Sadly, for you, as you will die soon. The fire would be far more... merciful, than the fate you are about to meet. May the desert swallow your bones and spit them out.’’

When Ketill was finished he stood up and pushed Thamuds face away, before walking off towards the area where the rest of the slaves would be. His behaviour was quite disrespectful, but who would dare to stand up against him, as he was under the protection of the Sultana herself. Though she herself might have a few words for him still, but that was a matter for another time. With a grunt he let himself fall onto the sand, putting one hand behind him to lean on while he would watch as Thamud was carried away by two of his brothers, that hauled him towards the healers’ tent. Unbeknownst to Ketill was that she was complicit in this plan of Najla’s, so all Ketill could think was that the healer would likely be able to reverse whatever Najla had done to the blade. It bode badly for her if that was the case – but he doubted that anyone would suspect foul play.

It seemed that the festivities died down after that, barely noticeable, but Ketill could see the difference in the air from the distance away from them. The only ones that seemed unbothered by the events that had taken place were the Banu Dunya, who seemed somewhat amused by Thamud’s loss, even if he had just granted them their request. Of course, they would hide their amusement, but they did not seem as annoyed with the outcome as some of the other tribals. But Ketill thought they had no reason to be unhappy with his loss – they were not part of this tribe, they did not hold Thamud in high regards, and despite his cessation, they likely still disliked Thamud. At least… that is what Ketill would do. If he had been the leader of the Banu Dunya he would have gone to war. Sultan be damned, nobody would cross his honour.

---

Ketill was not bothered through the rest of that night, except for some angry men that demanded he apologize for his behaviour in the fight. They were quickly dissuaded from pursuing this demand by one of the guards nearby however, who warned them that Ketill might be under the Sultana’s control, but that she had not given him explicit orders not to harm anyone. Whether the guards knew this, or were just trying to avoid an escalation, Ketill could only guess.

They would leave the next day. Ketill was not asked to help with the packing, and since they travelled lightly and some of the slaves did not even sleep in a tent, it wasn’t a large task altogether. Though he had exchanged the favour of a slave in favour of a servant of his own, he would not complain, merely taking his place at the back of the caravan of people after all the farewells and goodbyes had been said. Ketill would not be present for them either – so, he had no idea if there was a similar ritual for them as the welcome. Probably there was – it seemed like the Sawarim paid great attention to make sure every ritual was carefully executed, which ended up being quite a time consumer.

But when they got moving, they really got moving, and the pace picked up quite rapidly. Ketill occupied his mind mostly by focusing on his walking, which was better an occupation than to wonder how far they still had to go. It was some time into the march before he heard a familiar voice next to him, slightly above him even.

‘’Ketill,’’ the young voice said, and as Ketill looked up he covered his eyes from the sun, only to see Basim riding on a horse next to him. The horses presence had been entirely unnoticed to Ketill, who perhaps had been a little bit too much focus on keeping his pace. ‘’You kept your promise.’’

Ketill lowered his hand and looked down at his feet again, slowly trudging through the sand while the prince sat comfortably on his horse. ‘’You sound surprised that your pet bear managed to listen well enough to not kill him,’’ Ketill answered him, somewhat annoyed by the notion that Ketill would not keep the promise whatsoever. ‘’Of course I did. Whether I killed him there mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.’’ Ketill was still unsure whether or not Basim knew about the poison, but he also felt no need to play stupid around the boy. ‘’Did you come to see me for a reason?’’ Ketill then asked, rather directly to the point. He did not possess the patience today to play games, it seemed.

Basim did not answer immediately, merely looking into the distance across the sandy dunes. ‘’It’s… nothing. Perhaps you could tell me more about your Gods. Evidently they gave you strength.’’ Slowly he turned back to face Ketill, who still kept his eyes averted downwards. By now the sweat was dripping down his face from the pace, and he did not exactly have a cloth to protect his head against the heat.

‘’You’ve got it wrong. They give me no strength. The gods don’t deal in gifts.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’The gods have no interest in giving us things. We have to work for what we have. I suppose the best way to put it is that we earn their favour by working hard and living how they want us to live. But even that isn’t entirely true.’’

‘’You mean there are no blessings?’’

‘’Not in the same way that you might know them. Audrun will never bless a person himself. He will change the situation at times – give you a son, or take the life of a foeman, but never will he outright bless you. Each must prove his worth. A blessing would only skew the balance.’’

‘’That… makes sense.’’

‘’Then there is his wife, Gidja. She is favoured among the elderly. It seems she takes care of them. If you are weak and cannot prove your worth to Audrun in battle, you have to be sagacious and prove your worth to Gidja – she will reward the wise and sagacious with many sons and daughters, a fertile seed and a long life.’’

Then, Ketill looked up at the sun, covering his eyes with his hands as he gestured towards the sun. He then lowered his hand towards the horizon where the dunes laid, silent as always, his fingers tracing the movement that the sun would make as it set, to make place for the moon.

‘’Once, Audrun sent a man in a chariot across the sky, with a rope tied across the sun. This man we call Sól, and in exchange for his service to Audrun he was given eternal life, so that he can ride across the sky forever to see the world in its splendour. But Gidja found that when the man was across the horizon, the world became dark again and mankind was unable to work well in the darkness, so she did the same as her husband, and selected a woman to ride in her own chariot, with a rope tied around the moon. This woman had no desire to see the world, however, but had fallen in love with Sól when he was just a man, before Audrun chose him.’’

He extended another arm towards the other horizon on his left, and mimicked the movement of the moon, chasing the sun across the sky. ‘’Her name is Máni, and she is stuck in an eternal chase of her lover. She too was given immortality by Gidja, as a reward for her service. But, not to worry, their love is not a sad tale. When the moon and the sun go across each other, and the moon blocks the light of the sun, it is said that they meet and make love, before Sól chases off again on an adventure and Máni is left behind, chasing her lover once more.’’

Ketill had given Basim quite a lot to think on, so it remained quiet for a while. Ketill mostly trudged on through the sand, attempting to ignore his tired feet, while Basim mostly seemed lost in thoughts. After some time he finally spoke up again, seemingly not entirely satisfied with what he had been told so far. ‘’And if you die, when you die, what happens?’’

‘’That depends on how you die.’’

‘’In your sleep?’’

‘’You will be judged by Gydja and Audrun, who will determine your worth at the sum of all your actions. If you are a good man you will go to Gydja’s fields, where you will live and perform tasks for Gydja. Mostly, you will be required to give counsel and share your wisdom. If you are a bad man, you will go to Hel, where you will become slave of the chaos and the Jötunn trolls. This is not bad, it’s just… different. Sorcerers, witches and other people that deal with darker spirits and beings often draw power from Hel to perform their magics. Anyone that is neither good nor bad will simply fade and cease to exist – the only way you will continue to exist is under the memory of your name and your sons and daughters.’’

‘’And in battle? What happens then? It seems like that is the best way to die for someone that follows your gods.’’

‘’Perhaps – if you die in battle and fought bravely, and with honour, you will go to Sjeahalle, to do battle forever against the others, every day. However, it is a great honor, and you will never grow tired or get wounded, and the fights are merely meant to hone your skills to prepare for the oncoming fight against the chaos from Hel.’’

‘’So… how do you view honour?’’

This gave Ketill reason for pause. He had always acted honourably, but never given thought to ‘’what it meant’’ to be honourable. He supposed he had always acted that way out of instinct, but he tried to put it into words regardless. ‘’You must work hard, for everything that you do. Audrun favours the brave and the wise, so you must think well, and be wise about your actions. You must take what you want, because the gods will not give you it. You must not steal without the knowledge of their owner – but when you kill to take an item, that is fair, and you have earned the spoils of combat by working for them. You must be hospitable to one another, and offer a weary traveller shelter if you can, and share with him bread and drink, but always be weary, for not everyone is as noble as they seem. Live your life like Audrun would, and you are certain of a position at his side. But for this… you need the knowledge of Audrun’s life. I suppose that it would make little sense to you without thse tales, and they are too long to tell them now.’’

‘’I… see. Thank you for telling me, Ketill. I would offer to give you a chance to worship your gods but… I don’t know how you even worship.’’

‘’By fighting well.’’

‘’That’s something that I cannot hel-’’

‘’It’s probably best. You shouldn’t speak about this to anyone. The other types of worship we perform are… different from yours. People would be scared. Besides, the worships aren’t mandatory, they’re just to ask for help or an omen. I’ve got no need for them now.’’

‘’I see. I’m sorry, but I must go now. I wish to speak to my sister about-.. about the journey.’’ Basim managed to cut himself off before spilling too much details about the conversation he wanted to have, perhaps being a bit too lost in thought to realize what he was saying.

‘’I’d rather avoid her, but do as you please.’’

With a slight nod, Basim rode off towards the front of the caravan again, where he’d go to find his sister. As for Ketill, he merely kept walking, focusing his energy on walking without having to think about his tired feet. He wondered if exchanging the horse for the servant girl had been worth it, and for a moment he doubted his choice – no, he’d doubt it all the way to the Golden City. Not a single woman was worth a horse to Ketill at that point.

The way ahead was long and seemed to take almost twice as long as it did before - the group didn't even have to take shelter against sandstorms, but never the less lost a great deal of time when one of the slaves had managed to let go of the reins of an extra horse that was being taken with them, and the horse had ran away. One of the guards was sent after it to retrieve it, and they were forced to wait almost an hour before the man returned with the horse.

But after a few days worth of travel, interrupted by merely a few moments to rest, the Golden City was finally within eyesight again. A good thing too, since Ketill's flask of water had began running out of water. But now that they were back, it would be a waiting game to see just what would happen next. While the rest of the slaves were sent to unload the tents and other goods, Ketill was simply sent back to his room until further notice - which was a welcome privilege, since he was tired from the trip, and desired to rest before Najla bestowed a new task onto him.

There were many reasons to draw her hand from Ketill’s grasp. The shock of being grabbed, the sudden realization that a male slave had dared to touch a Sultana, but these were not the reasons she flinched. Ketill’s grip did not hurt, after all, it was not intended to, but it pressed her golden bracelets into the yellowed bruises. It was this sudden pain that caused her to flinch, as if attempting to pull her hand out of his. The reaction would only last a brief moment before her thoughts were able to return to her, and Najla would not struggle, unwilling to draw any attention to this matter.

When he released her, Najla was quick to pull her hand back towards her, though her eyes remained on Ketill. Though not much of her face was visible, she was certain Ketill would be able to read to mixture of curiosity and anger through her eyes. She was rather unused to having her conversations with slaves dictated by anything other than her own will, to end once she had obtained her desires. This was easily demonstrated by the way she waved off the guard’s concerns, not even sparing them a glance when she brushed them off.

<“Yes, stay there.”>

Her gaze never left Ketill as he moved to stand, his stature forcing her to look up in order to maintain eye contact. Something had shifted, not in Ketill himself, but she did not need her slave’s words to tell her just what it was. He had a way of shedding the reality of the situation to present himself as her equal, though Najla’s gaze made it clear that she did not buy it. She was not angered by his demands, nor was she angered that he knew she’d spoken to the girl, or at least, she would not show it. Anger was not always a strength, here it would only prove how far out of her grip Ketill truly was. Instead, her gaze reflected something akin to amusement, as if she was simply humoring her slave, and the tone of her words would quickly follow suit.

“You like her that much? I would not have guessed.”

She smiled slightly even as she reached down, grasping the wrist Ketill had touched with her other hand. Najla did not even spare a glance at Thamud, apparently uncaring that Ketill knew of her intentions. It would not matter, so long as he was able to help end Thamud without the use of a fire. If Najla had to promise a harem girl to guarantee that, she would. The girl would not be entirely ungrateful either, Najla imagined. After she’d been given to the Servant before, there was no chance she would become a permanent fixture in the harem, not when the only way to do so was by binding oneself to the Sultan. The Sultan would never be given the leftovers of a Servant, and though Najla might have found another use for her, Ketill was offering her a protection beyond that guesswork, though Najla did not know if he knew this. She could not imagine he had delved too deeply into the politics of the harem, most men did not care to look further than the women inside.

“You are correct however, it would be easy. Whether it is wise, I do not know. If you are so confident in your fate that you would tie hers to it..” Najla trailed off here, allowing a pause while she studied Ketill’s reaction. There was nothing in her tone that would indicate her words had been spoken as a threat, even though there were plenty of reasons for Ketill to assume such. There was a truth in it however, for while Najla was not so cruel as to lash the girl for Ketill’s crimes, she would have no future in the palace without Ketill now. “Then you can have her. I will speak to her upon our return, and no more afterwards.”

Though her words would sound as if she agreed not to speak to the girl any longer, it would be a lie. There was little need to do so, for Najla knew that Ketill was not so ignorant. At least, if she had believed him dense before, his recent behavior had reminded her that perhaps she was dealing with a man and not a bear after all. It would be troubling, but at least a man wanted for something. It clearly surprised Najla that it had been a girl, for she knew personally that women were not a particular vice of Ketill’s, or at least, she had not been. Perhaps he appreciated her Broacienian heritage, though Najla did not care enough to understand this now. She had not even cared enough to learn if the girls name was real, for many harem girls were given names upon their entrance, especially those with names considered harsh to the ears, like those in the Broacienian tongue. It was not information that would allow her to control Ketill, and therefore, it was of little use to her.

“I should punish you for touching me.” She lifted her wrist slightly then, releasing it, though she was careful as always not to let her bracelets or the fabric slide too far towards her elbow. “I should. You are not my blood or my husband, to touch a Sultana otherwise is simply not permissible. I could do far worse than deny you a request for this, most would take your hand. Or finger.” She was not lying, yet it was clear that she was not threatening him. He had offered to give his finger for her once, long before. She had not wanted it then, and she certainly did not want it now. “I suppose having you walk will be enough. If it should happen again, I assure you that will not be the case. But for now, for him-” she finally glanced over at Thamud then, though it was a brief glance before she turned back to look at Ketill. There was no need to play dumb now, they both knew the truth, and none around her would understand.

“I will grant you the girl, and some leniency. Come.”

It was a rather abrupt conclusion to their conversation, but once Najla was satisfied that all of Ketill’s demands had been sated, they would quickly move to join those by the fire and begin the ritual. Najla could see her guard, holding the blade she was to cut herself with, and before she could turn to look upon Ketill as well, she felt Zahira at her shoulder.

<“Najla.”>

<“Ya Sawarim, are you trying to stop my heart?”> The sound of a sudden voice in her ear had apparently startled her, but Zahira would not reply to this, only grinning briefly before she continued to whisper.

<“It’s done. I saw, it’s dried, there will be no trace left.”>

<“And it’s on the right one? I would hate to slice my forehead on that.”>

<“Believe me cousin, I know the difference between a knife and a sword, even if my husband doesn't.”>

Zahira’s comment nearly drew a splutter of laughter from Najla, though she quickly moved to silence herself before any could hear. This was not a somber moment, for there were few present who knew someone would die that night, though many worried about it. Regardless, it would still seem strange to have Najla in such high spirits, and she was grateful that Zahira had already slunk back to her husband’s side. It was lucky that Zahira cared so little for her brother-in-law’s fate however, for none would assume they had spoken of anything but gossip and jokes now.

She quickly moved to the side of Thamud’s first wife, and they both kneeled to perform the ritual. Both of them did so with practiced hands, following a line they’d followed before. Najla would not speak to Ketill. She had no words left to say to him. Instead, she would move to take a seat beside her brother and the envoys from the Banu Dunya, who looked quite excited to see the coming events.

<“You have seen the Servant fight before, Sultana. Will you tell me truthfully, do you believe Thamud can win?”>

The look in Najla’s eyes as they met Ramzi’s would have been answer enough. Despite the horrors she’d witnessed Ketill perform, and despite her worry that she would have to see it happen again, there was a hint of amusement in her gaze. It was nothing like that which she had shown Ketill, a way to conceal her anger before the others, but an amusement that was born out of disbelief, as if Thamud’s success was a laughable option.

<“I will not say he has no chance. To make such an assumption would be foolish, I have never seen Thamud Khan fight. I have also never seen the Servant lose.”>

<“What of your brother? Basim Sultanim, may I ask what you think?”>

<“Hmm?”> Basim turned his head towards Ramzi, only to glance back up at Najla before replying. He seemed rather distracted, though Najla has been quick to assume it was simply a combination of the alcohol and dread for the violence to come. Her eyes were expectant when she returned her brother’s gaze, waiting for an answer. It took a second too long to come, and Najla felt as if she caught something in her brother’s expression that had not been there before, something akin to distaste. It occupied her mind even as Basim finally moved to answer the question.

<“Ketill will win. I have no doubts about that.”>

While Ramzi seemed pleased at the Prince’s certainty, Najla was rather confused by his straightforward answer. She leaned down then, whispering in her brother’s ear.

<“My blood, relax. Ketill has agreed to fight to first blood, and I believe he will do so. Trust me, no one will die tonight. You need not worry.”>

<“May God will it so.”>

It was a strange answer to her question, but Najla was quick to assume that Basim was simply worried about Ketill. Truthfully, she was still somewhat worried as well, despite the fact that Ketill had already made a demand. She would not give him the girl if he killed Thamud here, there was no doubt as to that. However, Najla did not know if he cared about the harem girl enough to forego another taste of blood, and this was where her fears sat as she turned her gaze back to the fighters as they prepared. Basim would do nothing to clarify his worries either, and Najla would forget his strange behavior as the fight began, for greater worries would come quickly to replace it.

---

Almost instantly, Najla saw her hopes realized. While those around her watched with horror, Najla urged Thamud forward in her mind. He came closer to the sword, only to stop just before he could have impaled himself. While the rest of the audience seemed to let out a sigh of relief, Najla found herself tense up as the pair separated and stepped back, circling around each other. Surely, it would not have looked good if it had ended so early, however waiting to see what would happen was far worse.

She watched the swift movements of their blades with fascination, her eyes struggling to keep up with the flashes of metal. Each scrape of the blades felt as if it was scraping against her very skin, a reminder that this fight had to go a very specific way for her. As she watched Ketill’s fist fly towards Thamud’s face, Najla’s heart stopped. It could not end this way, she could not afford for it to end this way. The brief seconds felt like hours, only for Thamud to raise his hands. She did not need to hear his yell, nor the encouraging shouts of the crowd, for all Najla could hear was her own sharp exhale.

<“Are you worried, Sultana?”> The voice in her ear caused Najla to turn her head, and she found herself face-to-face with Ramzi. He was close, too close, but Najla would respond before she pulled away. <“Of course. I’m tired of seeing my Servant win.”>

Even as she straightened up, Najla watched as Ketill brought his blade down once more. Finally. He could not recover from this one, she knew, Ketill had driven the poison in too deep. It would have been enough for a final sigh of relief, but instead, she found that Ketill was not entirely finished with Thamud. As she watched him drop his sword, walking towards Thamud, Najla wanted to stand, to call the guards and pull them apart before he could toss him in. There was no time, no voice that came from her throat, and instead she watched helplessly, only praying that Ketill would not throw him in. A glance at Basim would show such similar worry on his expression, waiting to see what Ketill would do.

Ya Sawarim, Ya Umma, I beg of you, do not let the fire consume him. Force your will on the infidel, make him draw back.

It seemed however, that she had mistaken her slave’s will. The disrespect Ketill showed Thamud was easily apparent, especially when he kneeled down beside him, speaking words Najla was sure she’d never know. However, Najla showed no anger at his actions. Now, she was only pleased that he’d decided to stand up, to leave Thamud alone, what did it matter how he did it? Perhaps she’d find herself angry at such actions later, but now, Najla was hard-pressed to hide the pleasure from her expression.

<“I’ve seen many warriors in my life, but never one like that. I see now why Basim Sultanim was so certain, Thamud could not have stood a chance.”>

<“He’s not a warrior, Ramzi my friend. He’s a beast.”>

---

The Sawarim people certainly held a penchant for rituals, a focus that hinted at a deeply-held care for the image they presented to their peers. Most of the Sultanate’s people would never fully understand how deeply their image and rituals were intertwined, but the royal family did not hold this option of ignorance. It was for this reason that Najla pulled herself out of bed early, despite the toll the past few days had brought upon her, readying herself for the day’s events. The notion of her image was ever-present in her mind, and so despite the heat and her overall exhaustion, she would never show it, not even during the endless stream of farewells.

She had gone to visit Yazan’s family first. Here, she met with them alone, without her cousin or brother present, and any detail regarding his wife’s Mahriyeh was sorted. The girl was grateful, though Najla did not know how much of that was truthful. It wasn’t as if she could have let the Sultana go without thanking her, yet Najla did not know if she’d ever be forgiven for taking her husband away. It brought her no grief to think it, and Najla would go to visit Thamud next, continuing to follow the trail of blood she’d left behind here.

He was surrounded by his family, and first wife sat beside him, and Najla could feel the girls eyes upon her until she would exit Thamud’s tent for the last time. Perhaps they had expected the Sultana to apologize for her slave’s disrespect, or at least mitigate the damage in some way. They’d find that Najla had no such intentions to make an apology. She did not even acknowledge Ketill’s actions, focusing her attention on Thamud’s wound. He insisted it would heal, and Najla agreed, pretending not to notice the first symptoms setting in. The area around the cut was red and swollen, and though it would be little cause to worry now, they would begin to fear an infection when the swelling would not cease. As for now, Najla could read some of the pain on Thamud’s face, though he was trying very hard not to show it. The Djinn’s grasp had settled in, giving the wound a life of its own, tearing the body from the control of its rightful owner day by day. It was not far enough yet however, and Thamud would insist to come continue the farewell ritual, though Najla was quick to refuse this. He needed to rest, she insisted, Salim would take over his duties for the day.

Basim had joined her in Thamud’s tent to say farewell, yet Najla had noticed that his strange attitude lingered from the night before. He spoke to her when necessary, but never beyond that, and his overall demeanor felt rather distant compared to his normal self. She could not address it now however, and they would finally say their farewells to Thamud’s father before they could begin to leave the Al-Uba’yd. It took quite some time, their goodbyes were carefully worded and meticulously followed, though it was Najla’s goodbye to her cousin that would take the longest.

With the party readied behind her, Najla had met Thamud’s brother and his family in front of the grand oasis as their final farewell. It felt like a final cleansing, to wash the memories of bloodshed from her visit, though it was not a somber one. When Najla had said her formal goodbyes to Salim, allowing him to touch her hand to his forehead as a final demonstration of loyalty, she turned to embrace her cousin. Such precise formality was less necessary among equals, and they hugged each other tightly as they whispered their farewells.

<“I wish you’d come back to Al-Tirazi with me. I have grown used to your presence over the past few weeks, the palace will be duller without you.”>

<“I’ll miss you too, my blood, but I will return before you can think to miss me. Your wedding will come soon, and I could not bear to miss it.”>

<“Promise me you’ll come early. You must be at the Ibrat Al-Layl, no one else will be able to force me through such pain.”>

<“I promise. You think I would miss the opportunity to tease you as you did at mine?”>

Najla let out a soft laugh as she recalled the celebrations, and how she’d treated her cousin during them. For most brides, the Ibrat Al-Layl, or ‘night of the needle’, was an enjoyable night, surrounded with female family and friends, drinking and feasting until dawn. For those that married into certain tribes, it was a dreaded night, and they’d be marked as married women forever, suffering the pain of the needle as their family celebrated around them. However, the notion that Zahira would be there eased Najla’s dread some, and they parted with a kiss on the cheek. It was an informal end to a long morning of rituals, and though she dreaded the goodbyes and the journey ahead, Najla was all too eager to leave the Al-Uba’yd for good.

---

The journey was long and tedious, and though Najla was aware of the way Basim’s odd attitude had lingered, she thought little of it when he left her side. He had always been friendlier with those that served him than Najla, for she saw little reason to chase after the stories of guards and servants when it did not benefit her. His return would bring a far greater cause for surprise, and Najla turned her head as the sound of hooves came rapidly behind her, watching as her brother joined her side once more.

<“Where did you go?”>

<“Not far.”> His answer caused Najla to smile, though this was hidden under the cloth she’d exchanged the golden mask for, wrapping her face to protect against sun and dust alike. It would fade quickly however, Basim’s next words were enough to confirm days of what she’d suspected, though she would not have quite guessed the reasons. <“I need to speak with you privately.”>

<“Now?”> Najla’s eyes turned to move across the wide expanse of open desert, as if she could not imagine a private place to speak here, but it would not matter. Basim’s nod answered her, and she lifted a hand, a command for the guards behind them to create some distance between them. She could not command the open air of the desert, merely those within it, after all. Despite the newfound privacy afforded to them, it took a few moments of silence before Basim was ready to ask. Najla did not push, for she held no rush. It didn’t matter which grain of sand they were treading on when he spoke, so long as he did so before they reached the capital. Luckily, it would not take so long, for these mere moments were enough.

<“Do you believe Thamud will live?”>

<“If God wills it. The wound looked painful, but I see no reason it shouldn’t heal.”>

<“I hope so. The Al-Uba’yd have seen enough bloodshed already, they should not have been burdened with more.”>

<“I agree, it will sit heavy in my heart for some time. Thamud should not have sought to fight Ketill, he was lucky his bones were not turned to ash.”>

<“He didn’t seek to fight him.”>

Najla frowned at that, turning her head to look at her brother. Her frown was barely visible under the cloth, though if Basim had met her eyes, he would have seen it in her gaze. He stared forward however, and Najla felt as if they were edging ever closer to the truth, dancing around whatever weighed on Basim’s mind.

<“What do you mea-”>

<“No one wanted to fight him after what he did Yazan. I sat among the warriors, I know this to be the truth. Not even the most reckless among them, and Thamud Khan was not an entirely careless man.”>

<“He was not a cautious one either. I asked him not to, it was his own will that convinced him to fight.”>

<“And it was your will that gave him a Diya and an opponent.”>

Najla let out a soft sigh then, as she was already exhausted from the travel, and her brothers words were edging too close to a subject she wouldn’t wish to discuss. She knew Basim was likely displeased with many aspects of the journey, but she had not expected that the Diya would trouble him so deeply, nor that he would place so much of the blame regarding the violence he’d seen on her. She could not yet fathom that these were part of a greater concern, though his own concern regarding Thamud’s wound was troubling. Above all, she had not missed the word ‘was’. Thamud ‘was’ not a careless man, though he was not a dead man yet. Regardless, she only wanted Basim to be clear, to directly state concern fueled his words, so that she could relinquish her fear. There was no reason for Basim to know the truth, no one who could have known would have told him. Yet it seemed Najla was not entirely certain of this, and she pulled down her scarf, now speaking in the hope that he could clear her worries.

<“It was. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the Diya, you had a right to know. As for Ketill, you understand why I could not keep him from fighting. It is unfortunate, but you must trust that I do not intend to keep evil things from you.”> Najla glanced over at Basim again then, wishing only that she could know what he was thinking so that she wouldn’t have to speak the words. <“You have been troubled for some days, I’ve noticed. Is this what it has been about?”> There was a brief moment of silence, though she would not let it extend, quickly speaking up again. <“Be truthful with me, so that I can be truthful with you. I hate to see you troubled, it makes you silent and that makes my life far duller.”>

<“Did you want Thamud to die?”>

The question struck her like a blow. Her eyes widened, and she glanced behind them, making certain that none were close enough to hear his words. It was near impossible, but this was a dangerous conversation to be having now. It was that fear that reigned now, more than the shock or anger, trying to assess how Basim would know.

<“What? Are you fucking mad? Of course not Basim how could-”>

<“I’ve thought it through, if he dies Salim takes his place, no? You or Zahira-”>

<“Don’t bring your cousin into this nonsense, how could you think this of us? Who told you this?”>

<“No one! I told you-”> Basim would try to continue, but Najla was quick to cut him off. Their voices were beginning to raise now, and she would not risk the chance that any word could slip to the guards behind them. Perhaps she could have switched to Broacienian to tell the truth, but two royals screaming in a foreign language was hardly a better option. Rather than risk either, she lowered her voice to something between a hiss and a whisper, quickly silencing her brother.

<“No Basim. No. I did not want Thamud hurt. I played no part in the fight beyond offering my blessing to Ketill, and believe me, I did not wish to do that. Whoever or whatever has caused you to cast such doubt upon me is mistaken, for if I had been cruel enough to commit such an act, I would not have brought my younger brother along to witness it. Now lower your voice, please, so I can ease your worries rather than the entire Sultanate’s.”>

It was not enough to ease her brother, Najla found, but she was simply grateful that he lowered his voice. He’d continue to ask a few questions, and Najla would lie through her teeth in response, though she knew it could not last. News of Thamud’s death would reach the capital soon, and when that happened, Basim would know, Najla was sure of it. Even now, as she pressed him, asking who he had spoken to that offered this notion, she felt as if Basim’s mind had not been cleared of the thought itself. When Basim finally relented, he seemed surprised, for he had clearly expected Najla to be far more upset than she was at the thought.

<“I was translating for Thamud’s brother, when Ketill offered his condolences. I saw the wound after, and I just thought he meant something else by it.”>

<“Ketill’s a madman.”> Najla replied, quickly masking her relief. At the very least, Ketill’s language abilities meant Basim would have been the only man he could have told, even if she was fearful that he was speaking of it at all. <“There’s no need to believe anything he says. He probably intended to disobey me and kill him, then realized I’d never give him Yasamin right before the act itself.”>

<“Yasamin?”>

<“The harem girl he wanted. I considered not giving her to him, in lieu of a punishment for his behavior, but I figure it’s best this way. She’s a pretty thing, maybe you’ll meet her now that you and the Servant have grown so close.”>

<“We’re not close at all, I wasn’t the one who wanted to ask a question, Makeen was. Are you really going to punish Ketill? You know it’s not a good idea, you commanded him to do those things.”>

<“I already promised Thamud I would. Let’s not argue about this now, I cannot have both the words and the heat choking me so. We’ll discuss everything when we return to the palace.”> She lifted up the cloth to cover her mouth again, turning her gaze to the endless stretch of desert ahead. <“The sand conceals scorpions, it’s best not to offer them our tongues.”>

Their conversation would not end quite so easily, but Najla was far more willing to drop the issue of Ketill and Basim speaking than her brother had apparently expected. Still, while they had reached some sort of truce, now only squabbling over smaller details of the matter like siblings did, Najla was only debating when the truth should come out. It was a bare truce after all, a silent understanding that these tensions would only continue until it was proved one way or the other. She could tell Basim when they reached the capital, in the safety of her room where he could yell all he wanted without the risk of anyone hearing. Or she could decide to wait until the news of Thamud’s death reached the capital, at which point Basim would likely be the one to confront her. Regardless, keeping him in the dark forever was not an option anymore, Ketill had certainly seen to that.

---

She waited a day. A day so that they could return home, to be greeted by their family, to bathe and relax, and to soak up the praises of the Sultan for a job well done. The pact had been signed, a minor issue within the Sultanate was avoided, and the lives Ketill had taken in the process were quickly forgotten. Basim was not a fool, he had not abandoned the idea entirely either, though Najla did not quite know why. She suspected he was simply waiting to see how Thamud’s wound would heal, though it worried her to think how little faith her brother held in her. Perhaps this fear would have been eased if she knew the truth, that her brother was not quite so quick to consider Ketill a madman as she was. Perhaps not. Either way, she could not allow the news to reach Basim’s ears through any words but her own.

So she had come to his room after dinner, where she sat in front of her younger brother on some cushions. Basim’s eyes bored into her, hardly blinking, waiting in silence for his sister to explain her presence. He seemed more princely than ever now, especially in contrast to his usually regal sister. Najla could hardly bear to look at Basim for long, and her gaze darted around every corner of the room, nervous for the words she needed to speak. When she finally brought herself to meet her brother’s gaze, there was a long, tense silence, broken first by Najla’s sigh.

<“Don’t look at me like that, it makes me feel smaller than a beetle.”>

<“I’m not looking at you like anything. You’re the one who asked to speak to me but you haven’t said a word for some time now.”>

<“You could have said something.”>

<“I have nothing to say.”>

<“Fuck.”> The word came out as softly as if she had taken a breath, and yet Najla was certain Basim had heard. <“Sometimes I truly wish you were dumber. You’ve got plenty to say, Basim. I’ve seen it behind your eyes for some days now, and it has not faded since our return here. You’re not some honey-tongued diplomat, there’s no need to dance around your anger with me.”>

<“I’m not angry with you.”>

<“No, not yet. I could tell that you didn’t quite believe my words in the desert, you’re waiting to see if Thamud lives, or if you should be angry with me. My word was not enough.”>

There was another pause here, a brief moment of silence that felt like an eternity. Now, it was Basim who pulled his gaze from her. He seemed annoyed that she had confronted him about this, likely believing Najla was about to lecture him about the bonds of family or the trust they needed to hold in one another. His sister however, took the silence as an unneeded confirmation. Basim wasn’t a fool, he could tell that she had wanted him to stop talking about it during the journey so there would be no chance the news could spread.

<“You deserved better from me. You deserved to know, I should have told you long before you ever asked. You must understand why I couldn’t tell you, not even when you asked me-”>

<“Thamud’s going to die, isn’t he?”>

Najla could have flinched when he said those words. It did not sound like her younger brother’s voice, but that of a man she didn’t recognize, and one who didn’t particularly like her. Her own expression was worried, nearly pleading, as if she could not bear the thought of what she had done. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but suddenly his voice would came raging back.

<“You lied to me.”>

<“I know Basim. I had to-”>

<“You told me Thamud wasn’t going to die, you promised me you had nothing to do with it, you told me I was mad! You lied to me! How?"> His voice was steadily rising now, and Najla could see the anger on his face, though she could not reciprocate it if she wanted to.

<“What?”>

<“How, Najla? How do you know he’s going to die? What did you do to him?”> Before she could even part her lips to answer, his voice would come again, louder than before. <“How?!”>

<“The blade was poisoned.”>

Worse than the ever-steady rising volume of his voice, Najla’s comment was met with a shocked silence. He could not have been entirely surprised, for Basim had clearly thought through the situation. It was the frankness of the sentence itself, the way Najla spoke it without easing the blow of the deed itself. She was not ashamed of her actions, that much was clear, though it worried her to think Basim would despise her for them. He did not speak for a moment, but his wide eyes would quickly return to a frown when she began to speak again.

<“Don’t think I was happy to do it. But a man like Thamud heading a clan as valuable as the Al-Uba’yd is a dangerous thing, you saw that. This was the only way. I would have done better if I could. But we must serve the Sultan and the Sultanate above ourselves, I would have done it for nothing else.”>

<“I can’t believe this, after all your shit about Ketill and Yazan, you do something even worse. Poison is a coward’s weapon.”>

<“I broke no Qawanin.”>

<“So? At least the fire killed him within a night, how long will the poison take?”>

<“A few more days.”> At that, Basim stood, leaving Najla seated alone. He did not turn back to look at her, but she could see how his body tensed up from anger when she began to speak again, though it was not enough to stop her. She’d expected his anger, but he’d have to come to terms with the deed, at least sometime.

<“It had to be like this. If he had died any other way it would have been suspicious. I know you consider it distasteful, but you have to believe me when I say that if there was a better way, I would have taken it.”>

<“Better way to do what? That was Thamud’s claim by birthright. You took it from him like a viper, that’s no way to take a man’s life.”>

<“Understand that I had no other choice. I know how distasteful it is, but it had to be done.”>

<“Understand what? Did you come in here expecting forgiveness?! You used me like a tool, the whole time knowing that you were going to take a man’s life. Fuck, what do you want from me? I can never forgive you for this.”>

<“I’m not asking you to. I would not deprive you of the right to be angry with me.”> Now Basim turned around to look at her, though his body was relaxing slightly, Najla still watched him carefully. He was not the type to strike in anger, not at objects or people, but that was not her worry now. <“I know what I did. I know it is distasteful. But I could not have done so any other way, and I serve the Sultan before my own conscious, always. I only regret not telling you. You are a man, your participation should have been your decision. For that, I am sorry, Basim.”>

<“I don’t believe a word you’re saying Najla, I don’t know what to believe from you anymore. I even felt guilty for feeling suspicious, now I just… I thought you’d be better than that. You're not. You were a coward, and you killed like one.”>

Najla moved to stand then, though some of the hurt was clearly apparent beyond the frown his insult had brought. They had fought often as children, they were siblings, after all, but this hurt far worse than if he had sat around insulting her like a child. Basim had always put his trust in her without question. He truly had believed her to be better than what she was, and Najla could tell that she had fallen in his eyes. Not entirely, but whatever image he’d had of his sister before was warped now.

<"It would have been cowardice to refuse the deed. Just understand-”>

<“Stop asking me to understand!”> Najla stopped in her tracks, halted from her path towards her brother. There was that voice again, that of a man she didn’t recognize, but it was becoming familiar rather rapidly. <“I know why you did it, I’m not stupid! It makes sense, I understand why you’d want to have Salim ruling the tribe. I understand why you wouldn’t tell me in the desert, I understand all of this! What I don’t understand is how you could condemn him to such a fate.”>

<“How?”> Najla paused after this word, and finally, there was a hint of anger gathering up within her. It was rather unfounded in comparison to Basim’s, only born out of exasperation. <“There’s no how. I had to, so I did it. You’re not always going to have a choice.”>

<“You did have a choice, stop pretending you didn’t. You could have done it another way, or you didn’t have to kill him at all. Poison is not the weapon of a warrior.”>

<“You’re not that fucking naïve. What could I have done, challenge him in Ketill’s place? Killed him by my own sword? If I was any sort of warrior, I would have. I did what I had to, with the tools that were available to me.”>

<“Like Ketill.”>

<“Yes. Like Ketill.”>

<“Are you still going to punish him?”>

<“I don’t know.”>

Najla paused here, looking up at her younger brother with a slight frown. He had not dropped the subject, just as she could see it in the desert, she saw it upon his face now. But there was nothing he could do, Thamud would be dead within a few days regardless, and Basim would not implicate his sister in such a crime. Yet she found that Basim’s next words would surprise her, for he’d found something to bargain with regardless.

<“Don’t. It’s not right.”> Najla did not respond, but the look in her eyes made it clear that she wasn’t considering Basim’s opinion on such a matter. Ketill was her slave, not his, and he’d have to answer for his disrespect somehow. <“You can’t punish him for something you told him to do. That’s not fair, it’s just cruelty.”>

<“It’s not that easy. Disregarding his behavior in the fights, he grabbed my wrist Basim. It’s the height of disrespect for anyone who is not Mahram to touch a woman, let alone a Sultana.”>

<“So you’re going to sentence Osman too?”>

It was the first slight break from the overall tense tone of their conversation, and truthfully, the most Basim had sounded like her brother in a few days now. While Najla was annoyed that he was asking her not to punish Ketill, there was a brief moment when she’d nearly forgotten to be angry, reaching out and hitting her brother’s arm gently.

<“Don’t be rude. If Osman had done so without my permission, I would have punished him too. I didn’t ask Ketill to touch me.”>

<“But you asked him to kill two men in your name. You keep saying that you’d do better if you had the choice, prove it.”>

Najla was silent for some time as she met her brother’s gaze, trying to understand what he was feeling. He was still angry with her, he’d be angry with her for some time. Keeping Ketill from punishment was the only way she’d have to redeem herself in Basim’s eyes, and in this silent gaze, it seemed as if Najla was trying to understand if he knew that. While she was not repulsed by the deed itself, it clearly hurt to have her brother think less of her as a result, and Najla found herself wondering if her brother was taking advantage of that. Regardless, a few extra scars on Ketill’s back were not worth it, it seemed.

<“I’ll consider it. Now come sit back down, I know you must have a lot of questions. I want to clear your head of them. I’ll answer truthfully this time, I swear upon the Sawarim. That must mean something, no matter how angry you are with me. ”>

<“I don’t have any questions. Unless you have any other crimes you’d like to confess to, I’d like to be alone.”>

<“Basim-”> She spoke his name gently, as if urging him to reconsider. Apparently despite the fact that some of the tensions had been eased, she had underestimated his anger with her. That, or he’d simply grown tired of her voice, and wished to make up his mind on his own. It wasn’t as if she had a choice but to allow him to do so, his expression had made her certain of that, and so Najla simply nodded before walking towards the door.

<“I am sorry for your role in this. I’d give my life for you Basim, don’t let my actions tear that from your memory.”>

<“But you’re not sorry about Thamud’s death?”>

Najla had been about to speak, to lie, to convince her brother that she was not quite the monster he was seeing now. But she had promised to answer his questions honestly. It was the last decent thing she could do for him, and so Najla merely shook her head.

<“No. Thamud was not of my blood, the Sawarim will forgive spilling his.”>

---

It would be a few days before Najla called for Ketill again. Perhaps it would seem as if it was done to allow him to rest, or more likely, out of indifference or anger. However, the truth was all too apparent to Najla. She was unraveling, and he was the last person she'd want to see now. While she’d allow Ketill to believe whatever he liked, there was only one man Najla held no hesitation for the truth before, and he was the one who’d come to ease her mind before she’d have to speak to her slave. Or more truthfully, Najla had called for him. He came to meet her where she sat alone, basking in the sunlight beneath one of the large arched windows to the courtyard.

<“You’re supposed to call for me while you’re in the baths, not after.”> He ran a hand through her damp hair as he spoke, making it rather clear what he was referring to. Though his comment brought a smile, the words, combined with his rather obvious actions, forced her eyes to snap over the area before her, making certain no one had heard. Only a guard stood within earshot, and so she relaxed even as Osman moved to seat himself among the cushions. <“In all seriousness, I thought it’d be some days before I heard from you again.”>

<“Why? Is Elif getting suspicious?”>

<“She’s been suspicious, but there’s nothing she can say. She doesn’t want to believe it, I suppose, or perhaps she doesn’t want to accuse me.”>

<“You?”> Najla could have laughed at the notion, though a glance over at Osman was enough to prove her amusement without it. She raised an arm to rest on the windowsill, leaving the sunlight to glint off her golden bracelets to prove her words before she’d need to speak them. <“She has to bow and kiss the same fingers that wrap around her husband’s cock every night. If she’s been too scared to say anything to a Sultana before that, I can’t imagine she’ll suddenly become braver. Forget her, I need your advice.”>

<“Is it the Al-Uba’yd?”> Najla turned her head to Osman as he spoke those words, only to see him begin to pull something out of his pockets. The pipe and pot were a familiar sight to her, but now, Najla shook her head. Before she’d even have a chance to refuse with her words, Osman glanced up at her, before returning to pack the pipe. It had not surprised her that he’d been willing to drop the subject of his wife so quickly, as Osman did not even like to speak her name in Najla’s presence. It must have been out of guilt, for Najla could not imagine he cared for his wife so deeply as to keep her honor before his lover. Just as she’d part her lips to refuse, Osman spoke. <“I heard the news finally came today. Thamud Khan is dead, the infection finally took his life. Your friend lasted longer than you thought. Here, to help ease your mourning.”> With that, he lifted the pipe towards her, and though she hesitated to take it, a glance into his eyes was quick to convince her otherwise. There wasn’t much his eyes could convince her of, a fact she loved to whisper in his ear during their few private moments.

<“Basim hasn’t spoken to you, has he? I thought he’d come to me eventually, with some question or other, but I have yet to hear from him regarding this matter.”>

<“No, but it’s not surprising. He’s likely figured out my involvement, I can’t imagine he’d want to come to me after. Besides, he’s probably just waiting for you to sentence the dog.”>

Najla let out the barest of sighs then, finally snatching the pipe from his hands. <“You still believe I’m making a mistake?”>

<“You made a mistake the day you asked the Sultan for his life, in my opinion. He should have been left to die long ago. Now all he does is bring you pain and trouble.”>

<“It was his sword that delivered us the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“And his tongue that drove your brother from you in the process. You should punish him, but instead, you’re rewarding him with a girl. Not any slave, you’ve convinced a harem girl to give up her luxuries for him.”>

<“She doesn’t have to give up any luxuries.”> Najla passed Osman back the pipe, taking a moment to let out a soft exhale before continuing to speak. <“What could she want for that I couldn’t offer her? I have given her a room, beside the Servant. She is allowed to take all that is hers from the harem, and I have instructed her to come to me, should she want for anything else. Besides-“>

At that, Najla pushed herself off of the cushions, and in a gentle motion, stood only to perch herself in the windowsill itself. She turned so that her back was against the edge of the tile, stretching her legs out along the length of the stone. It was the easy attitude of someone who’d been scrambling up the walls and windows of the palace since their youth, who not only knew every inch of the enormous palace, but felt that it belonged to them. Osman shared no such feelings, for he would remain in his position just below her, looking up as his lover soaked in the piercing desert sun. What was usually a curse to the Sawarim was a pleasure here, where it filtered through the gardens before resting upon her exposed skin. Rather than don a black mourning dress, Najla had opted to wear white. Thamud was neither friend nor kin after all, and those mourning dresses hid far too much of her skin from the pleasures of the sun.

<“She’s under my protection now. What luxury could amount to that?”>

This was met with a scoff, and when Najla looked down at Osman again, she could see that he was smiling slightly. <“You mean the Servant’s protection, right?”>

<“I meant mine. Ketill doesn’t even know what he’d be protecting her from. He’s dealt with warriors, he’d never be able to face the harem. They’re already quite jealous, I can’t imagine what this news will do to them.”>

<“You don’t think he could fight off some harem girls?”>

When Najla reached down to take the pipe from Osman, she could see that he was grinning. It was odd for Osman to argue in favor of the Servant’s prowess in battle, but perhaps the image of Ketill losing to a few women was rather amusing to him. Rather than acknowledge this, Najla motioned for him to move closer to her, at which Osman was quick to oblige. He seated himself against the windowsill, where Najla’s hand rested gently on his shoulder. Despite how badly she’d wanted to move into his lap, to bury her face in his neck and forget about anything else, this was the most they could do. Every so often, he’d turn his face and sneak a kiss on her wrist or hand, but never more. It almost felt as if some normality had been returned to their relationship. For Najla, this brief moment was a refuge, where she clung to the one man she knew would never truly slip away from her. She quickly called for a guard to fetch Ketill, only after making certain that Osman would not say something stupid in his presence, and would continue to tell her story as they awaited his arrival.

<“There was a girl some years ago, I can’t recall her name, but I remember her face too well. She had only been in the harem for a month before Uncle became infatuated with her. It wasn’t hard to see why. She was beautiful. I’d never seen a woman that radiant, they said the sun rested under her very skin.”>

<“I’d remember a woman like that. I'm assuming from your tone that she's long dead, then?”>

<“God, no. They attacked her in the baths one day, and just tore her face to pieces. Some say they used fruit knives, other witnesses claimed it was done with nails and teeth alone, but whatever it was, they didn’t kill her. They made sure to leave her alive, so she would have to see Uncle’s expression when he finally saw her face. I’ve told you these stories before. If it is her voice that has captivated the Sultan, they will feed her a poison to destroy her throat from the inside. If it is her eyes, they gouge them out.”> She waved her hand then, indicating that there were many more ways to obtain her Uncle’s interest, and just as many ways the girls had concocted to take out competition. <“If anything, you have to admire their sense of poetry. It’s not a game worth playing, especially not for someone who has no chance of being made a Sultan’s favorite now. The girl will be better off with him.”>

<“I didn’t think the well-being of harem girls worried you this much.”>

<“It doesn’t. I don’t care if she’s happier with him, to be entirely truthful. But this is the first thing he’s wanted from me, don’t you think I made the right choice in giving her to him?”>

<“I think it’s a waste, but beyond that-”> Osman shrugged. <“It doesn’t matter. He’ll still be a savage dog, no matter what toys you give him to occupy his time. It’s the girl I pity.”>

<“Why? She won’t be abused or mistreated. You forget, I never carried a scar or bruise from Ketill's hands.”>

<“Not as you have from mine, hm?”>

When Najla looked down at Osman, she felt her heart drop. How did Ketill do this? Merely mentioning his name was enough to begin tearing away at the few moments of peace she could find. Basim had already distanced himself from her, never in a manner that was intended to be cruel, but Najla could sense that she’d lost a great deal of his trust. Her hand slowly moved upwards from Osman’s shoulder, her fingers gently grazing his neck, as if she was hoping to hold him to her still. Yet she could feel him slipping through her fingers like sand, even as she spoke.

<“Don’t speak like that. The bruises have healed, and your words have faded from my memory. I only wish to end this.”>

<“Is it not ended? Thamud’s dead.”>

<“That’s not what I mean. I just-”> Now Najla’s eyes searched his, searching for a way to explain herself. She wanted to tell him that he was slipping away, that it devastated her to believe he sought his comfort in another woman’s arms. Before she could however, her lover would continue to speak, shattering the last bit of peace she’d found beside him.

<“It’s you that refuses to end this. If you would punish the dog for his actions, the Al-Uba’yd could be put behind us entirely. Even Elif agrees, your… weakness for the Servant is damning.”>

<“Is it now a weakness to refuse to whip a man bloody? I will not push my brother farther away from me, I’ve made my decision. Elif’s words are as dry as her cunt, they have no use to me.”>

These had been the wrong words. Osman would not stay seated, pushing himself off from the cushions so quickly it nearly startled Najla from her spot. The fall would have brought no pain but embarrassment, but when Osman looked down at her, Najla wondered if this was worse. She’d never seen Osman so defensive about his wife, especially not in front of his lover, and now wondered if she’d been the one to drive him deeper into her arms. It seemed so, for the pair would argue, quietly and in hushed whispers, though only for a brief few moments before Najla looked behind him, only to see the guard escorting Ketill to her.

<“Hold your tongue.”>

Osman turned his head quickly at that, though he did not need to follow his lovers gaze to see who was approaching. Rather than relax himself however, he straightened up.

<“I’ll leave you with your precious dog then.”>

<“Osman, stay. You promised you would.”>

He did not seem to hear, turning and leaving her side before she could say another word. Both knew that Najla would not call after him, and would be forced to speak to the Servant on her own regardless. When the guard finally stood before her, presenting her with the slave she’d called for, Najla let out a soft sigh, simply tilting her head back on the tiles.

“Are you a Djinn?”

It was a strange question, but the entire situation felt strange to her. In fact, she’d make a rather odd picture altogether. As always, Najla was doused in luxury. Her hair was still wet, indicating she’d spent the day in the pools or baths, and carelessly plucked away at sweet fruits while she waited for the sun to dry it. As always, she was dressed in fine clothes and jewels, but now she’d had her lover sitting below her, a garden just behind her, there was nothing left to want for. And yet, there was no masking her unhappiness. Whatever had caused it, it was obvious that she blamed Ketill for it. The drugs Osman brought had not been enough to ease her now, only dulling her emotions for a brief moment until she was forced to face them again.

“A demon, a cruel spirit who travels with wind, who takes a man's shape only to spread evil. You must be, I just don’t see any other explanation.” Her voice was softer now, as if she was speaking to herself, rather than the slave before her. She turned her face towards Ketill then, though her expression would do little to clarify her words. Her eyes were still glassy and red, clearly the effects of whatever drug her husband was so fond of. Yet she spoke these outlandish accusations with little hint as to whether she truly believed them or not. Perhaps the drugs had addled her brain finally, or perhaps being left to handle the Servant and her lover’s anger was too much for her, but there would be no explanation either way.

“Osman’s mother thought you were cursed, because of your eyes. I brushed it off as superstition. After all, I’d seen some like you before, men with those same eyes of ice. Now I wonder if I was wrong.” She finally pushed her head and back off the edge of the windowsill then, reaching a hand out for an object that rested near her feet. Osman had left his pipe there, a gift she’d given him some years ago. She picked this up gently, toying with it as she continued to speak.

“Ever since I have brought you into my home, all you have brought with you is chaos. Every task I ask of you only brings me more problems, I feel as if I have spent every day here conjuring up a new reason why you should keep breathing.” Now her eyes snapped up to him, a sudden flash of anger coming through at her next words. “I am running out of reasons. Every word from your mouth brings grief, and you are not wise enough to stop. You don’t even have to speak, just your fucking name-”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but took the pipe with her left hand, regarding it with the same sort of bored attention children would put upon their lessons. Without bothering to look up at the guard or Ketill, she extended her hand just barely, spreading her fingers. She watched the pipe fall through her hand as if in a daze, only to train her gaze on Ketill as the glass shattered in the garden below.

<“Sultana-”> The guard’s voice was both worried and confused, but Najla would be quick to silence his fears, if not ease his confusion.

<“No need to worry.”> Najla answered quickly. She spun around, her back to the garden behind her, her feet dangling over the edge. Though she spoke to the guard, her eyes rested on Ketill. <“It was an ugly pipe, it looks better like this.”>

“Despite all of this, you’re getting your reward.” She hesitated for a moment, the barest of smiles finding its way onto her face before she continued to speak. It would not last, but this rather strange series of emotions would be more than obvious, even to the guard who could not understand her speech. “Did you think I wouldn’t fulfill my promise? Of course you did. I know what you think of me, it’s not as if I could stop you from telling me. It’s been done, regardless. It’s all done. Thamud is dead.”

Najla studied Ketill’s gaze, though she did not expect a reaction. It seemed as if she was waiting to hear him criticize her as Basim had, to chastise her for the way she’d ended his life. Obviously, she wouldn’t let Ketill talk the way Basim did to her, but there wasn’t much she could’ve done for it if she wanted to.

“I promised him I’d punish you, you know. You broke the Qawanin when you murdered Yazan, it has to be answered for. The disrespect you showed Thamud was only more reason to punish you. I asked you to fight him, not to humiliate him. Tell me, what did you say to him?”

The command came easily, but there was a great omission in Najla’s words. The disrespect Thamud had faced had been largely irrelevant to her when it had occurred, but the disrespect Ketill had shown her by grabbing her wrist had not been. Yet it was Thamud she mentioned now, a loss that was far easier to tolerate. Whatever Ketill’s answer, it would seem that Najla had grown rather tired of speaking to him. In fact, she seemed tired in general, exhausted by her own emotions and whatever Osman had given her.

“Somehow, despite all that you are, I won’t touch you. You’ll go without punishment, only reward. It’s not as if Thamud will know. Don’t believe for one moment that I am doing this out of kindness, or because I will forget your actions in the future. You have my brother to thank for this, so don’t go praising your false god for this, he had nothing to do with it.” With that, she finally moved to stand on the tiles once more, looking up at Ketill.

“And since apparently I cannot stop Basim from coming to you, you must stop speaking to him. I don’t care what he bribes or threatens you with, sit in silence. Rip your tongue out, for all I care. I cannot imagine a punishment you’d fear…but you’ve tied another’s fate to yours. Go, she’ll be brought to you tonight. I will not call for her, as promised, but I’ve instructed her to come to me for all her needs. If you dare allow her to speak to me, have her come to me for all of yours as well. With any luck, I’ll never have to see that cursed grin of yours again.”

After the journey Ketill was left to his devices for the first time in what seemed to be ages. Purely the fact that he had to sleep in that healer woman’s tent had been a strain on him, so being able to return to ‘’his’’ bed in ‘’his’’ private room on the side of the castle that peered out over the vast expanse of desert… it was a pleasure that he’d never expected to find within the confines of his captors. Not that they resembled anything close to captors at that point – he was a slave, yes, first and foremost he’d always remain a slave until the ravens prophecy came true. But second, he was a guard dog. And though his loyalty was questionable, his position as a ‘’beast’’, ‘’the Bear of Broacien’’… all of it came together to form a nearly impenetrable defense against those that would seek to tear him down from his position within the court, as minimal as that position was. Indirectly, the ‘’honour’’ of being a slave of a sultana meant that he was above even a citizen of the city, even if they’d never acknowledge as much. It was a dual nature, being above them and below them at the same time. A very strange thing. But not one that he objected to.

As he entered his room, he noticed that some things were being shuffled around in the room next to his. And as far as he was aware, nobody slept there or lived there. Perhaps wisely he decided against checking inside the room, afraid to startle some noble person, or perhaps walk in on something he wasn’t meant to see. Instead, he just put away his things, which was a very limited number of things to begin with.

He then intended to take a nap, but before he could lay down on the bed, he was interrupted by a knocking noise on the door. He initially thought that it would be Najla – or rather, a servant sent by Najla. Najla would never set foot in this dusty area of the palace. It was simply too filthy for someone of her status. Something along those lines, Ketill mused, as he approached the door and pulled it open.

‘’It seems you carry more influence than the girls thought,’’ a feminine, emoted voice rang. In the doorway stood Yasamin, the Broacienien-Sawarim girl that had attempted to entertain him a few weeks prior.

‘’I have no idea what you are talking about.’’ The answer was simple enough, as was the fact that Ketill slammed the door shut in her face, or at least attempted to. But he was stopped by Yasamin, who slammed her hand into the door and put her foot up against the bottom of it.

‘’Don’t pretend. I’ve already heard. You have to be real useful to get a sultana to give up a harem girl to you.’’ Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked back into the hallway, before looking back at Ketill, as if she was about to spill a secret. ‘’Perhaps they weren’t wrong about you.’’

Without waiting for an invite, she stepped into the room, finally allowing Ketill to close the door. He seemed somewhat annoyed – which was strange, considering he’d asked for her to be granted to him – but didn’t tell her to get out, so obviously he wasn’t that annoyed.

‘’What do they say?’’

‘’Things. Many things are said in the palace. You just need to listen,’’ the girl replied, and for a moment Ketill thought he was speaking to Najla. It sounded almost precisely the same. Sure, the voice was different, the looks were different, but… the words that they spoke were exactly the same.

‘’No. I am here to kill. Not to listen.’’

‘’… yes, you’re right, that’s one of the things they say about you.’’

Ketill seemed bored of the conversation already, walking to a nearby table and picking up a cloth, before dipping it into a nearby washing basin filled with water and using it to was his face. Under the cloth he spoke, causing his voice to come out slightly muffled. ‘’They say many things I suppose. I eat babies, and I turn into a spirit at night. I also punch husbands.’’

Yasamin giggled slightly at the mention of that incident, covering her mouth and looking away when she did. ‘’So that rumour was true? I heard the girls mention it, but I thought that it was just gossip.’’

‘’I don’t think that Najla would appreciate if I spoke about that,’’ Ketill answered her question. It would be enough of an answer for her to figure out what he meant, regardless. ‘’Some people like poking bears.’’

‘’It seems that way. There was a lot of talk about you at first, in the harem. There still is, but it’s grown quieter now. I think when I left, they didn’t like that. I don’t think the sultana told anyone where I was going, but this type of news travels fast.’’

‘’Do they think I’m interested in them?’’

‘’No. Maybe. There’s a betting pool.’’

This answer received nothing more than a scoff as Ketill pondered just why they thought he was interested. As far as he’d known, he’d never made any advances towards them. He supposed that that was exactly the reason why they were after him, though. ‘’I have no chores for you. Just take my tunics, and wash them.’’

‘’Wait, you mean… like an actual servant? I thought…’’

‘’There more important things for me than sticking my cock into some hole.’’

‘’I… see. Not that I’m complaining.’’

Again Ketill shrugged. He seemed to care very little about what she thought, much like he cared little about what Najla thought. In a way, Yasamin reminded him of Najla. Or, perhaps not Najla. But Saina, most definitely, if Saina had not been a royalty, but remained a traders’ daughter. ‘’I don’t care. Go.’’

---

Ketill was ‘’fetched’’ once again – the process had become entirely reliable and predictable at this point. Najla would get mad at him, she’d not speak to him for a few days, and then a guard would show up to escort him. It had gotten to the point where he’d memorized a few of the guards’ that he frequently saw their names, so that he could greet them. Whatever ill intent he held towards the Sultanate had vanished when he dropped his faith and position as a Servant, even if he remained a Servant to the Sultanates’ people. Instead, his anger and hate was all burning on one focal point. Najla. It felt better that way, too.

He was lead around to one of the far away private reaches of the palace, where it was quiet as could be. As he approached, he saw that Najla was busy speaking to Osman, so he assumed more or less directly that he was going to get the punishment he’d been owed for killing the man in the fire. And Osman would be the one to deal it, most likely.

However, in the contrary, Osman merely turned around and walked away, leaving Najla to talk to Ketill. When he walked past Ketill, the two engaged in an awkward stare that would only be broken when Osman looked away – with pride, not out of fear.

Then he was brought before Najla herself, who seemed content to laze about in the windowsill. Her question earned a raised eyebrow from Ketill. ‘’Djinn?’’ he asked her, not wholly sure about what she meant. She was quick to explain it, and honestly the explanation made him grin, in a rather sly manner. ‘’Closer than you might think.’’ The explanation about the eyes, and Osman’s mother, it only made it more amusing. ‘’You have been to Broacien. If she is right, perhaps there is an entire nation of ‘’Djinn’’ waiting for you. It makes Djinn sound a whole lot less exciting, no? Knowing that there are hundreds, if not thousands of them. No, it is better to assume I am a Djinn and that my eyes have naught to do with it.’’ He carelessly looked to the side, inspecting the room he was in, taking in the details of it as if he was there on his own volition and in his own free time rather than as if she’d forced him to. ‘’It’s more impressive that way that you survived me. So far.’’

Although unintentional, his words had a double meaning. First of all, it seemed like Najla was having a hard time working with him, which was understandable given his rebellious nature. ‘’Surviving’’ that must’ve been hard for her, as he struggled against her and seemed to try and dismantle all her plans, or at the very least throw some chaos into them. But secondly, there was a more ominous meaning behind the words ‘so far’. She would find a blade in her gut, sooner or later. This much was known. The question was… when?

Her next words made Ketill shrug. The answer was obvious. Because he was worth more to her alive than dead. It would continue to be like that. Whether she realized it or not, he was quite protective of her – even if it was only because he wished for the honour of killing her. That vengeance would redeem him in the eyes of the Gods. It was their challenge to him. If someone else took that chance, well, that would be a reason for a feud. ‘’You don’t need a reason. You are the sultana. Are you not? Was I right in saying that you are not in control?’’ The words had bite, but her next words were fired with a sudden surge in anger as she released the pipe from her grasp, her eyes suddenly finding him and fixating on him when he heard the pipe shatter below. It caused him to grin, slightly. He knew he was under her skin. It was a matter of time before she would screw it up. She would be the one to bring down her palace of gold and jewelry, and she’d blame him. And then he’d take her life.

‘’You cannot put me in the spotlight to bring you status and expect me not to speak.’’

The guard interjected, seemingly worried about the pipe or something trivial, and Najla was quick to silence him. It seemed that that, too, was something she was good at. Except for Ketill. He imagined that it was quite distracting for her to be able to control everyone and anyone except for him. Even Osman seemed to follow her command – at least, as far as he knew. What happened behind the scenes were a secret for all, including Ketill, especially Ketill.

Her talk about a reward made him shrug. It wasn’t the reward that interested him. She was just… to show Najla that she was not in control. That she’d have to give things up to make Ketill do as he was asked. She’d done exactly that, but she didn’t seem to realize it. Not that a harem girl was a gigantic sacrifice to make, but still. A small victory is where it starts. ‘’It would’ve been better to slit his throat. Let him die honourably. But a dead man is dead. He can’t object now. That is enough for me. I don’t have to bear the shame of using poison. It’s your burden now.’’

He could sense that Najla was studying him, as if she was looking for a hint, anything that would betray how he felt. She would receive no such thing – perhaps because he felt nothing at that point. He just glared back, his eyes speaking books yet saying nothing at the same time. It was all she needed to know. ‘’What is it that you Sawarim say. ‘’Let your pain fall on me’’ or something. I wonder if you felt that for him too. Poison hurts. I don’t know what you used. But it took him a few days to die. It was fast – but fast poison is painful. It infected the wound, I suppose?’’ He looked to the side, before walking away from his position. The guard eyed him carefully, looking at Najla to see what she thought about it, that a slave dared insult her as such to walk away. He didn’t seem to care, inspecting a nearby piece of art before turning back to her. ‘’Fire would’ve been quicker. It’d also be less painful. Perhaps it doesn’t seem that way. But in the long run…’’

She then concluded with a question about what he said to Thamud at the end of the fight, which made Ketill laugh. ‘’You asked me to kill him, not fight him. He was already dead when I finished the fight. He just didn’t know it yet. I wonder if he figured it out before he died. He was probably too weak to tell anyone then, but I imagine he knew something was awry. I told him that I would like to push him into the fire. But that I couldn’t, because there was something I needed to do, and I wouldn’t jeopardize that. Then I told him I wished for his bones to be swallowed by the desert and to be spat out again.’’

He glanced back over his shoulder before continuing to inspect the piece of art, resisting the urge to touch it. ‘’Does it matter? He’s dead.’’

But rather than finish the discussion with this, Najla had more she wanted to say – more useless things that he needn’t know but she felt like telling him anyway. He groaned mentally but did not let it show. ‘’I wouldn’t dare…’’ he silently added to her order not to praise his false god. If only she knew, he thought, if only she knew what he knew.

‘’We’ll see. One day you will see the ravens – maybe today, maybe tomorrow, or a year – and then you will understand. You will understand who I am, and why I do what I do. Why I continue to live even if there is nothing here for me. But it will be too late then. Your brother seems to understand better than you do. He is clever. There might be hope for him yet. But you… too useless, too pampered. Too used to comfort. Poison cannot fix all your problems.’’

With that conversation finished, he bowed his head lightly to Najla, giving the guard a sense of respect being given, but just like with Basim, Najla would probably see that it was not meant as a symbol of respect, more so than a sarcastic and joking insult to their authority. Basim had not taken offense – not noticeably, anyway – but Ketill knew Najla better than that. But before she could call him back, he’d already walked away, leaving the guard behind rather confused. He was remarkably brazen and brave for a slave – only furthering his point that she was no longer in control.

But the catch was, neither was Ketill. The cogs of time were churning and it was only a matter of time before the person that was in control would show themselves.

---

It would not take long after all for the cogs of time to turn and revel who was grasping at more and more control. Two days later, Ketill was woken from his sleep early in the morning by a set of guards that he did not recognize. Najla usually sent the same few guards – perhaps because they were tasked with remaining close to her – but these were not among them. Instead, he was given some time to put on a tunic and was then promptly escorted to a corridor of the palace that he had not seen before. He was brought to a large room, and led inside, a curtain hanging behind the door concealing whoever was inside. One of the guards waited before the curtain, speaking up to whoever was inside. <‘’My prince, he’s here.’’>

<‘’Lead him in,’’> a voice came from inside, which was recognizable as Basim’s. The guard opened the curtain and let Ketill step through, who found Basim laying on some pillows on his side, while holding an item of sorts in his hand. It seemed to be made of various forms of colored glass, more as a decoration than anything. But Basim was quick to put the object aside, instead training his eyes on Ketill. ‘’Are you happy?’’

Ketill kept his mouth shut, looking at Basim with piercing eyes. Not that he did not wish to answer, but he did not understand the question, and Najla had asked him not to speak to Basim after all.

‘’I thought as much. Doesn’t really matter. My guard told me that you were escorted to Najla yesterday… I suppose that she wanted to speak to you. And now she won’t let you speak to me.’’

Ketill looked away momentarily, but did not answer, confirming Basim’s thoughts. The boy lazily rolled over onto his back, putting his hands behind his head, seemingly thinking about the situation like Ketill had become used to him doing by now. ‘’I suppose it matters little. In the eyes of the Sultan, my wishes probably overrule her, because I’m a prince, not a sultana. You can speak. She won’t punish you.’’

‘’Then you seek to ‘’protect’’ me again, is it not. You’d tell her not to punish me?’’

‘’Perhaps. I could also order the guards not to punish you. I would do what it takes. I thought about what you said – about being a tool – and I think that we don’t blame a hammer for not striking the armour perfectly, but we blame the armorsmith.’’

‘’That’s… a fitting way to put it. A hammer.’’

‘’More fitting would be a bear, but I thought you’d have become bored by that nickname already.’’

‘’It’s not the nickname that bothers me. It’s the attention it garners me. I can’t set one step before some tribal peasant spoke about poking a bear. Your people are not used to working with animals, are they?’’

‘’Goats. Horses. No bears, so you’ll have to excuse them for thinking all bears are good for is poking.’’

Ketill waved the comment away, looking at the item Basim had put away moments before before glancing back at the boy. He sounded different. A bit more grown up than the first time he’d spoken with him. ‘’Did you call me here to discuss bears then?’’

‘’Perhaps. It would be an interesting conversation, I think. Animals are interesting, we think we control them, but never the less every so often a goat will slip from the herd, or a horse will get scared and run away. We’re never truly in control, are we? In a way you are much like that. You are-’’

Ketill was quick to interrupt him then, a bit of annoyance in his eyes as he glared at Basim. ‘’If you think that, you should have let Najla punish me.’’

This earned a curious look from Basim, who thought he’d done Ketill a favour by protecting him. It was seemingly strange for him to hear that Ketill would’ve rather taken the punishment. Confused, he asked, ‘’why?’’ He did not even seem to remember to tell him to call her sultana, rather than Najla.

‘’It didn’t bother me the first time I was whipped. It would bother me even less now.’’

Basim raised an eyebrow at this, growing silent for a minute before finally replying. ‘’I see. Never the less, I’d say you are more useful to me, to us, here in the palace, rather than in the healers’ room.’’

‘’Because I am a hammer.’’

‘’Because you are a person, like me, who understands the world around him better than most people think you do. Audrun likes wise people, right? Then we must share our ideas and the information we have. It will only serve you better, because you will grow more wise. And for me… it will sate my curiosity.’’

‘’There is little I can tell you. Najla would cut out my tongue. She knows she can do that, because it won’t kill me. It’d be done before you could stop it.’’

Basim shrugged then. ‘’So be it. Why did you offer your condolences to Thamu’s brother?’’

‘’Thamud is dead. That’s why.’’

‘’Yes, but he did not know he would die. So… why?’’

‘’Because his brother would die at the hand of a woman who lacks the strength to do anything on her own and relies on a savage, Broacienien bear that fights for the wrong gods to do her chores. That’s why. He didn’t die with honour – he died at the hands of a cowardly woman that did what she did purely because she felt a desire to. My condolences were the least I could do. But Thamud himself, he did not seem like an honourable man. I would rather his brothers are offered strength and compassion than the man himself.’’

‘’You… were never told why we were there, were you?’’ Basim then asked, seemingly remembering that Ketill had no idea about anything that happened there. Ketill’s silence was enough of an answer. ‘’Thamud’s tribe had stolen horses from another tribe. The feud caused problems for the sultan, so we were sent to deal with it. Thamud refused to settle for what we asked of him, and added insult to injury by demanding the claim be lowered, and money would be paid. I spoke with Najla about it, and it seems that with Thamud’s death, Salim now takes his place.’’

‘’So she took out a turbulent tribal leader to replace him with someone else?’’

‘’It’s… Salim is Zahira’s husband. Though she denied it, the tribe is now effectively under control of Najla, since Zahira and her are close friends. If you could even call them that…’’ He scratched his head lightly as he thought about his next words, thinking about Zahira and Najla together. ‘’They’ve had a nail driven through their hands and are nailed together. Zahira would not exist without Najla, and vice versa.’’

‘’Then I wonder who benefited from Thamud’s death the most.’’

‘’First and foremost the Sultan. But I doubt he knew of Najla’s plans. He has better things to worry about than some upstart tribal village that makes a living by selling water and stealing horses. Not… not to insult them. They were very nice to me while I was there.’’

‘’You’re a prince. I imagine they would be,’’ Ketill then added, adding some scepticism about the truth behind their nice behaviour. But it was true, Ketill had seen how the men had clung to Basim like flies to a piece of shit. He couldn’t blame them either, since Basim was not unpleasant to be around, and had their meeting occurred some 8 years earlier, they might’ve had good conversations about a variety of things. But things were too different now.

‘’Even so. They are good people. Thamud was a good leader. He wasn’t kind or honourable, but he was a good leader. He just met his match in a woman that does not play by the rules. I still find it hard to believe that my very own sister was behind this.’’

‘’There’s a difference between being wise, and being deceitful and dishonourable.’’

‘’Very much so. I do not stand by my sisters’ actions. If I had known, I would’ve stopped it. The Qawanin might not forbid this, but that doesn’t make it any better.’’

‘’That’s why you didn’t know. You were brought along for political reasons, not to play a part in the plot. That’s why I was there. To kill him. I am not Sawarim. I cannot break the Qawanin, even if your people think differently. They are your laws, now mine, I have no part in them except the part that Najla bestowed on me. And she did no such thing. She just told me to slice him.’’

<‘’Ya Ibn el Sharmouta…’’> Basim softly uttered as he slowly raised himself from the cushions, taking a few steps towards the nearby window, leaning out of it as he looked over the palace, and by extent over the city and the ever expanding desert beyond it’s limits. ‘’It was foolish of me to think that I was there to learn something,’’ he then sighed, pulling himself back from the window. ‘’That settles it then. Come with me.’’ The sudden resolution caught Ketill slightly off guard, but he did not question it and followed Basim as he shoved aside the curtain and walked out of the room, leaving the guards behind. They were quick to follow however, unwilling to let a prince wander the palace alone with a slave in tow who wasn’t known for being kindhearted.

They walked through the meandering halls of the palace, ultimately ending up at Najla’s room. This place was one that Ketill did recognize, as he’d spent a lot of time being escorted here. ‘’Najla’s room?’’

‘’Yes. I assume you’ve spent a lot of time here.’’

‘’Quite. Maybe I misjudged you. You are more brave than I had imagined. In fact, perhaps there’s some promise in you yet.’’

The words were rather awkward to hear for Basim, Ketill imagined, as a prince was probably used to receiving nothing but praise, so hearing someone say something that was not wholly positive in nature must’ve been strange to him. ‘’I… guess so.’’ Basim’s reply was meek as Ketill was used to, and though he had noticed a change in attitude from Basim lately, he seemed to revert to the same boy he’d spoken to in the healers room some time earlier. It was shortlived, however, as Basim opened the door and stepped into Najla’s chambers. Ketill followed shortly after, but as the guards would attempt to step in too to ensure that nothing happened, Basim stopped them, gesturing towards the corner just around the door. <‘’He’s chained like a dog, don’t worry too much. My sister’s guards are nearby, go speak to them or entertain yourselves,’’> he told them, rather straight forward, which evidently they weren’t too used to from Basim. Never the less they followed the order, leaving the room and closing the door as they did.

Ketill looked around the rather large room, where he’d been a few times before, though he could only remember one instance right away – the night he’d pummelled Osman in the face and incurred the wrath of his rival.

Basim approached Najla then, his posture being rather imposing in that moment, even f he was not the tallest among men, with Ketill being at the very least a head taller. <‘’There are no marks on his body,’’> he opened, standing before his sister. <‘’So you didn’t punish him. Not physically. I suppose that begins to make up for what you did, because you did not lie this time.’’> He gestured loosely to Ketill as he spoke to his sister, but Ketill was left behind a short distance away, not understanding a word of the conversation in front of him.

<‘’When you took Thamud’s life and his birthright from him, Salim took that birthright. It’s too convenient. What you said in the desert was a lie too. You promised to speak the truth to me before, so tell me, was it you or Zahira that came up with this plan?’’>

<‘’And what about uncle? Did he know? Did he order you to do this? What would uncle say if he knew you effectively took control of the village through Zahira? Do you realize how that looks? It looks like you’re gathering power, not for him, but for yourself. So not only did you act like a… like a coward, you also put us, and our entire family at risk. You are lucky that you did not get caught. And what if Zahira opens her mouth? Surely people have their objections to the sudden death of their leader, and the timely arrival of Zahira to ‘fix things’ with her husband?’’>

Before Najla had a chance to even reply, he gestured back at Ketill, looking him in the eyes with a totally different look from before, as it seemed that he was getting fired up now. Najla had barely gotten a word in so far, or at least not as far as Ketill could’ve heard. <‘’Is it not true?’’> he asked, entirely unaware that he’d been speaking in his mother tongue. ‘’It was cowardly!’’ he said in Broacienien, seemingly realizing, before Ketill could answer. He turned back to Najla, stepping closer to her, his body tensing up more as he approached. If he wasn’t Basim, Ketill would’ve expected him to strike his own sister. Never the less, now that he’d switched to Broacienien, he continued the conversation like that. ‘’You could’ve just made him challenge Ketill to a duel, or asked Ketill to insult Thamud, so that Thamud would end up killing himself. If you’re treating him like a tool, at least think about what the Sawarim would think of that. Yes, you did not break Qawanin, but you will still be judged!’’

For a moment there was a silence as Basim gathered his composure again after raising his voice at his sister, but then he continued. ‘’Besides, he’s not a tool, he’s a person like you and me. He told me he did not care if you prayed when you were his slave. Then why are you against letting him pray? Why do you punish him? Those whippings, were they entirely deserved? Have you seen his back?’’

Without missing a beat Basim turned around and walked to Ketill, grabbing the mans’ arm and turning him around with his back towards Najla, before pulling up the tunic, revealing several rather grotesque scars that looked like someone had raked a rake across his back a few times. ‘’This is not justice. Not when Osman does the same thing, but receives no punishment. And what do the Qawanin say about how you should treat your neighbours? Have you ever shown any of that to him? Or is he truly just ‘’Daab al-Broacien’’ to you, some animal to try and control? That you can whip him so that he dances how you want him to?’’

Ketill laughed then at the notion of control, which seemed to be a recurring theme in the palace. Who was truly in control was a contentious matter and seemed to shift indefinitely, and by this point it had become clear that whoever it was, it wasn’t Najla, despite the appearances. ‘’I do not dance. If I danced, I would not have Yasamin. But I do. She struck a bargain. I’ve told her before, she is not in control. She is too- well…’’ He did not finish his sentence, perhaps because he did not want to insult her in front of her brother, but they probably both knew what he was going to say.

‘’Even so-’’ Basim tried to continue, but voices in the palace hallway disrupted them and a single voice between them seemed extremely familiar. Before too long the door swung open and both Basim and Ketill turned around to face towards it. In the doorway was Osman, followed by Elif shortly after, clinging to him like they were attached to each other with a short rope.

The few days since her fight with Osman had been quiet, though they had not certainly not been peaceful. Neither she nor Osman had even attempted to speak to one another, kept silent by their pride. Any further discussion would be pointless, for her decision would not be altered, not as it had been before. Then, all that was required for her to give in was a harsh grip on her wrist and the threat of losing her lover to another. Yet neither of those could outweigh her dedication to her brother, and when Osman found that his words were not enough either, he abandoned her to her decision. She was left to absorb the consequences alone, to feel them flit about in her mind in a voice that had long ceased to resemble her own, one that spent days clawing into her in every moment of rest she found, taunting her with what was to come. It would not tell her just what this was, but Najla could not shake the feeling that she had wrapped her fist around sand, and was forced to watch as each grain fled from her desperate grasp.

Thus, Najla had opted to allow herself as few of these peaceful moments as possible. The walls of her room were not enough to keep that horrid voice out, the one that forced her to think on nothing but what she had done, and what she would reap from it. Rather than listen, or dull such notions by wine, Najla spent her days trying to replace them with new ones, burying herself in fresh work. Now, the light of the morning filtered through her windows, illuminating the papers and books that piled onto her desk. Najla sat behind this, dressed simply, with no gold or jewelry, nothing applied to her face that could distract from the exhaustion in her eyes. Clearly, the past few nights had been relatively sleepless, as if she was even afraid to relinquish control of her consciousness.

Her eyes snapped up at the sound of a door opening, only to abandon all thought of the work before her at the sight of her brother. For the barest of moments, Najla could have smiled. For all her worries of the future, Basim had not been among them. She had always believed her blood would return to her, and while these were questions Najla would not enjoy answering, she knew it had to be done. She would have to restore her brother’s faith in her, as painful as the process would be, for Najla could not bear the thought of losing both him and Osman.

It took no time for that hope to abandon her, for her eyes were quick to move to the figure who came behind him. He was rather difficult to miss, after all. At the sight of Ketill, Najla’s eyes narrowed, and she stood from her chair.

<“Basim, what’s-”>

Despite the confusion apparent in her expression, the sight of Ketill was enough to bring anger back into her tone, though her voice was kept soft. It would not last however, for Basim’s words were quick to quiet her. Perhaps it would not have been so before, but as Najla looked upon the man in front of her, she realized that whatever change she had seen in Basim earlier had held. Her eyes snapped to Ketill then, and there would be no doubting the anger in her eyes as she studied him, wondering just what he had said to Basim for him to approach her so.

<“Of course I didn’t.”>

The words snapped out of her like a whip, just as her eyes snapped to Basim again. Her expression did not change, and though it felt strange to look upon her brother with the same anger she did Ketill, Najla found that she could barely contain this. He had brought the dog into her room, to assault her with his presence, he could hardly expect for her to respond pleasantly. She opened her mouth then, clearly hoping to continue, but it was to no avail. Basim began to speak again, and once more, Najla found that his words were able to override her own will, silencing her. However, this time, it was not his tone or anger that stopped her from speaking, but the words themselves.

Even if Basim had allowed her the time to answer, Najla would not have been able to form a reply so easily. The mere mention of Zahira’s name had shocked her, and now all she could do was watch her brother with burning eyes as he continued. What would she be able to tell him? To cast the blame onto her cousin would have been easy, but Najla knew that Basim would no longer accept it. She was not so weak as to be pulled around by another’s whims, and yet Najla could not bear to take the blame onto herself, to fully become the monster he was seeing now. Even these thoughts were not given enough time to settle before worse followed, and though Najla would try to interrupt Basim, it was to no avail.

She wanted to speak, to tell him that she would never seek to endanger her family, nor was this power intended for her own use, but it seemed there would be no chance to convince him. Even if he was to fall silent, what words could she use to convince him otherwise? He was not wrong, after all, at least not completely. The risks he spoke of were true, but to tell him of how she concealed it, how she tried to keep such risks from occurring, that would only make it worse. Perhaps it was best that Basim could not be quieted, for all that Najla had to say was only more damning. It was only when he turned back to address Ketill, suddenly switching to Broacien, that Najla finally tried to move from her position. Though she could not speak yet, she stepped out, trying to walk around the desk towards her brother, only to stop when she saw him approaching.

This was not her brother that walked towards her now, Basim had never held himself in such a way. If it had been Osman before her, Najla might have flinched, or moved out of his reach. But she held no such fear before her brother, and so she only looked up at him with that same burning expression, the one that spoke every word he could not allow her to. Despite all her waiting, when he finally took a breath, Najla would be unable to speak.

How could she explain to Basim that she had tried? That she had intended to taunt Thamud into a fight, but that Basim had been right in the desert, no man wanted to fight Ketill after he had burned a man alive. Could she have told him how she had tried, would it truly be better to be a whore as well as a murderer? She bit her lip as she watched Basim, her expression edging on anxious now. Though her brother seemed unwilling to allow her to speak, Najla’s face might have provided enough answers on its own, certainly more than her words in the desert before. Even Osman had not brought such a hurt into her expression as Basim’s words did now, though there was nothing in her attitude that could garner sympathy. Even though her brother would invoke her God, it seemed that she had already made peace with her actions. Yet, when Basim would finally fall silent for a few moments, Najla did not tell him this. It was a rare occasion when she lost her words, and yet Basim seemed to have accomplished this, for Najla did not speak in his silence. There was simply too much to say, too much to explain. Though it seemed as if she wanted to speak, to begin to ease her brother however she could, he had taken those words from her now.

It was only when he spoke again that Najla’s eyes finally snapped to Ketill again. Her frown was easy to read, for clearly, she had never assumed that Ketill would have let her pray. It was the least of her concerns at the moment, but it would gnaw at her later, she was certain, even when the larger bites had healed. She could hardly comprehend such a thought before Basim began to walk over to Ketill, only to pull up his tunic and reveal her lover’s handiwork. Najla would only catch a glimpse before she turned her head, casting her eyes away as if the image disgusted her, as if she had not been the one to allow it. Likely, it was not the scars that caused her to look away so, but it would not matter. The sound of Ketill’s laughter was enough for her to look back up at the pair, her eyes narrowed in anger now as if she truly believed he was the Djinn who had brought this upon her.

Her thoughts had overwhelmed her, Najla felt as if she could barely fit together the pieces of her brother’s words, and yet, she knew that Ketill was to blame for this. Somehow, this was his fault. She had given Basim answers, he had spoken to Ketill, and returned with more questions. No, not questions, accusations. Insults. And he had brought the Servant with him to laugh, to taunt her with all he was seeking to take. It brought a sense of anger that Basim’s words had not brought, and perhaps she would have responded, but another set of voices was quick to divert her attention again. Her eyes widened at the sight of Osman and Elif entering her room, her breath halting in her chest as a new panic began to rise in her chest, joining the anger that had settled like a weight.

<“Osm-“>

<“What’s going on?”>

Osman began to walk towards Ketill and Basim, but Najla was quick to speak again, hoping to halt him. She could not begin to imagine what Osman had come here to demand, not after he had refused to speak to her for some days. To do so with Elif in tow would have been enough cause for anger most days, but Najla barely seemed to register it now. With all that swam around in her thoughts, it felt as if the only thing she could clearly understand was that Osman could not be here. Not now.

<“We can speak later.”>

<“We’re talking now. What is he doing here?”>

The rising tone of his voice was unmistakable, as was the spark of rage in his eyes. Rather than stay back, Najla was quick to start walking towards them, as if hoping to put herself between Osman and Ketill. Perhaps it was a dangerous thought, but not quite as dangerous as the two interacting once more. Before she could get close enough to place herself between them, Osman had already moved to approach her, his posture now entirely overwhelming. Regardless, she would not back down, and the effort to keep her voice stable as she spoke to him was apparent in nearly every word.

<“You need to go. Just wait-”>

<“I’m not waiting for a dog!”>

<“I don’t see a dog here.”> Najla’s gaze snapped to Basim as he spoke up, a new sort of worry now apparent on her face. Basim could not see this however, for his eyes rested on Osman, a frown appearing on his face. He’d never seen his sister’s husband-to-be as anything but respectful to his sister and her family. Now, Osman had entered without even acknowledging a prince, but this was not what caused a new spark to appear in Basim’s eyes, one Najla did not want explained to her. <“I’m speaking to my sister, whatever you need can wait.”>

Osman turned at this, suddenly facing Basim rather than Najla. For a split second, it looked as if Osman was about to step towards him, but Najla would not wait to see if it was true. Her hand darted out to grip Osman’s wrist, holding onto it as firmly as she could. It was not her strength that kept him, but his eyes turned back to her quickly, allowing her to speak. Her voice came in something akin to a whisper, rushed and hurried as she tried to ease his temper.

<“You know why they’re here, please, just go. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll come to you when-”>

<“When you’re done with him?”> Osman snatched his hand back to him, and though he did not move to strike her, she could see his fists beginning to clench, indicating something she wasn’t eager to see. Before Najla could respond, beg him to leave or consider what he wanted, he’d begin to speak again, his voice rising even though Najla tried to pretend like she couldn’t quite hear this change. <“Which one, your brother or the beast? Is your dog so high above me now? Don’t insult me like this, I’m your husband-”>

<“I’m your Sultana! And your prince has asked you to leave.”> There was a rising anger in Najla’s words, though her volume was carefully controlled, for the precarious nature of the situation had not been forgotten. It was difficult to let her anger simmer quietly however, and her ‘guests’ would not make it any easier. <“I have not insulted you, do not make me do so by ordering you out.”>

<“I don’t take your orders. I’m not your precious fucking dog, I won’t bark for some cunt.”>

Whatever anger she had been holding was entirely visible now, and though Najla’s hand twitched at the thought of smacking her lover in the face of such an insult, she managed to subdue this. It was a lucky thing, for the way Osman towered over her now told her she would be a fool to smack him, to invite that which she had dreaded before. But Osman knew better than to do so in front of her brother, or at least, she had hoped he would.

<“Enough!”>

There it was again, the voice of a man she was only beginning to recognize. Both Osman and Najla turned their eyes towards Basim. Her brother seemed angry, understandably so, for there was an underlying meaning in Osman’s words that, even if translated, only the Sawarim would have caught. Osman was not only referring to Yasamin, but Najla herself. It was simply another phrasing of an insult she knew well, one that Osman had not learned on his own. One glance over at Elif was enough to confirm this, for even though the girl seemed rather timid, Najla could see from her eyes that she was pleased. Perhaps she had imagined it, but it felt like someone had set her veins alight to see such a look when her world was falling apart.

<“I won’t hear you insult my sister, I don’t care if she’s your wife. I don’t know what business you have, but seeing how you’ve spent your time here, it clearly isn’t urgent.”>

<“My wife insults me.”> Osman began to step forward towards Basim then, at which point Najla was quick to try and step between them. His next words were thus directed at Najla, despite the fact that he seemed to be halfway responding to Basim still. She could see that Basim wanted to speak up again, to interfere, and Najla was quick to gesture for him to stay back. <“He insults you, and you protect him, knowing they call you a Servant’s whore.”>

<“They? Are the people screaming it in the streets now? Or was it one little whore who lost her tongue and found yours?”>

Najla’s angry gaze snapped behind Osman now, to where Elif was standing. She had not forgotten the girl’s presence, though Najla seemed worried as to Osman’s actions, especially now that she was so close to Basim. Najla’s words had emboldened Elif, though perhaps it was the shield her husband brought upon her. When she spoke, her words could not match the barely-contained rage Najla’s held now, but it was growing.

<“How dare you call me a whore. How dare you?! You’re not even his wife yet, you just think no one can touch you! But you’ll be a second wife soon, you’ll have to learn respect.”>

Najla nearly scoffed at that, a new sort of disbelief apparent on her face. <“For you? I could never learn. How many nights did you spend alone, knowing your husband was warming himself in my bed? You shouldn’t need a man’s tongue to demand respect.”>

<“You’re only a second wife, don’t forget. You won’t be a Sultana when you’re married, you’ll be-”>

<“A Sultana.”> The word was spoken like a hiss, through clenched teeth, and Najla could feel her fists curling up. She would not be able to strike Elif, for Osman was standing more or less in between them, though it seemed as if Najla was eager to try. <“I will not bow to you, I will not kiss your hand, and I will feel no pity when your husband chooses to spend his nights with me, again. My name remains my own, and with it, my title. You cannot take that from me.”>

<“But I will take the Servant.”>

Najla’s eyes widened as she looked up at Osman, and when she glanced back towards Ketill, she could see the same surprise in Basim’s expression. She knew the laws as well as he did, but she never could have imagined that Osman would go so far as to enact it. This had to be Elif’s doing, her suggestion, but Najla would have a lifetime to find such evidence.

<“It is my right. As your husband, all that is yours will be mine. Since you cannot be made to tame that mangled beast, I will. Sultana or not, you are not above this law.”>

<“Believe me, I am. I will not allow you to hurt him any more than you have.”>

<“I punished him fairly, he swung at me! And you chose to protect him, like the dog-fucking cunt-”>

<“Fuck you, Osman!”>

<“Am I lying? He goes unpunished, even rewarded! He shouldn’t even be standing here, but you- Najla, you won’t let him fall! He says what he pleases, does as he pleases, and you just give him all he wants! That filthy fucking infidel bastard!”>

At these words, Osman had already set his eyes upon his target. Najla had not positioned herself between Osman and Ketill, but more unconsciously between her brother and her lover, so he did not have to push against her to go after the ‘beast’. It would have been foolishness regardless, especially now that there were no guards around to tame him, but luckily, he would not get that close. Basim was quick to speak up again, moving so that he was the one facing Osman now. He was not quite as tall as either of them, and far less accustomed to violence, though perhaps his anger seemed to offer him some inches now. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Basim so self-assured, but Osman stopped in his path, staring him down as Basim spoke.

<“He’s not your property yet, you have no right here. You’ve spoken enough nonsense, I don’t want to watch you embarrass yourself any further. Get out.”>

There was a brief moment, a charged stare between Osman and Basim, and in this moment, Najla worried that perhaps Osman would choose to swing at her brother. Rather than wait for this to occur, Najla stepped forwards again, closer to Osman than before, closer than she should have dared. Though she opened her mouth to speak, it was Osman that spoke first, his eyes seeming to spark with anger as he looked upon her again. He had found a easier target in her than in Basim, it seemed, though perhaps he was not quite so eager to attack Ketill as he seemed.

<“Your prize Broacienien pig suffers no punishment, and yet I am insulted for asking to bring him to justice?”> Najla tried to speak again, but she found that Osman’s words would not stop now. <“Even your brother has been brought to his side! You truly are a Servant’s whore! Aren’t you ashamed?!”>

Though her brother seemed quite tired of Osman’s presence, Najla would not allow him to speak up now. Perhaps there was some instinct that told her to keep Osman away, or perhaps her own anger had taken over, but regardless, she was quick to dismiss Basim when he tried to speak up again, pushing him to stay back before she turned on Osman once more.

<“I’m not going to let him speak like that, Najla-“>

<“Basim, this isn’t your business, stay back!”> She whipped her head back around then, glaring at Osman as her voice resumed that awful shouting. <“Curse your tongue, don’t you dare drag my brother in this! You’re a coward Osman, you won’t lay a hand on anything unless you’ve got a whip in it!”>

<“You’re calling me a coward? Zahremar! A liar should have a better memory Najla!”>

Their words had devolved even as their volumes rose, and now they stood hurling insults before each other. While Osman had done so before, Najla had never felt herself quite so angry, so filled with loathing for the man she loved. The past few days had certainly been a strain on her, and for it to culminate in this was a disaster she could never have assumed. It was clear that she was no longer in control, not of those around her, and barely even of herself. Amidst this heated exchange, Najla could see Elif reach out for Basim from the corner of her eye, likely to take him away from the two of them. It did not warrant a second thought however, for Najla was quite distracted with her lover screaming in her face. They exchanged these heated words even as Najla refused to look away or back down, despite how imposing Osman had made himself to be now. While she hoped Basim would not interfere, there would be no time to know if he would, for she said the wrong words too soon.

<“You are a coward! All you can speak are insults, like I wouldn’t rather have a pet bear than a simpering, shit-licking, calf!”>

Her words were halted by the sudden grip of his hand, tight and unforgiving as he gripped her hair painfully, wrenching her gaze upwards. It was enough to draw a sudden gasp of pain from her, but this would quickly devolve into insults as she tried to shove him away, only to feel him grip her forearm with his other hand. She heard only yelling, he was far too close for her to hear much else, not even the sound of Basim’s voice. All she could hear was the sound of a man raging in her ear, all she could feel was the tight, painful grip fixed in her hair and on her arm, until suddenly, it was ripped from her.

Najla stumbled back as Osman released her, his hand suddenly untangling itself from its grip in light of a greater shock. As she looked up now, her breath coming in deep gasps, Najla was shocked to see the figure of her lover replaced with another, far larger, who sought to protect her from him now. Even as she felt Basim reach for her, taking her arm with a gentleness completely opposite Osman’s, Najla’s eyes remained on the figure who now stood before her, blocking her husband’s path. Osman’s protests were lost among the racing of blood in her ears, and Najla’s eyes were wide as they remained on Ketill, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Her lover had humiliated her that much was certain. But the throbbing on her arm and head was quickly forgotten now, lost among a greater shock. What was Ketill thinking, defending her like this? He hated her, surely, seeing her in pain should have been nothing but a reward for him. She could not understand him, she would never be able to understand his reasoning, but hearing Osman’s words would be enough to force her to halt. He was far less bold now that there was a Servant between them, but the words stung all the same.

<“Get out from behind your dog and face your husband.”>

<“Son of a thousand whores.”> It was Basim that spoke now, his voice tight and angry as he tried to control himself. He wouldn’t attack Osman, especially with Ketill standing between his sister and her husband, but he would not hold his tongue now, not even for his sister’s sake. Najla did not speak now, but she reached up to grip Basim’s hand gently, as if the touch would keep him from moving forward. <“Tuck your tail between your legs and go.”>

<“You have no-”>

The comfort of Basim’s hand was suddenly torn from Najla as he stepped forwards. <“Leave.”>

Najla had been silent since Ketill had stepped forwards, as it seemed she was still reeling somewhat from the shock. It was not as if this was the first time Osman had done this, but Najla never could have imagined that he would do so in front of her brother, or that Ketill would be the one to stop him. Her mind was racing, past fear and anger, past hatred and shock, until her eyes turned to Elif. The girl seemed shocked by the situation, though not in the same way that Najla was, accompanied by dread and horror. There was a smugness to her surprise, one that Najla might have been imagining, and yet, it was enough for her other emotions to settle down, making room for one, all-encompassing anger. Perhaps she could have ignored it, allowed it to pass, but Elif had caught notice of her gaze. Now, she turned towards Najla, a new courage in her now that Basim and Ketill were preoccupied with Osman.

<“It seems you’ve also found a man’s tongue to cower behind.”>

Whatever anger Najla had towards Osman could not have matched the surge of fury that followed Elif’s words. Her fists clenched, her eyes narrowing as she eyed the girl, her body turning towards her. She had seen how Elif had pulled Basim away, leaving Najla to be the sole target of Osman’s fury. Even as Elif continued to speak, Najla felt only that surge of anger, no longer able to decipher whether it came because of the girl’s words. Elif had known, she knew that Osman would attack Najla. She had taken Najla’s husband from her, and set him upon her like a dog.

<“Did I cower, cow?”>

<“You knew your dog would defend you. How many nights did you spend trading your cunt to return to my husband? How many countless infidels fucked your religio-“>

She would not be allowed to finish, her words quickly replaced by a cry of shock. Najla practically dove at the girl, before wrapping a fist in her hair much the way Osman had done moments before. She pulled Elif’s hair down, yanking the girls face towards her, striking her in the cheek with her fist. She could feel Elif’s hands on her, trying to land a blow, trying to yank her hand away, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t even think to care, for she was quick to raise her fist again, trying to strike Elif once more. Najla had nearly reached her face again when a figure tried to pull her back, though Najla felt her nails catch the girl still, a slight victory. Before she could do anything else, Basim had yanked her hand off of Elif, pulling Najla back with him. Osman had forgotten about Ketill, rushing to Elif’s side to help her, even as Najla struggled fruitlessly in her brother’s grip.

<“Let me slit that donkey-fucker’s throat!”>

<“Najla, shut up!”> Basim had managed to pull her away from Elif, and now released her, pushing her back slightly. Even while Osman aided Elif, Najla stood before her brother, her breathing heavy, her eyes still wild with anger. However, she did not try to step forward now, only watching her brother. For a moment, they stood in a tense standoff, but their eyes were torn off one another when Elif’s voice rang out again.

<“You crazy cunt, this will be answered for!”>

<“Then answer it!”> Najla dared. Though she was still angry, it seemed her brother was still enough to calm her somewhat, for she would make no more dives at Elif. Still, Basim held a hand back as if to stop Najla, for her words certainly seemed as if she was prepared to attack her again.

<“Ya Sawarim, enough! Najla, stop this!”> He turned around to face Osman then, whose anger seemed to have faded in the light of something new, something far closer to worry. This incident did not bode well for Osman, who would have to settle a debate between his wives, all while pretending he held any control over them. It did not bode well for Elif either, for she had grown bold enough to insult a Sultana, understanding that there were consequences to this. However, it would be worst for Najla, though she did not quite seem to realize this yet. Rather, she allowed Basim to hold her back with a careful grip on her arm, even as he spoke to Osman. <“You should go, now.”>

<“No! I’m not going to let that cunt get away with this, Osman!”> Even as Elif called back for her husband to help, Najla dragged her gaze onto Osman, waiting for his answer. Her gaze was still angry, as if she was daring Osman to side with his wife, but as she calmed a growing sadness could be found in them, a slow realization that she had truly lost him.

<“No Elif, not now. We’ll settle this later.”> Osman turned his gaze past Basim, onto his wife to be. <“But it will be settled.”>

<“Get out.”>

These were the only words Najla could respond with, as anger still gripped her tongue, silencing her further as Osman and Elif turned to leave. She would only look upon them with burning eyes, feeling Basim release her hand only when the door slammed shut behind them. As the warmth of his hand left her, it seemed that Najla herself unraveled with it, most of her anger falling away with it.

<“Najla... what have you done?”>

<“I- I don’t know.”>

<“Are you hurt?”>

The sudden concern for her well-being should not have been surprising, but given the circumstances, it brought a slight frown onto her face. She reached up then, touching at her head gently, feeling where Osman had gripped it before shaking her head. There was no pain left, she could only worry about what was to come.

<“What were you thinking?”>
<“Basim, please.”> Her voice was exhausted, and it sounded almost as if she truly was pleading with her brother, to simply allow her a brief respite. <“Please, just leave it alone.”>

<“Leave it alone?!”>

<“Yes, leave it, I’m losing my fucking mind, just leave it.”>

<“I’m not going to leave it, Najla!”>

“She asked me how many infidels had fucked my religion!”

It was the first time she’d spoken in Broacienian since Ketill had appeared in her room, a strange transition from screaming in her mother tongue, and yet Najla seemed to have done this intentionally. It seemed she blamed Ketill for this still, as this incident, that particular insult never could have been spat at her if it wasn’t for his presence. Then again, if it had not been for that night in Coedwin, perhaps she would not have reacted quite so violently. However, it was quite a vicious insult, the reaction upon Basim’s face was enough to confirm that.

“She accuses me of trading my cunt, mocking all that I have endured, I just- I couldn’t hear it any longer.”

“Well, you haven’t done much to shut her up. Fuck, what happens now?”

At that, Najla turned her gaze onto Ketill, raking her eyes across his figure, as if sizing him up. There were two routes to this now, one, that both her and Elif would back down, which seemed impossible at this point. The second was that it would be settled as it started, with champions to take the place of those who weren’t meant to fight in the first place. Rather than answer her brother however, Najla locked eyes with Ketill, choosing to speak with him first.

“Go, get out.”

There was no indication of gratitude, almost as if she had forgotten what he’d just done. Still, she’d wait for him to leave before turning to Basim again. Before he could speak, to ask about the future again, Najla reached out and took his hand with a soft sigh.

<“I’ve brought a world of trouble upon you, upon all of us. I’m sorry, Basim. You deserved better from me, always.”>

<“I don’t want to hear your apology, I’ll wait till I hear Osman’s first.”>

<“No, my blood, you cannot do that. You cannot tell anyone what he did. Take mine. You won’t hear one from him.”>

---

It would not take long before news of the incident had spread. Najla had hoped she would be able to contain it, but she had known it was a baseless hope. Elif had demanded an answer for such an insult, and Najla would not back down, asserting her right to retaliate for Elif’s words. Whether such a right truly existed or not was uncertain, but none would doubt that it was foolishness to insult a Sultana so blatantly. Perhaps not as foolish as a second wife attacking the first, but that was yet to be determined.

It would have to be determined by the fight. There was no other way. Najla held an authority as Sultana, but Elif held authority as a first wife, and so they stood at a standstill before the law. They were meant to be equals before their husband, but Osman’s inability to keep this matter within his household was apparent far too quickly. Had it not been for an initially unspoken agreement on the part of his wives, later solidified by Osman himself, far more could have fallen apart for him. As it stood, the official story was simply that Elif had insulted Najla and that Najla had retaliated. There was no mention of their accusations of infidelity, nor the way Osman had grabbed her. It would prove no benefit, only more trouble for either to reveal such secrets, and so it was kept hidden, leaving her story with far too many gaps.

Yet she’d found that she’d have to address these gaps again and again, in speaking to her family, her Sultan, and even in the brief, tense conversations she’d had with Osman. He was still furious with her, but had come just long enough to be assured of the precise story that she would speak. Now, she found herself sitting in her father’s room, with the judging eyes of her family upon her, forced to repeat this story again. She sat on a chair before her father’s desk, pulled out slightly so that she could face the family that had scattered across the room. Her mother sat before her, facing her with eyes that reflected far more sympathy than anger, though Najla found no comfort in this. She chose to focus on her father, who stood behind her mother, staring at her with stern eyes. Of her siblings, only Basim and Harith were present, and though this incident seemed to have amused Harith more than anything, Najla found she could not quite tell what Basim was thinking. Yet none had said a word, none had dared to speak while Najla’s father still spoke.

<“Najla, this was senseless.”>

<“I know, baba.”>

Najla’s voice was soft when she spoke, though this was unsurprising. She would never dare to raise her voice to her father, nor did she have the right to be angry at her family now. When she looked across their faces, Najla could have cursed herself for the trouble she had put them through. She had taken on every admission of guilt she could have, there was little left to do. They were forced to see this matter all the way through, to take it out from the shadows and before clear eyes. It was an uncomfortable notion for Najla, who was far more used to handling her business away from prying eyes. Even being forced to sit here, and apologize before her parents and siblings was a struggle, Najla already sat in dread of the Sultanate’s eyes upon her. In losing control of herself, she had lost control of this situation, and she was beginning to realize that perhaps she had lost far more.

<“I would never have expected something like this from you. Your brother over there perhaps, but not you. Since when have you acted so violently? Your actions have jeopardized our name, do you have no care for that?”>

<“Of course I care baba.”> Her voice was strained and tight, still trying to reign herself in. They’d spoken of this before, she’d heard every one of these criticisms and admonishes before. It was wearing on her nerves, and now she had little clue as to why her father had chosen to gather her siblings before her one more time to hear them. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. <“I’m sorry. I would undo my actions if I could, believe me, I never meant to put you through this.”>

<“But that’s exactly what you have done. Because of your inability to control yourself, you have brought a stain onto our name.”>

<“I know, baba. I understand what I have done, but I promise, it will be over. I have given you no cause for shame before this incident, after it is resolved, you will never see another.”>

<“And you believe this fight will resolve it?”>

<“Yes.”> There was a brief silence then, and Najla simply frowned before continuing, trying to read her father’s gaze. <“Isn’t that the whole point? It’s not as if the Servant will lose. Besides, I have already promised you and uncle that I would not demand any sort of recompense from Elif when he does, so that we can put this behind us.”> Again, her words were met with silence. <“Baba, I’m sorry. I am so ashamed of what I have done. I never meant to bring this upon you, none of you. I would take all your pain onto me, I have told you a hundred times over. But I’ve done all that I can to resolve this, there’s no other way for me to ease your burden but to see this through.”>

Again, silence. She glanced around the room then, to see if her brothers had any indication of what was occurring. This silence was hardly pleasant, and Najla was left wondering why they could have been brought along. Harith was watching her father, clearly just as curious as Najla was, but Basim was looking at her. It was a knowing gaze, one that held her own secrets deep within them now. She turned her gaze away from him, unable to deal with such a reflection now.

<“You haven’t heard then, have you?”>

<“Heard what?”> Najla’s gaze flashed to her father now, and she found a new panic beginning to rise, worried that her father was finally getting to the news he’d wished to tell her. <“Ya Sawarim, what’s happened now?”>

<“Elif has chosen her champion.”>

<“So soon? I haven’t even announced my choice to Uncle yet, surely she’d have more volunteers if she waited.”>

<“It seems there was no need. Osman announced it to the Sultan today, it’s going to be your brother in law, Sa’aqr.”>

Najla closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she trying to comprehend this fact. Around her, she could hear her family’s voices, Harith’s muttered curses, her father’s disappointed sigh, and her mother’s whispered prayers. There was a reason she hadn’t known about this, there was a reason they had decided their champion so early, Elif was getting her first taste of a game she needn’t have entered. She had ensured that Najla could not win, if she lost, they would say the Sawarim had decided against her in this judgement. If she won, Osman’s brother would be dead. Perhaps the thought should have worried her more, but as Najla tried to examine the consequences, wondering if she could alter this development somehow, an anger had settled in the pit of her stomach. Elif had placed too much faith in Najla’s ‘fear’ of Osman’s anger. She had not realized that Najla held little fear of Osman, only an anger towards the man her lover had turned into, and the woman she blamed for making him so.

<“Osman didn’t tell you?”>

Her mother had finally spoken for the first time, her voice far kinder than any words her father had spoken. Najla finally opened her eyes at this, looking over at her mother in silence for a few moments before she shook her head. The look of pity in her eyes was near unbearable, but there was an understanding in them that she had not seen from her father or brothers. She certainly didn’t condone Najla’s attempt on Elif, but she seemed to understand her hurt on a deeper level, or perhaps only felt more sympathy for her daughter. Regardless, Najla could not bear to look at her for long. For a long moment, she did not speak, tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair nervously. Her family picked up the chatter around her, discussing this new issue. All their words on Sa’aqr’s quick agreement, the sheer number of volunteers Elif must have had, it all filtered through her thoughts, never quite drawing her attention or gaze until her father’s stern voice finally called her name.

<“Najla, say something. This is your mistake, so this is your decision to make.”>

<“It’s been made.”> At this, Najla finally looked back up at her father. <“Ketill should still fight, no?”>

<“I can beat Sa’aqr.”> Harith finally spoke up, his voice carrying a confidence that worried Najla now. Though she could not see it, for her gaze had instantly turned to her brother, the look her father gave him must have been damning, for he was quick to defend himself. <“What? It’s tradition that blood should defend blood regardless. It’s not as if I mind. If he’s going to defend Elif after such words, I would be thrilled to put him in the ground.”>

<“Naming Harith might take Sa’aqr out of the fight.”> Now it was Basim’s turn to defend himself from his father’s glare, and he looked over at Harith quickly, as if hoping for some support from his brother. <“I’m not saying Harith should fight him, I don’t want to see that. But they could refuse to allow Sa’aqr, for fear of breaking the Qawanin. Or he’d withdraw himself. If he isn’t going to balk at the thought of killing a Servant, he might at least hesitate to kill a prince.”>

<“He’s not going to kill me.”>

<“I’m not saying he will, but the threat itself-“>

<“Is meaningless, since he can’t kill me.”>

<“Would you shut up Harith, that’s not what I’m saying.”>

A short, terse hiss from their father was enough to quiet her brothers, though it almost seemed as if Najla hadn’t heard them. She could only wonder if this was why her father had brought them here, to provide her with an option for a champion besides the Servant. Basim had a point, after all, there was a chance that Sa’aqr would only be deterred after she named Harith, rather than the Servant. It would have been a pleasing sight, to see Elif scramble for another champion, but it was still only a chance. It was difficult to consider this option however, for Najla’s thoughts could not release the notion that Osman had kept this from her. Rather than come to her and mention that his brother had volunteered, Osman had gone straight to her uncle, cementing the choice before she could have any say in the matter. Perhaps it was the smartest option for him, as she would have taken any opportunity to sway Sa’aqr from fighting, yet she couldn’t help but wonder why Osman would have allowed his brother to fight in the first place. He knew she intended to name Ketill, had Osman meant to dissuade her from that? Or had Elif convinced him? Whatever it was, it would be near impossible to understand without speaking to her husband, and Najla had never felt so far from him.

<“What do you think, baba?”>

<“These are not my games to play, my blood. I could only tell you which of your fighters would win, not if they should.”>

Najla looked up at him for a moment, and it was clear in her eyes that she was lost. Her father could offer her no advice on this matter, the only ones she trusted loathed her now, or were too far away to reach her ears in time. Basim’s words were only suggestions, and she could sense that he had no desire to see his brother fight as well, though perhaps he was thinking more clearly than she was. Najla had lost herself to her thoughts, she had lost herself among the loss of her husband, the pain she had brought upon her family, and the indignity of having to go to her uncle, and explain why she had done what she did. It was a blessing that she was a Sultana, and thus allowed to have such an audience in private, but it had been little comfort when she was made to repeat Elif’s words. She could imagine nothing that would bring her comfort when she would have to answer it.

<“I can’t let you fight for me, Harith.”> When she finally spoke up again, her voice had grown soft again, with a tenderness she had not spoken in for some time. His attempt to protest would be cut off rapidly, and a glance up at her parents showed a semblance of relief at her words. It was a slight comfort, to know that she had eased their worries somewhat, but it did little to balance out the pain she had brought them. <“Even if I could bear to let you answer for my mistakes, you have a son. You don’t get to gamble with your life anymore. The Servant will see this insult answered.”>

<“I’ll go tell my brother then, so that we can set a date for this fight. I’d like to see this matter settled as soon as we can manage, so your wedding can go on as planned.”>

<“No need, baba, I can speak to him. If you’ll let me.”>

Her father looked down at her in surprise, though Najla had little surprise as to where this was coming from. She had already spoken to her uncle at length about this matter, and it had been an exhausting affair, to have to defend herself to her own family. Her uncle had shown some sympathy, especially when Najla had relayed the words that had caused her to hurt Elif, but it was not enough to console her regarding the matter. The worst had been when he asked her why Osman had not been the one to decide this, why he had let his wives run ahead of him, and Najla had been forced to defend her husband when she could think of few kind words for him. She could not bear to repeat that process, but Najla moved to stand from her seat, indicating that she would do so regardless of her own emotions.

<“This was my mistake, I have not forgotten that. May I be excused?”>

Her father nodded once then, allowing her to leave. Before she could, Najla reached out, taking her mother’s hand and kissing it gently before pressing it to her forehead. She repeated this with her father, who did not look at her with quite the same compassion her mother had held, and yet, she knew he wanted to reach out and offer some sort of sympathy. It would not happen however, and Najla simply turned to leave, before hearing her father speak again, this time to her brothers.

<“Basim, go escort her. Your uncle might want to hear your testimony on this matter again. Harith, stay here, I need to speak with you.”>

With that, the discussion was ended. Najla waited for Basim to pay his respect to his parents in the same manner Najla had, as Harith moved to take her seat. When her brother had approached her, Najla took his arm, and the pair left their fathers room together. It was a strange feeling, for Basim to be escorting her so, for the past few times she had seen him had not been pleasant. She had met with him, practically begging him to settle on the same story she and Elif would tell the Sultan. Basim had tried to convince her that she should tell the Sultan about Osman’s attack as well, but after some discussion, had managed to be persuaded otherwise. It was her plea for peace in her household that ultimately convinced him, though Najla wondered if his agreement came because he wanted to give Osman no more cause to harm his sister. Regardless of the reason, he had spoken to the Sultan alongside Najla to ensure the truth of her story. She had brought a great deal of strain upon her family, but mostly onto her younger brother, and his own issues with her actions regarding Thamud had been set aside in this process. It would be brought up again, Najla was certain of that, but it seemed Basim was still struggling with just how to handle his sister. Anger did not quite fit anymore, but neither did pity.

<“You think uncle will have the time for an audience now?”>

<“Hopefully. Let’s not check just yet though. I’d like to visit the temple first. If you’re willing to wait, of course.”>

<“I don’t mind, so long as you’re willing to answer some questions on the way.”>

Najla frowned slightly, looking up at her brother in confusion. They had spoken about this matter at great length, both alone and with the rest of her family present. There was simply nothing left to say. She’d assured Basim that Osman had never done such a thing before, and that he never would again. She had tried to explain her attack on Elif further, though there was little more to explain besides her apologies. Her brother understood the necessity of choosing Ketill, she could not imagine what qualm he’d have now.

<“After all that you have done for me, you should know there’s no need to bargain for answers. I could hold no secret from you.”>

<“It’s not a secret, at least, I should hope it isn’t. I was only curious, what are you planning on giving Ketill to fight this time?”>

Najla bit her lip as she considered the question, before shrugging. <“I haven’t even begun to consider that. I’ve been preoccupied with other concerns.”>

<“That’s understandable.”> They fell quiet for a brief moment as the pair encountered a small cluster of nobles, who bowed their heads as they passed. Though Najla and Basim both returned this, Basim was quick to look ahead, though Najla’s gaze lingered. She could see them peering up at her through their lashes in curiosity, judging her in silence, but Najla could not dwell on this. She only adjusted her light grasp on Basim’s arm as they continued walking, only speaking again once she was certain they were far enough behind her.

<“I will give him whatever he asks for, I suppose. I can’t afford to lose this fight.”>

<“You also can’t afford to win.”>

Najla knew he was right, but when she looked up at Basim, she began to suspect that there was a deeper worry there, something he could not quite name to her. Elif naming Sa’aqr could become a major cause for political conflict, but she knew that this was not quite what Basim was talking about. There was something more personal in his anxiety, and it would not take Najla long to understand what it was.

<“Osman and Elif have put us all on a difficult course, but they’ve had to peddle their own flesh like goats to do it. I’ve already put a great deal upon all of you, whatever else happens, I want it to be mine to handle. You might have been right about Harith, but I have already lost a brother, I won’t risk another on a gamble.”>

<“It’s not just about Harith. You understand, you can say you’ll take the consequences, but the reality is that it won’t be up to you. Besides, I believe our family’s reputation can withstand this. Uncle loves you, his anger will fade.”>

A long pause followed, at which Najla found that she could not quite think of the words to speak. Something in the way he spoke of their uncle was telling as to his concerns, for if it was not his family he was speaking of, and not the Sultan, there were not many options left. When she spoke up again, her voice as soft as a breath, trying to convince Basim of all that she wanted to believe.

<“Osman loves me too.”>

<“Will it be enough?”>

<“Enough for what?”>

<“Najla, you’re not stupid. A few insults were all it took for him to grab you like that, knowing your blood was there to witness. What happens tomorrow, when Ketill takes his brother’s life, and you’re left alone with him?”>

He was starting to get worked up now, and Najla could tell that they were nearing the temple, so she changed her course briefly. Maintaining her grip on his arm, Najla pulled Basim out of the center of the hallway, standing beside the colorfully tiled wall as she turned to face him.

<“You’re worried for me? After all I’ve done?”>

<“Ya Umma, of course I am. You’re still my sister.”>

<“Your kindness shames me, but it’s best kept for another. Osman won’t hurt me.”>

<“You can’t guarantee that. Even if you survive this trial, he threatened to take Ketill from you. He has that right, just as he has the right to correct you if you refuse, don’t you think he’ll use it?”>

<“No. He won’t.”>

<“Don’t tell me you’re going to give him Ketill. He’ll have him killed.”>

<"He’s not going to touch him. Ketill is mine. Osman will have to understand. Trust me when I say that he will. Elif can whisper what she likes, she will not take my husband from me.”>

Before Basim could continue to protest, Najla reached upwards, placing a hand delicately on his shoulder as she raised herself to kiss his cheek. It was a tender gesture, one that would have embarrassed Basim in his younger years, but he did not seem to mind now.

<“I am not afraid of Osman. I fear only God. And so long as God has seen fit to keep you by my side, I know I hold his blessing.”>

With that, she released him, smiling slightly as she stepped back. With a practiced motion, she took the thin fabric that had been left across her shoulders, pulling it so that it covered her hair. With that, she began to walk towards the woman’s section of the temple, before looking back at Basim.

<“I’ll keep my prayers short, if you’d like to wait out here.”>

<“Take your time. I think I need to pray too.”>

---

It seemed that despite the strange circumstances, Najla was content to follow a similar pattern as before. Again, it would be some time before Ketill was to hear from her again, before she came to fetch him with guards. However, something had shifted since the incident with Osman. Perhaps Ketill would know little of it, unless his new servant was to tell him, for it had been Najla that had been forced to speak with her family, to spend her thoughts endlessly reliving the situation. It had been Najla that had sat before her brother, to explain to him why her husband had treated her so. And now, rather than have him brought to her room, it was Najla that came to him.

It was just after noon when the sound of knocking would come at Ketill’s door, loud and masculine, clearly not that of a Sultana. Ketill would be allowed to open the door, but only if he hurried, for Najla’s patience had not changed despite the circumstances. If he did not, the guard would open it, walking in just before the Sultana. Najla walked in, taking a look around the room before she would ever train her eyes upon Ketill. It was all that was visible of her face now, for she had wrapped her head and face with a thin fabric. Whatever she was looking for, Najla would not find it, for she was quick to move towards the empty desk provided for him, removing the fabric that wrapped across her head, only to sit in the chair before it, her body turned so as to face Ketill. Her appearance had changed slightly, for while she still wore that gold circlet on her head, there was no jewelry to adorn her body. Thanks to Ketill, Osman had not latched onto her long enough to leave bruises, and so Najla had nothing to cover. She did not need to gold to wrap around her bruising, and her hair was piled atop her head now, exposing an unbruised neck as well. It was a strange victory, but she was not ignorant to the fact that she was flaunting her lack of injuries, not to Ketill, but to Osman. She had dressed similiarly during their brief conversations, but then, she had not felt as if she needed to hide her face. Clearly, coming to see Ketill was a different matter.

“Do you like your room? It’s better than the alternative, I imagine. Although I don’t know why they gave you one of these.” She rapped her fingers on the desk, leaving no question as to what she meant. “I can’t fathom what use you’d find for it.” It was a strange way to start the conversation, yet Najla rested her elbow on the desk, reaching up to toy with a tendril of her hair absent-mindedly, as if she was truly engrossed in this meaningless chatter. “It’s a bit plain, isn’t it? Why not ask for something prettier than that desert to adorn your room? Although… I suppose that you already have. I hope she’s been satisfying, I don’t have many more to spare.”

Her words were strange, her tone too familiar, as if she was speaking to a nobleman whose presence was waning on her nerves. It would sound almost as if she had completely forgotten the incident, though there was something in the way she studied Ketill that indicated otherwise. She would never forget, and as her eyes studied her ‘protector’, Najla realized she might never understand either.

“I suppose I should get to the point, though I’m certain you’ve already guessed at it. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but…” Najla let out a soft sigh now, closing her eyes as she did so, as if steeling herself for her words. There was too much to say, too many words to sort through, yet for once, Najla was somewhat quick at getting to the real point of her words. “That cunt demanded that the insult be answered for. It’s pathetic. Yet I cannot back down from such a demand, not even in the name of peace for my household or husband. Truthfully, if she had offered herself, I would not have wanted to.” Najla did not try to justify her actions, for once, she had no need to. It was a strange sort of comfort to know that she was in the presence of someone far more violent than her, who she had seen do far worse than a blow to the face. It was still a small comfort however, for she took in a deep breath then, steeling herself for her next words.

“Instead, we’re to choose champions, to settle this matter before the clear eyes of the Sawarim. I have of course, chosen…” She did not say the word, instead gesturing with a hand towards Ketill. No one would be surprised to hear who Najla had chosen. Typically, this role would be given to brothers or cousins, to be an extension of those who quarreled, but those were far too dear to her. Besides, Ketill represented far more than a blood tie, she would put that which she had survived before the Sultanate, and watch it strike Elif down. Still, Najla clearly found little thrill in the notion, and her next words would leave no question as to why.

“Elif had quite a few volunteers to choose from, but she will announce the final one in some days. Sa’aqr ibn Hakim Al-Suwaidi. He’s a skilled warrior. Unlike his brother, he sharpens this ability on warriors, not women.”

She paused slightly before speaking again, though her expression would indicate nothing about the problem she had revealed to Ketill. There was no winning, not for her. If Ketill was to die, she’d be humiliated, if he won, her husband’s family would never forgive her. Perhaps she should have chosen a brother as well, to place the fear of killing a prince upon Osman’s family, but she could not have brought herself to do so. This had been her mistake, she would not bargain Harith’s life to fix it.

“Does it please you, to know you’re to fight Osman’s brother? My husband loves his brother dearly, as I love Osman, so I’m certain you’ll find some sort of pleasure in his grief.” The way she said his was rather telling, though Najla would not have to explain for Ketill to understand. She did not care for the death of her brother-in-law, just as she had not cared for Thamud. “Will that be enough? Or will you be asking for another girl? You’ve become awfully bold, so just spit out your price. So long as you can take Sa’aqr’s life, it’s yours.”

This bargain was all that she had come for. Najla could hardly bear to be in his presence for long, it was a reminder of all that was to come, all that he had already taken from her. She would hear his answer before standing up, pulling that fabric up over her hair, though she did not wrap it around her face just yet. Before she could leave, Najla stopped, turning back to look at Ketill. It seemed as if it was spoken as an afterthought, but it was a weight that had laid upon her chest for days, one she could not have forgotten so easily. Her voice was slightly softer as she spoke now, for though she would issue a command, there was little sternness in her voice. It seemed almost empty without the poised yet forceful tone of a Sultana she had learned to adopt.

“I do not know why you did what you did. I should thank you for your intentions, I suppose, but something…something tells me not to. Perhaps you have dragged me into your own madness, or perhaps it is the knowledge our years together have brought, but I intend to trust it regardless. You have given me no reason to thank you.”

It was a harsh statement, perhaps rude in any other context, but Najla would be quick to explain herself. Ketill had brought only brought hardship on her, and though she could hardly settle on a reason for his actions, Najla had seen the consequences all too well.

“You shouldn’t have protected me. I cannot keep you by my side like a guard dog, and I cannot be separated from Osman now, not ever. I would never wish to be. You’ve only given them more cause to call me a Monarchist whore, and Osman cause to punish you for it.” Now her eyes seemed to find that sternness they had been missing, likely as she realized the command she was giving Ketill. It was a horrible sentence to speak, to even assume that her husband might try something like this again, but Najla had been wrong before. So long as Ketill was breathing, Osman would find a reason to loathe her.

“It is his right as my husband to strike me. You do not know our laws, I understand, but that does not take this right from him. Next time, stay your hand. For my sake or yours, I don’t care, but you must let him do it. There are worse fates than a bruising.”

The situation the past days had grown rather precarious when the argument that Basim had started ended with a fight between Najla and Elif. Osman had threatened to raise a hand at Najla, and Ketill had stopped him. Hate her or not, he would be the one to hurt her, not Osman. That uptight dog had less honour than even the lowliest of peasants. But Najla had not seemed pleased – much rather, she had ordered him out of the room right away, to which Ketill dutifully followed her order. He had nothing else to say, and it seemed Basim didn’t need him anymore. Whatever the purpose might’ve been for this visit – Ketill had not managed to follow half of it, after all, so the purpose was lost on him – it had obviously failed.

He returned to his room, without an escort for once, and continued his daily business – which was to say, a lot of lounging about. Occasionally he’d call in Yasamin and tell her to get him food, or something of the sorts, but overall he spent his time alone – precisely how he liked it. And perhaps better for Najla too. An unchained bear of Broacien walking around the palace was likely to raise a few eyebrows left and right.

This time he did not have to call Yasamin in himself, as she knocked on his door a few minutes after his arrival. ‘’Yes, enter,’’ Ketill was quick to say, expecting a guard or Najla, or perhaps even Basim. Though to be fair, it was a stupid assumption. Najla, nor Basim, would not knock on his door, but enter at will.

The door opened and closed right after her, as the freckled Broacien-Sawarim halfblood entered, standing in front of the door with her small stature while Ketill laid back, eying here up and down waiting for her to speak. ‘’Yes?’’

‘’What was it this time?’’ she replied, a hint of curiosity or perhaps annoyance in her voice as she spoke. Still, she spoke soft as always, as expected of a harem girl. Gentle, like a flower. Ketill learned long ago that it was deceiving. ‘’You were brought to the prince’s chambers. You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?’’

‘’How did you even know about th-’’

‘’Guards like harem girls. They can’t touch us, but that doesn’t mean they don’t like talking to us. You should stop getting in trouble. You’ve already been whipped by Osman for punching him, and the Sultana can’t always protect you.’’

‘’I suppose I’ll be dead soon then.’’

‘’Ya Sawar- I mean, dear Monarch. What did you do?’’

‘’Not your concern, Yasamin.’’

Her face formed a frown then, her unpleased nature with the answer being more than evident as she stepped closer to him in that typical womanly fashion – not the manner at which you walked if you wanted to seduce, more so the manner at which women walked if they were displeased. ‘’No, you’re wrong. I may be your servant, but we both know that’s not how things are. So tell me,’’ she told him, with an attempt to sound more stern. She merely earned a laugh from Ketill, who couldn’t help but be amused with her failed attempt at being bossy or stern. She did not possess the same skills Najla possessed. Luckily.

‘’He tried to strike Najla, and I stopped him.’’

‘’Who, the prince? You know you’re not allowed to touch him, right?’’

‘’No, Osman, but I suppose that I can’t touch him either. Not that that stopped me before.’’

‘’That’s… no, you’re not allowed. And he’s allowed to strike her – that’s the law. But she’s a Sultana, so I don’t think it’s that easy. Even so, I think you did the right thing.’’

‘’I suppose. Was that all?’’ Ketill seemed rather bored with her already, and this only furthered her annoyance, it seemed. She raised an eyebrow at him and waited a moment to collect herself before continuing.

‘’It’s been a week and some since you were granted me as a servant. Yet you’ve not bedded me. Is there something wrong with me?’’

‘’What is it with the Sawarim and their obsession with sex?’’

‘’There’s no obsession with sex, and I’m not a Sawarim, you.. you oaf!’’

‘’Then why are you complaining?’’

‘’Nor am I complaining! You just- alright, never mind! Why didn’t you just tell me you weren’t interested!’’

‘’You didn’t ask.’’

By now, Yasamin had gone entirely red, and in an effort to speak, could only bring forth an angry noise before turning around and walking out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her when she left, the loud bang echoing through the hallways momentarily before fading away. Ketill merely leaned back some more and rested his head on his hands, folded behind his head. He shook his head in confusion before closing his eyes, mumbling something about among the lines of ‘’… women…’’ before dozing off.

---

The next days were uneventful entirely, and from the hushes and whispers that passed his doors he could only make out who was involved – Najla, Elif and Osman. Basim was mentioned in passing only, so it seemed he had escaped the wrath of this conflict, but Ketill did not make the mistake of assuming he wasn’t involved. It was rather obvious what had happened to cause this after all, at least to Ketill, since he had been present for it. But nobody came to bring him to his execution. And so, he could only assume that Osman had kept his mouth shut about being touched by Ketill – and instead, they had focused on the fight between Elif and Najla. He did not realize yet how spot on his assumption was, but as with all things in the Sultanate, in due time the secrets were spilled to him.

Once Yasamin had cooled off, she had visited Ketill again, apologized half-heartedly for her outburst which was met with the wave of his hand. He was undoubtedly indifferent to the girl, and was remarkably at ease with indicating as much. She had spilled the secrets rather easily, too, seeing as she knew Ketill had a stake or two in Najla and her situation. Najla would likely never have told him, but Yasamin did, and she continued to tell him about it all – the meeting she had had with her parents and brothers, though she knew not the contents. She explained its’ significance, but she was honest when she said that she herself knew little of what it actually meant. She was not royalty after all, so how could she know?

‘’All I know is that something more is going on, the word got out and someone, somewhere, must’ve gone to the Sultan and complained. These meetings don’t happen for nothing, and the way that people have seen Najla around – she’s bothered by it, it seems. So whatever it is, it’s serious. And the court knows, and we also know that there’ll be a duel.’’

Ketill had been entirely disinterested in her explanation as he could not care less what happened to Najla, as long as she survived and wasn’t hurt physically, so that none could take that right from him. But the mention of a duel did interest him. ‘’Between her and Elif? Women fight?’’

Yasamin covered her mouth as she laughed at his remark. It was rather stupid, of course, but the way she’d said it made it sound like it. ‘’No, they will pick a champion. Usually a brother, or a relative of sorts. They’re volunteers, though. Usually. In theory she could force you, but…’’

‘’But?’’

‘’Well, it’d make sense to put forth one of her brothers. And we both know it won’t be prince Basim.’’ Her mention of Basim was noticeably more respectful, using his title of prince, compared to Ketill, who just spewed the name like it was a commoner. Broacien habits died hard, it seemed, but it also seemed like Ketill had little care to what Basim thought of it – Basim so far had appreciated Ketill more for his foreign culture and knowledge, and not because he was particularly respectful. There was little reason to change that now.

‘’Why not? Basim cares enough for his sister to offer.’’

‘’Well, yes. Our prince is a good man like that, but he’s also smart. He knows he’s not a warrior – ya Sawarim, dear Monarch, he is anything but a warrior. It’ll be prince Harith.’’

‘’That’s smart. Sounds like something Harith will suggest, and Basim will support it. I’m sure whoever Osman picks will not dare to fight a prince at risk of killing him.’’

‘’It’s not Osman that picks. It’s Elif.’’

‘’It matters little, no? If you kill a prince you may win the battle, but you lose the war. Nobody will respect them anymore. Who picks them makes no difference.’’

‘’You… understand little of Sawarim politics, I see. I forget at times that you’ve not made any attempt to learn the culture and language.’’

‘’Why would I. Freedom will come. One day.’’

‘’One day, Ketill? You know how long I’ve been here?’’

‘’No. But I’m not you. I’m ‘’Daab al-Broacien.’’ We are different.’’

‘’Very much so. In fact, that’s probably the reason why my skin is clear as a freshborn and yours is marred with whips.’’ Her reply was snide and quick, and though playful as it may have been, it was clear that there was truth in her jab. Perhaps she’d attempted to catch Ketill off guard, but she would find that this did not work.

‘’Good thing that I don’t have to fuck the Sultan. I just have to kill whoever I get told to kill.’’

‘’Hm, yes, that is much better. I suppose I should pick up a sword, then. Regardless, prince Harith will fight, that’s my prediction.’’

‘’I look forward to it. Harith is a good fighter – and a respectable man.’’

‘’I suppose so, but it’s still not sure. There are various reasons why she wouldn’t pick him. What if she intends to lose the fight? I wouldn’t wish to offend the first wife if I were the second, Sultana or not.’’

‘’I saw what happened that day. Najla wants to win. If she wants to lose, she’s a fool, and deserves whatever comes out of this.’’

‘’Very well. I’ll take my leave now. I need to mend your tunic, still.’’

Ketill shrugged and let her leave, seeing her leave and, just before the door closed, spotted her bowing before someone in the hallway. Then the door fell shut, but Ketill had the slight feeling someone was coming for him. Nobody ever came through these halls otherwise – except when they were walking from one of the visitors rooms to the bathing house. And even then, someone important enough to bow for? Ketill got up, and headed for the door, and by the time the guard had knocked, he was quick enough to open it right away. But he’d quickly have to make way for the guard that came through the door, followed swiftly by the princess herself, Najla. He could’ve guessed. She was quick to parade around his room, commenting on it and taking a seat at the desk. She looked a lot more collected now, a few days after the fact, but this didn’t impress Ketill. She showed her skin proudly, which was equally unimpressive, though that was likely because Ketill did not understand why she did that. You would not see him flaunting his scars, so why would she be proud of not getting wounded. Perhaps he just didn’t understand.

‘’Your brother gave me it. One of the gifts I’ve been granted whose value goes beyond what you can see,’’ he answered her. He obviously referred to Harith, who had granted him this room after their fight. He did not answer her remark about Yasamin, deeming it unworthy of a reply.

She was quick to explain the point of her arrival in his room. She was quick to elaborate that it would not be Harith, no, but him instead that would fight for her. This was not a problem though he found it strange that he, the one she despised, would have to defend her honour. But perhaps it was for the best, because when she revealed who he’d fight, it was a bitter payment for the danger she was putting him in. ‘’It won’t be a problem. Osman’s line is weak. His brother will be no exception,’’ Ketill merely added to her statement about Sa’aqr’s skill. Sure, the man might’ve been good. But he was no bear.

Her next words, however, irked him. She was forcing him to fight someone that she didn’t want to die. But essentially, she was ordering the man’s death now. She shouldn’t complain if she was signing the man’s death now. ‘’Yes. It pleases me greatly knowing I will have a hand in diminishing Osman’s family. That you may win your honour back. I have many requests, but this time I will do it without. His blood will be my payment. Perhaps with my victory they will see that your god does not favour them at all. And in doing so, you’ve promised yourself to a man whose own god does not love him.’’ His eyes spelled out the rest to her, and she did not need to ask to find out how he felt about it. He had no feelings towards Sa’aqr and as such, had no real feelings about killing him. He was just a man that stood in the way. Elif had made a poor choice, and that was the end of it. But he knew that wasn’t the full story. If Osman’s brother died, Osman would never forgive him – and by extent, he knew that Najla would bear the brunt of that anger. She was essentially giving herself up to be beaten again. If not outright assassinated. She would not win regardless. But that was not Ketill’s problem.

She walked away, but then turned back, seeming to remember something. He listened her through, his grin growing larger as she spoke to him. At the end, all he had to say were a few simple sentences. ‘’How far you’ve fallen. You started as a slave, but got back your title of sultana. But in the end, all I see is that same girl. Scared shitless, no clue what’s going on, eyes always looking for some form of leverage. ‘’Saina.’’ Oh, how little control you truly have. Sa’aqr will die. And then, if the ravens command it, many more. You will receive the bruising’s you so desire in time.’’

---

After being chosen as the champion, Ketill was granted access to the training grounds again. For some time he trained alone, falling into a repetitive state of improvement as before, like how he had always trained in Coedwin. It wasn’t long before a familiar face showed up to observe, and this time it was neither Basim nor Najla. In their stead, Harith had found his way here. He stood at the sidelines, observing as Ketill was merely lifting objects to become stronger. It took a good ten minutes before Ketill even realized the man’s presence. Once he did, he dropped the large log that he was lifting and looked over to the man, who approached him. ‘’I heard you’re fighting as my sisters’ champion,’’ he said as he approached, before putting his hands in his side when he reached the training grounds.

‘’Yes, it seems that way. I expected you to fight,’’ Ketill answered, not really elaborating too much, nor offering a lot of insight into what he thought.

‘’I offered, but eh, Najla did not wish for it. Basim thought it was a good idea, but it seems Najla wants to clean this mess up herself.’’

‘’You mean she wants to risk her pet bears’ life to fix it for her.’’

‘’Hmm… yes. That’s what I mean. But you need not worry, I can be-’’

‘’I never said I am worried.’’ The words were quick enough to interrupt the prince, who was taken aback a bit that a slave dared speak in the middle of his sentence. Ketill’s eyes were dulled as he looked at Harith, and when he spoke again there was a lack of emotion in them. ‘’My prince.’’

‘’No. I mean, you shouldn’t be. That makes sense. Sa’aqr is a good warrior, but not good enough. He’ll never win. I think Elif knows this. Osman… Osman probably thinks Sa’aqr has a chance. But it’s idle hope – deep inside he knows. He just had to convince himself. ’’

‘’The implication is that if I kill him, they’ll hold a grudge, and if he kills me, Najla loses her honour. Do we really win either way.’’

‘’My family wins, if you win. Najla loses. Her honour is restored, but Osman would never get over the death of his brother. This is just… ehhh… it’s politics. Even something as simple as a duel, you know, two men deciding the fate of a trial, even a duel is politics. I imagine it’s the same in Broacien, no?’’

‘’No. We don’t duel for our women’s honour. We go to war for it.’’

‘’War?’’

‘’Years ago, long before our current king ruled, a duke’s wife was found in bed with a younger woman, who turned out to be the daughter of another duke. She had seduced the girl, and bedded her, and the duke was so insulted he demanded the head of the duchess. Of course, the other duke did not comply. So, they led armies to war to settle it.’’

‘’And? Who won?’’

‘’The king. After the war he declared them both to be unfit for rulership, and took their lands to distribute it to other men. It was a just action, but he benefitted from it too.’’

‘’Sounds like something the tribals would do, here, in the Sultanate,’’ Harith added, seemingly unaware of the insulting nature of that statement. Not that Ketill minded, he wasn’t wrong after all.

‘’I think we just prefer our business to be in the open. There’s less sneaking and subterfuge. It’s more honest. Everyone knew what had happened. The dukes were lucky that the king didn’t intervene until after the fact.’’

‘’I… see. That’s something I can appreciate, but it’s just not how we do things here.’’

‘’I know. Najla has shown me that by now. This Sa’aqr, who is he precisely?’’

‘’Sa’aqr? Well, he’s Osman’s brother. He’s skilled and well known, and has been involved in a lot of battles. I know that minor families have paid him to represent him in duels like these before. Not that he’d acknowledge that, but it’s happened.’’ ‘’’’

‘’So he’s a duelist?’’ Ketill then asked, raising an eyebrow at the prospect. Duelist or not, he was going to win this fight. But it certainly gave him an insight into what to expect. But Harith carried on, putting a finger on his beard as he thought.

‘’No, he’s lead a few raids against the Servants. Perhaps you’ve fought him, but evidently you didn’t meet on the field, as you are both still alive. He was in charge of the heavy infantry, last I recall, but it’s been a few years since he went North to fight. Not that his skill has waned, though. But like I told my family – he won’t beat me. So he certainly won’t beat you. Just remember that it’s a fight to the death. There’s no second chances.’’

‘’I won’t need any.’’

---

They were given little over a week to prepare, with the appointment of the champions taking place somewhere in between. Harith had arranged for other guards to practice with on the condition that Ketill would not destroy them. It was a promise easier made than actually fulfilled, but Ketill did not intend to break it. Never the less the guards were cautious – the mans’ reputation preceded him and it was hard to convince them to actually fight him, rather than try and find ways to surrender as early as possible. Even so, their addition was worthwhile and made the process easier – and helped him prepare better.

The day before the event itself however was one that was met with some disdain as he was forced to raise out of bed early by Yasamin, before the sun had reached the horizon. As he’d be representing a princess, he was taken out to the bathhouse, to be given a proper washing. Yasamin was quick to force him into the bath, and though she acted like she did this of her own volition, Ketill was convinced that Najla had ordered her to. Or perhaps someone else. It mattered little, since this was a luxury he was normally not afforded. The illusion was soon shattered, however.

‘’You should hurry. They’re coming to fit your armor soon,’’ Yasamin informed him, seemingly under the impression that he already knew about this. But much to her surprise, he did not.

‘’Armor fitting?’’ he replied, looking over his shoulder at the woman, who was walking back to the hallway to let him do his thing.

‘’Yes, you’re fighting a nobleman, and you’re representing a princess. Did you think you could go bare chested?’’

‘’I wasn’t going bare chested. What armor are they giving me?’’ he asked, seemingly a bit concerned about what they were going to give him. He’d never fought in anything except for clothes, or otherwise his suit of armour. However, never had he fought in a Sawarim suit of armour. Although it seemed trivial, any warrior would agree that such small matters could make the difference in any fight. This wasn’t just for looks – it was life or death. He wondered if Najla had realized that – if she had even been the one to orchestrate this.

‘’I don’t know, you’ll see soon,’’ the woman replied, louder now as she left the bathinghouse and left to go do something else. It seemed like she was taking well to the life of a servant – compared to being a harem girl, it was easier, Ketill supposed. Especially because he didn’t require much of her.

Sighing slightly, he leaned back into the pool and let the water consume him. Slowly he sank down as air bubbles left his body, until his lungs were empty and he went as low as he could. For a moment, he felt like he was without weight, and he closed his eyes. His vision went dark, the shimmering of light going through the water but this, too, fading eventually, seeping away from his vision like the breaths of a dying man.

In the darkness of his mind, he heard the cawing of ravens and the clattering of shields meeting axe and sword. Were they signs of what was to come? It could not be a thought of the past, for it had been long since he’d visited the North, and the ground was white as snow. He did not recall such a battle in the snow, none of the scale that could produce these sounds. The clattering got closer then, and he began hearing voices.

Slowly they came closer, and one voice in particular stood out, misplaced in the battlefield as it was soft and feminine, not warlike like the grunts around him. ‘’My name is not Saina. I am not a merchant’s daughter.’’ Violently he shook his head, as if to deny this inevitable truth. The voice’s person was clear, but they were not within vision, and whatever wish he had to strangle the person whose voice it was, there was nothing of the sorts he could do. ‘’My father is Ali al-ibn Wahad, brother to the Great Sultan and a commander in the army.’’

The echoes of battle faded as the voice began taking precedence, just like how the person whose voice it was had taken precedence in his life through the torture of his Gods. A cruel joke, he remembered. Yes, it must be.

‘’And he will part you in four, and send your members back to Broacien.’’ No. Again he shook his head. That’s not what she said, he knew it. He wanted to open his mouth to yell, to vent his anger and beat this voice, but nothing happened.

‘’Were there ever the rumors in the South, of Najla al-ibn Wahad and her brother, Jalil?’’ The voice soothingly asked, seemingly following the script of past events again, but Ketill’s heart continued to thud hard in his chest, with a mixture of adrenaline and anger. ‘’Then you must know who I am, and so when I kill you, it will be honourable, for you know your killer.’’ But once more the voice strayed from what had been said, and his heart pounded harder, again he shook his head and tried to yell. His mouth moved slightly now but it would not part, for the burden of the darkness around him was too heavy and weighed too heavily on his lips for them to move.

‘’So few people knew where we were going, but the Servants of all people are not blind to the on-goings of the Sultanate. Some Sawarim here must know how great I am, my boundless power, ask them and they will confirm. They will tell you Najla and her brother disappeared over a year ago from the Sultan’s court. The reason for that was to end you.’’

With those words, Ketill once again tried to yell, shaking his head more violently than before. Finally, his lips opened wide, but instead of yelling, he could only feel the water entering him. With a look of shock he opened his eyes, only to see the blurry visage of Yasamin looking over the edge of the water. Suddenly the realization that he was drowning was setting in, so he promptly pushed himself upwards towards the surface. Luckily for him, the baths weren’t deep whatsoever. As he broke the surface of the water, he gasped for air while Yasamin looked at him with a confused and concerned glance. ‘’What on earth were you doing?’’

‘’It’s… nothing, get my clothes and bring me to the armorer.’’ Though Ketill did his best to seem collected, the panic caused by drowning was visible in his eyes. When Yasamin left, her face betraying her lack of understanding, he breathed heavily, looking around rather panicky. He was quick to leave the bath once she reappeared, getting dressed and promptly leaving to the armorer. The walk there was quick and silent. It seemed Yasamin did not dare bring up her questions, and Ketill had no desire to speak about it. But the panic in his eyes had now made way for anger, and his steps were filled with the very same anger once more.

The armorer was checking out some chainmail when Ketill was brought in, but was quick to redirect him to the centrepiece of the room, which had been prepared days ago it seemed. It was flashy, certainly, and it was obviously of Sawarim make. The pants flared wide, and were largely uncovered by the chainmail except for the long edges on the side. Over that went a tunic, with a mail vest over it, followed by a lamellar breastplate. It was relatively simple of design – but the details were astonishing and the polish on it could reflect light so well it’d put the sun to shame. It was certainly a piece of equipment reserved for ceremonies and the like, but the crown piece was the helmet, which had a plume of horsehair on top, and a facemask that was opened at the moment. Ketill curiously walked up and inspected the armor, feeling it left and right.

Sadly, he was quick to determine that while the armour looked good, it was certainly not of superior quality. The metal was weak and the openings in the armour did not close properly. Of course, there was little time to mend this now – certainly not with only the word of a slave to demand it. Without much time being spent on other things, the armorer pushed Ketill into position and started fitting the armour, adjusting where required. This turned out to be a rather big timesink, as Ketill was a fair share larger than most Sawarim men. Most straps had to be adjusted outwards and made larger to accommodate his size, to the point where the armorer began getting annoyed at the changes he’d have to make. And all that for a sub-par armour. Likely, they had just refashioned a ceremonial armour.

‘’Yasamin, tell him this isn’t good,’’ Ketill told his servant, who was waiting at the door. The girl was quick to comply, walking closer and pointing at the breastplate.

<‘’He says it’s not good,’’> she said, flawlessly in a Sawarim accent. To be expected, as she’d lived here for a long time, but it was still strange to Ketill, who could still utter little more than that common insult he’d learned long ago.

<‘’No, it’s good, no need to change it,’’> the armorer retorted, while he grabbed a new plate of metal to attach to the lamellar to lengthen it. <‘’He’ll win for sure in this armour, tell him that.’’>

‘’He says you’ll win for sure in this armour. And he also said it’s fine, and there’s no need to change it.’’

‘’He’s wrong. The plates are weak, and there’s too many gaps. This isn’t fighting armour.’’

Yasmin sighed, it becoming quite evident that she was going to have to translate an entire argument. <‘’He says it’s too weak, and that there’s too many holes.’’>

<‘’Ya Sawarim! What do you think I’m doing now? I’m getting more plates to cover the holes!’’>

<‘’Those plates won’t help if the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’You dare insult my craftsmanship?’’>

<‘’No, that’s not- that’s not what I’m saying, I’m sorry. The fighter believes the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’I’m sure he also believes that there are more than one God, the great Sawarim! Pfah! What does he know!’’

<‘’He’s fought in armour many times, he’s a Serv-’’> Yasmin said, but she was interrupted by a louder voice, the thick Sawarim accent ruling out that Ketill had spoken up himself. Instead, the doorway was filled by a taller stature, followed shortly by a slightly shorter one, though they were both taller than the average Sawarim would’ve been. Harith seemingly had found reason to come observe the process, while Basim seemed to have tagged along. However, it was not Harith’s loud voice that had rung this time, for it had been Basim that had overruled that of Yasmin.

Yasmin was quick to turn her body to face the two princes, bowing her head and continuing to look down, even though the princes didn’t even address her. Instead, Harith’s eyes were focused on the armour, scanning it for weaknesses and strengths, walking closer to him while Basim stepped to the armorer. <‘’He’s a Servant. He may be an infidel, but he knows his way around a sword – and a set of armour. You say the armour is strong enough?’’> Basim’s voice carried weight now, as opposed to earlier. If the armorer had not listened to him because he of his rank and stature – he would’ve because Basim seemed to carry himself with more authority than before.

<‘’Yes, my prince,’’> the man said, bowing his head lightly, glancing at Harith with a side-eye as he did so. <‘’It was requested that I made the armour look as good as I could, to ensure that the savage looked somewhat presentable. He couldn’t fight in our Sultana’s name if he looked like an unkempt beast, after all.’’>

This remark earned a small laugh and a grin from Harith, but Basim seemed less amused, merely nodding at the man in a fake agreement with the statement. <‘’Very well.’’> Basim looked at Harith then, who was prodding at the lamellar and lifting the plates to see how it worked. He then looked at the armorer, and grinned more wide than before.

<‘’What did you use for this?’’>

<‘’Only the finest steel, of course! Nothing but the best for the al-ibn Wahad family!’’>

<‘’Good. My sister will be pleased. Ah- but, I am not.’’> Harith then answered, his eyes turning to Ketill then, who seemed confused as ever at the situation. ‘’Bow your head,’’ Harith hissed at him, and Ketill complied, allowing Harith to pull the lamellar contraption off of his body. He stepped over to Basim, and promptly pulled the lamellar over his head, resting it on his shoulder. Basim was clearly caught off guard but adjusted quickly, looking at his brother with a confused but curious glance.

<‘’What’s the meaning of this?’’> the armorer asked, before adding a clearly forgotten <‘’… my prince?’’> at the end. He seemed a bit more nervous now that things were actually happening.

<‘’Well, you said it’s only the best for the al-ibn Wahad family, but the armour was being worn by a slave. Now it’s a member of the family. So we will see if it holds true, no?’’> he explained, but remaining just vague enough for the armorer not to understand. But it was made clear when Harith pulled the dagger from his waistline – not a ceremonial one, like that of Basim, but a real one, made of cold hard steel.

<‘’Ah, I…’’> the armorer stumbled as he stepped closer, reaching to grab Harith’s hand but not coming close enough, while also being held back mentally at the thought of touching a prince. Harith put the dagger against the lamellar with the tip, before looking at the armorer then. The thought of a prince dying at the hand of the faulty armour seemed a bit more pressing than the death of a slave to the armorer.

<‘’Hm? Something wrong?’’>

<‘’A-ah, no, my prince, it’s just that every armour has its’ flaws… you are a brave soldier, surely you understand that there is nothing other than a soldiers skill and bravery that can protect him from death? Armour can only do so much, yes?’’> This gave Harith reason to pause, and then he nodded and lowered the dagger, before taking the lamellar off of Basim’s shoulders, who seemed relieved the heavy armour was finally removed. While Basim rubbed his shoulders, Harith turned around and faced the armorer, holding out the armor.

<‘’Armour makes a difference, but it is not the end solution, you are right.’’>

<‘’So then, if the Servant is as great a fighter as they say he is – then he should be fine, right?’’>

<‘’Perhaps,’’> Harith spoke, softer now, as he looked the armorer deeply in his eyes. Without a warning, the dagger shot forwards again and shot straight into the armour. It went one side in, the other side out, going through both the front and back layers of the armour. A simple dagger wasn’t meant to penetrate even one layer – so for it to penetrate two was quite miraculous. Harith’s eyes were dark then as he looked the armorer even deeper in the eyes, staring him down with the power of a lion. <‘’But this will not do. It may be a slave in the arena, but it is the name of my sister he is fighting for. Look at him,’’> he said, and the armorer did as he said, and looked at Ketill, who was quite amused by the spectacle. <‘’That’s not a slave anymore. That is my sister. Would you dare give her this armour?’’>

The armorer dropped to his knees then, folding his hands together and putting them down in front of Harith’s feet as he begged for forgiveness. <‘’No, my prince! I would not dream of it! Ya Sawarim, I would not dare!’’>

<‘’Then see this fixed,’’> Harith hissed, before dropping the armour in front of the man’s fists. He glanced back at Basim, who nodded at him, and then Harith turned to Ketill. ‘’It’s good now. It’s the finest steel, he said. It seems we will need to find new steel then.’’

‘’I told him it was bad,’’ Ketill replied, hiding the amusement in his voice rather well, but not well enough for Harith to not notice.

‘’Sometimes, speaking the right language is the key,’’ he replied, a smug look in his eyes before glancing back at his younger brother again. <‘’Is it not, Basim?’’>

Basim’s eyes found themselves on Ketill, and not Harith, however, which gave the impression that he was speaking more to Ketill than Harith. ‘’Yes, it is.’’ The couple then turned and left, leaving Ketill and Yasamin alone with the armorer once more.

---

The next day the duel took place – it was set to take place early in the afternoon, so that everyone could be well rested and the champions had time to prepare. The fight was set to commence the moment the sun was at its highest, and so most people had arrived slightly before, to talk among themselves and find a good place to watch. Rather than taking place in the training area, a special site had been set aside, within the confines of the palace walls, but slightly removed from the palace itself. The ‘’arena’’ itself was little more than a circle drawn in the sand, marked along the edges by stones placed along the edge of the circle. But the circle was so large, it might as well have not been there. There were then raised platforms all around, with benches placed on them in case the fight would last a long time. But, as Ketill knew from events like these, most people would stand so they could see all there was to see.

At the center there was a single large platform, with a throne set on it. Most likely this was for the Sultan himself – he was, after all, meant to spectate the fight, given that not only did it involve his family, but also the need for justice and lawspeaking. But Ketill couldn’t help but feel that, besides justice, this fight was also meant for politics. And perhaps a smudge of entertainment, though that amusement would be lost on either of the involved parties, bar perhaps Elif, who even if she lost, won.

Ketill was brought out about four hours into the morning, where he was helped into his armour by other servants. It seemed that, though he was nothing more than a slave, he was given access to some privileges he’d otherwise never have. Once he was lifted into his armour and the straps were all fastened, he was brought to the armoury, and allowed to select a weapon. Though most blades were curved, he managed to find a standard straight blade, meant for two handed use but capable of being used with one hand. This ‘bastard sword’ seemed the perfect fit for Ketill, who had the strength to use it with either one hand or two. He then grabbed a standard shield made of wood, imagining he’d be better off with than without, and he could always drop it. But to his surprise, he wasn’t allowed to leave yet.

‘’If you drop your weapon you’re allowed to take a new one from a servant. If you can reach them in time,’’ one of the servants explained in rather broken Broacienien, and so Ketill selected a few other weapons. However, he didn’t quite anticipate to need them. In his mind, the battle would be settled quickly.

He was then kept inside for another hour – to allow people to settle down on the stands, which were large enough to hold at least a hundred people. But, perhaps also to allow Sa’aqr time to parade around, as one of the servants made an off-hand comment about how the man was parading around like he had already won. Entertaining the crowd before a fight was a ballsy move, and one that Ketill did not entirely appreciate, but there was little they could do, because the time to fight was soon arriving. Some hour before the fight, he was finally allowed outside, and was escorted into the circle by a detachment of four guards. He held his sword by the blade, casually gripping it as he looked over the crowd. His eyes scanned for the familiar faces – Najla, Basim, Harith, Osman, Elif. His eyes also found the Sultan, who glanced at him with an air of disinterest – but what his eyes did not betray, his focused gaze did betray. There was more vested in this battle than just Najla’s honour, it seemed.

His visor was still opened, but the fact that he had a facemask at all seemed to shock some of the people in the crowd. Sa’aqr was dressed in similar fashion – his armour was flashy too, and shone like a sun itself, but it did not beat Ketill’s armour, which had been retrofitted during the night to have a stronger breastplate. What happened to the armorer after that, Ketill did not know, but he knew that Harith would not be quick to forgive such a transgression if he was a wise man.

There was silence on the field of the arena, but the crowd was noisy, a jarring juxtaposition between those that were about to enter a fight to the death and those that merely had to watch. But at some point the crowd went silent, and Ketill looked at them to see what happened. Now the Sultan stood up from his throne with his hands spread wide, to calm the crowd and call them to attention. He spoke words that Ketill could not understand, and the people bowed their head, and they began their prayers once again, repeating what he’d already seen at the tribe when he was forced to fight there. Sa’aqr joined them, bowing his head too and mumbling his prayers. It left Ketill with the time to observe the crowd. His weapons would not be blessed this time – there were too many – so he assumed he’d just fight as if he were Najla herself. A strange thought, and he wasn’t sure if he’d interpreted it correctly, but it was the easiest explanation. He didn’t need one to fight, so it’d do for now.

His eyes befell on Najla and her family, flanked by the man he presumed to be her father. It was the same man he’d seen when he had arrived at the palace, who had welcomed her back. Momentarily he wondered if he even knew just who his daughter was. Perhaps he did, as it seemed that nobody in the Sawarim Sultanate seemed to care much for misdeeds, as long as they were carried out in name of the Sultan and their God.

The chanting echoed off after their prayers, and the eyes returned to the battlefield, focusing their attention on the two combatants once again. Was this the sign to start? Sa’aqr’s eyes betrayed very little, as he pulled his blade from its sheath. He was evidently a very skilled fighter, far above the tribal peasants Ketill had kicked around not long ago. Ketill merely raised a hand to lower the visor and pull down the eerie facemask, before giving one final glance over the crowd. Their looks of amazement at the helmet betrayed how little they knew of fighting and how much they knew of indolent, cruel entertainment provided by death. Little did they know that it would not be him that died today.

He readied the blade in his hand and stepped towards Sa’aqr, who waited for Ketill to approach. Once they were close, they started circling each other – it seemed repetitive, similar to what had happened before, the men sought out the weaknesses in each other’s stances but could find none. For a moment it seemed like they were equals, though Najla would know this to be false, and so would Harith. Ketill was first to strike, a warcry erupting from his mask as he swung his sword at Sa’aqr who graciously stepped away from the strike and then stepped closer again once the sword had passed, swinging his sword at Ketill in return. This dance continued back and forth – one would swing, the other would step away or block, and then they would swing and the other would block or step away. It started slow, the occasional clatter of the blades being the only sound between the warcries that Ketill gave, loud enough to pound thunder into the hearts of the spectators. But the speeds picked up, and the clattering of blades began getting quicker, as did their swings and movements.

They were just testing each other now, to see what steel they were made of, how they fought, what made their movements tick. But for everyone else it already seemed impressive, bar those that had fought before. They would be able to read the movements and understand, as it was something you did not quite understand unless you had been in this position before.

Finally, it seemed like Sa’aqr had seen an opening. He was quick, and with a rapid swing struck at Ketill’s head, who dodged it by ducking low, only to be caught off guard by Sa’aqr. He had reached for his dagger with his other free hand, and quickly jabbed it forwards. Ketill attempted to move his body to dodge it but wasn’t fast enough, and the blade grazed along the side of his body, luckily catching only the lamellar. The dagger cut loose one of the leather straps as it passed, and the metal plate fell down into the sand. Although the lamellar armour was stacked, it was not a good sign for Ketill.

The crowd cheered at this, but quickly quieted down when Ketill responded with his own attacks, using Sa’aqr’s exposed position he caused by stepping forward to stab him by raining down blows on him. He first struck at Sa’aqr’s head with the pommel of his blade, striking him harshly and without any reservations, causing the man to rear back slightly. He then tried cut downwards into his shoulders, striking him once, twice, thrice. Sa’aqr caught the attacks with his shield, but under the pressure of the continuing attacks felt his arm shake under the pressure of Ketill’s strong arms smashing the blade into him like he was a training dummy.

They were broken up when Ketill stopped swinging at him and instead stepped forward and kicked Sa’aqr in the stomach. Again, the crowd cheered, seemingly pleased with whatever manner of violence was presented to them. Sa’aqr himself seemed less pleased as he fell backwards, rolling over before managing to quickly land on his feet – it seemed he was experienced enough to know how to roll without ending up exposed. Ketill stepped back momentarily, and again circled Sa’aqr who did the same. They were like wolves, their eyes fixated on the other as they looked to see what to do next.

Again Ketill was the aggressor, stepping forwards rapidly and swinging his sword low, aiming at Sa’aqr’s feet, who nimbly hopped over the sword and struck Ketill with his sword, though unluckily only hit the shield Ketill used. Again they exchanged blows, the clattering of swords overtaking the cheers of the crowd, until Ketill managed to strike Sa’aqr perfectly on his hand, cutting into his palm slightly, but more importantly knocking the blade away into the air, the sword landing in the sand beyond his reach. Now Sa’aqr was forced onto the defensive, as he raised his shield in front of him with two hands, one supporting it while the other aimed it. Ketill seemed overtaken by a fury as he struck again and again, the shield splintering every time he hit it, while Sa’aqr looked back to his servants and pages. <‘’SPEAR!’’> he bellowed at them, and he was promptly thrown a spear. The moment he saw it coming towards him, he moved his hands in such a way that the shield dropped and was tossed to the side, before jumping back very quickly and catching the spear mid-air. It was very flashy, a move by someone that was confident enough in their abilities to mess around and give the people a show, but it was also a move that indicated that he was underestimating Ketill.

Now that the man had a weapon again, Ketill stepped back, waiting to see what Sa’aqr would do. Rather than attack, Sa’aqr seemed content to spin the weapon around a bit, as if he were trying to impress the spectators. The blood that seeped from the cut in his palm seemed not to bother him, though the blood seeped down the wooden base of the spear.

Finally he was done, and approached again, running at Ketill. Once he was close enough, Sa’aqr jumped into the air and plunged his spear forwards, forcing Ketill to step to the side, while readying a strike of his own, but Sa’aqr seemed to have had planned for this, and when he landed merely twisted his body to face Ketill and strike the men with the blunt end of the spear. His spear landed on the side of Ketill’s helmet, who stepped back in confusion and pain while trying to get his bearings again. Before he could do as much he was hit in the head again, from the side, further confusing him as the mask obstructed most of his view on the sides.

The crowd cheered then, as they were glad to see Ketill receive some punishment too, but their amusement was shortlived as Ketill rushed forwards. Being unable to see what was going on, and realizing that if he didn’t get close enough the spear would be his death, he just plunged himself into Sa’aqr, losing his weapon in the process though Sa’aqr lost his spear too. The two were then on the floor, tangled in a contest of who could get control the fastest. Sa’aqr seemed to have the benefit of vision as opposed to Ketill, who could only look straight ahead. With a few nimble moves, Sa’aqr pushed himself off the ground and rolled himself on top of Ketill before using his armor-clad gauntlets to pummel him in the helmet a few times. Ketill replied in kind by ramming his fist into whatever body part he could find, before luckily managing to push a finger into the opening between Sa’aqrs helmet. He pried at it momentarily, but then got aggravated with it and just pulled at it the hardest he could.

Sa’aqr was forced to come closer with his face first, before being forced backwards, lacking any control over the movement of his head at this point. He was only freed when Ketill pulled in the right direction and ripped the man’s helmet straight off of his head. Though this wasn’t a big loss, it certainly opened him up to Ketill’s next attack. While Sa’aqr had pummelled him in the face a few times, the blows were all caught by his helmet. Now Ketill merely moved his head forwards fast enough and headbutted Sa’aqr straight in the nose, and though it’d hurt all the same without a helmet, it was no big surprise that it hurt twice as bad since Ketill was wearing a metal helmet.

Sa’aqr fell backwards relinquishing control of Ketill, gripping his nose with his hands. Before he could get up to get a new weapon, Ketill was upon him and pounded him with his fists, blow upon blow falling on his face while Sa’aqr desperately tried to punch Ketill back. They exchanged blows like this for a good minute, before Ketill got up and stumbled backwards. His walking was clearly not quite as straight as it had been before, but Sa’aqr was definitely worse off than he was.

Ketill walked to the edge of the arena and held out his his, while barking for an axe. Once he got his two handed long axe, he dropped the shield that was still stuck to his arm and turned around to face Sa’aqr, who had crawled to his spear again and was in the process of getting up. Ketill, however, was determined to end this now, so he stumbled towards Sa’aqr, his footsteps kicking up dust as he went. The moment he was closed enough he swinged his axe upwards and sent it down towards Sa’aqr, who only barely managed to bring his spear upwards horizontally to block the attack. The sound of wood against wood was new, but the cheers were not, but it was not just once that Ketill attacked him, but again and again, until he caught the wooden pole with his axe’s head and cleaved it clean in half. This left Sa’aqr with nothing more than a wooden stick and a stick with a metal point on it, which obviously was far less useful. So when Ketill’s next swing came, headed straight for his skull, Sa’aqr could only jump to the side and hope for the best.

He dodged the initial attack, perhaps, but Ketill stumbled right after him, preparing his axe for the next swing, intending to take his head. He breezed inside the helmet, which was warm and annoying but had seemingly protected him so far. Then he swung.

The sound of armour shattering could be heard but it was not Sa’aqr who had been struck. Ketill could only look down as he felt the stabbing pain in his side, realizing instantly that he had been struck. Sa’aqr had quickly gotten up and stepped into Ketill’s attack, pushing the broken tip of the spear into Ketill’s body. It had gone through the armour, though luckily the armour had softened the blow. The tip wasn’t in deep, but when Sa’aqr let go, it was deep enough to stick in there. Under the facemask, it was obvious that Ketill was confused, but there was little time to think. He had to end the fight now, or he’d bleed out.

Sa’aqr turned around in an attempt to request a new weapon, but Ketill’s hands gripped at him, catching him by the hair and pulling him downwards, with such force that Sa’aqr could do nothing else but yell in pain. Ketill let go as he threw the man down and walked around him, standing in front of him as Sa’aqr tried to inch backwards on his hands, forced to look up at the menacing figure that was Ketill, who overlooked him and readied his axe. As Ketill raised the axe, a familiar voice could be heard from the crowd, yelling ‘’NO!’’ as Ketill brought the axe down. It was Osman’s voice, to be sure, as none other than him would’ve reacted that way. The axe caught Sa’aqr in the shoulder, which seemed to be a common place for Ketill to strike people – he had hit Thamud in exactly the same place after all. The axe went deep in the area that was uncovered by armour, and even though Ketill tried to pull it back, the axe was stuck, so he just let go.

Sa’aqr fell backwards in pain, resting on his back while his hand gripped at the axe trying to remove it, but only making it worse by pulling on the weapon that was so deep inside of him. But he was given no time to rest, as Ketill gripped his hair again, pulling him upright and putting him on his knees. He forced Sa’aqr to look towards the crowd, and like he had done with Thamud, spoke to him, though he was sure that Sa’aqr did not understand. ‘’You are not the man I want to kill, but as you are his family… I will take joy in making his family a member smaller. You made a mistake by volunteering, knowing you could not win.’’ He pulled his hair back, exposing Sa’aqr’s throat, and with no time to ask for a knife, pulled the tip of the spear that was stuck inside of him out. Some blood gushed out that had been held back by the spear, but it seemed to matter little to Ketill, who did not even wince or scream at the pain.

Triumphantly, or perhaps in a dash of arrogance, Ketill put the tip of the spear in the air. For a moment, time froze, and Ketill looked into the crowd. He looked at Najla, and then at Harith, who seemed pleased, and then at Basim, who seemed taken aback by the violence. And then the Sultan, who maintained that air of indifference, and whose thoughts could not be read. On the other side of the stands, opposite Najla, there he saw Osman, whose eyes were filled with terror, whose hands clutched the woman he could only assume was his mother. Her eyes, similarly, were filled with terror, but also tears as she covered her mouth due to the sigh she was about to witness. Elif was there too, but her eyes betrayed nothing more than sadness – though, not for a loss. For the loss of her husbands brother, perhaps.

He wondered if Osman’s mother was now convinced that he was a devil, a Djinn. Perhaps she was. It mattered little. With Sa’aqr’s beaten and bruised face staring at the sky, waiting for what was to come while trying to struggle against it, Ketill reading the spear. With a moments wait, he then plunged it down, deep into the mans neck, and then twisted the blade twice, before moving it to the side to cut open his entire throat. Blood spewed forth, and Ketill let go of his hair, pushing him forward. Sa’aqr fell down face first into the sand, the blood quickly spreading through the sand. Ketill looked around and though the crowd may have cheered, in that moment he could not hear whether they did or not. All he could see were the faces of Najla and her family, and on the other side, those of Osman and his family.

The morning of the duel, Najla had awoken as usual, repeated her morning prayers, and immediately set upon the task of preparing herself to face the events of the day. While for Ketill, that had meant servants to hand him weapons and help him into his armor, for Najla, it meant servants to fix her hair and fit her into her dress, finally placing that thin gold ring upon her head once they were finished. She looked every bit the Sultana whose honor would be restored, though she did not quite feel this way. Regardless of what happened today, she would find no victory. The most she could hope for was that her honor would be restored for her family’s sake, even if it would not do so in her husband’s eyes.

They would begin to head towards the duel early into the afternoon, as soon as Najla and her family were readied. The process went as expected, with her mother escorted by her father, Harith escorting Adina and his son trotting behind both of them, and finally, Najla, gripping onto Basim’s arm as they spoke. She could tell that he was trying to ease the nerves he imagined she held, and so Najla allowed him to do so, never quite telling him that she felt no worry. That would indicate that there was a desirable option, one she was worried they would not reach. All she could feel now was dread, and as they stepped towards the arena, she felt it consume her.

Here, they would have to exchange their niceties, following each of the tedious Sawarimic rituals to the letter, before they would be allowed to settle in their seats and watch. They had approached the Sultan as a family first, and Najla initially stood back and watched as he greeted them. It was custom, after all, for him to speak with his brother briefly first, and then it was Harith who’d approach him, bowing his head and kissing his hand, before carefully instructing Mehmet to do the same, though he would not understand the meaning of the gesture. Finally, it was Basim, after which her uncle finally motioned for Najla to come before him, to kiss his hand and press it to her forehead, before straightening up. Her family was not yet out of earshot, and Basim was only a few paces away, waiting to escort his sister again, but Najla was the only woman of their family who’d speak to the Sultan without her escort’s presence beside her. It would go unnoticed by most of the crowd, certainly, but to Osman’s family, Najla knew it would not be forgotten.

<“I admit, my blood, I was excited to see your Servant fight. I simply wish it had been under different circumstances.”>

<“As do I, Sultan. I cherish none of the blood that is to be spilled today, only the peace that it will bring.”>

<“I hope so. This will be the last day I hear of this matter again.”>

<“Yes, Sultan, it will. You have my word.”>

For a moment, Najla simply stood before her uncle, waiting for him to say something. He simply looked her over with that same gaze he’d held all day, all her life really, one that never quite betrayed what he was thinking about, only that he was thinking. Basim held a near-similar gaze when he was deep in thought, a shared quirk among blood that brought her some comfort, even when she was waiting for her Sultan to continue expressing his disapproval.

<“Are you nervous, Aynaya?”>

My eyes. These were the first words that brought a smile onto her face that day, however brief it was. It had been the nickname given to her as a child, not long after she had been given her own name. She’d heard it when she had scurried through halls as a child, and when her family had lovingly chided her afterwards. It had been years since then, and Najla had not heard the name in any voice but her mother’s for some time, so to hear her uncle speak it again felt strange. More than anything however, it gave her a brief hope, an indication that perhaps this would truly be over.

<“No, Sultan. I hold no fear of the Sawarim’s judgement. His will has acted upon me in far more trying ways, and each time, he has shown me that those who retain their loyalty to both him and to you, will always return to his graces. Whether I should win or lose today, so long as I emerge as a better servant to my God and my Sultan, I see no need to fear.”>

<“May the Sawarim will it so. Go, return to your family.”>

Najla nodded at the command, before leaning down to kiss her uncle’s rings again, finally turning and walking towards Basim to take his hand. He escorted her to return to her family, though Najla knew that this would not be the end of it. They had greeted the Sultan, acknowledged his impartial right to determine this matter as the enforcer of the Sawarim’s will, but now, they would be made to face their opponents. For Najla’s family, that would mean standing behind their daughter and drinking in the greetings of Osman and his family, but for Najla, that meant standing before Elif herself, to speak cordial words she did not mean. Hopefully it’d be one of the last times she’d have to do so.

So she waited amongst her family, where they would only have to wait briefly before Elif approached the Sultan, escorted by Osman, who could barely look Najla in the eyes as he walked by. Yet she would not tear her eyes off of him as he bowed low before the Sultan, straightening up to recite a few familiar lines before the Sultan was through speaking to him. Najla could only hope that Osman would not notice what she had suspected, that her uncle’s opinion of Osman had been substantially lowered by this matter. He had proven all too clearly that he had little ability to control his wives, and a man who could not even win the obedience of his wives would be hard-pressed to find it elsewhere. Her uncle’s opinion of Osman did not quite matter to Najla now, who knew that on some level, it would make Osman more reliant on her to keep his influence with the Sultan. After all, it seemed her uncle would forgive her eventually, though she did not yet know when. But these were not matters that could quite concern her now, for before she could think too long regarding the matter, Osman and his family had come to approach her. They greeted her father first, as expected, repeating the cordial greetings that she was certain none of them felt. Yet Najla could not listen to such words, for she was all too focused on the eyes she could feel burning into her, watching her so fiercely that Najla was worried she might speak.

Yet she was silent. Even when Elif and Osman came to Najla, and even as they forced out the few well-wishes and expressed their acceptance of the results, whatever they may be, she was silent. When all the niceties and formalities were over, and the families could move to ascend their platforms, Najla would have been quick to forget those piercing eyes, if it had not been for her brother’s soft whisper in her ear as they walked back.

<“Did you see the way she was looking at you?”>

<“I can’t blame her. I’m about to take her sons life.”>

An unpleasant matter, but the way Najla spoke of it seemed almost dismissive. It was not Osman’s mother she was worried about, after all. It was certainly regrettable, but there was little that her mother-in-law could do to her. It was her husband that she was worried about, and it was the look in his eyes that she could not forget, the one that told her she’d never be forgiven for this. It was this look that she tried to shake from her vision as they sat down in their seats, with nothing to do but wait for the fight to begin.

Even so, it seemed they’d find some entertainment while they waited, for Sa’aqr was quick to enter the arena. Najla leaned forward in her seat, ready for Ketill to exit after him, but a voice pulled her back quickly.

<“I don’t think they’re starting.”>

Najla moved back in her seat, looking up at her father as she replied. <“Then what’s he doing out there?”>

<“Embarrassing himself. These are the last words his mother will ever hear him speak, and they’re going to be lies.”>

This reply had come from her brother, though her father’s silence was proof enough that he agreed, though he wouldn’t say it. It would not take long for Najla to understand why, as Sa’aqr was quick to begin parading himself before the crowd, making grand gestures and making various grand claims about vanquishing a Servant to the crowd. It was an entertaining show, and though most of the crowd seemed to appreciate it, Najla found little humor in it. He would die soon, and each and every one of these claims would be forgotten once he did. A glance around at her family seemed to suggest the same, for those who had seen Ketill fight seemed to understand that these were the last few words he’d be able to speak. Those who had not seen her Servant were likely worried, or simply uncomfortable with the grandiosity of it all, bar Mehmet, who was enjoying the show all too much.

Finally, it was time, and the crowd’s attitude seemed to change entirely when Ketill stepped out, his armor flashing under the Sawarim sun. However excited they had been, however riled up Sa’aqr’s words had made them, the crowd seemed to quiet for a moment as they took in the beast their Sultana had brought. The facemask only made him more fearsome to look upon, and Najla felt as if she could see the ice of his eyes from where she sat. As the crowd’s volume began to rise up again, likely now excitedly discussing the ‘Bear of Broacien’, Najla’s mind had turned to another matter entirely, and she leaned over, whispering in Harith’s ear softly.

<“You never told me, what did you do with the armorer?”>

The question elicited a grin from Harith, who glanced down at her briefly before turning his gaze onto the arena once more. He had told her of the man’s transgression, and though he’d had to explain a few points regarding the armor to Najla, she had been quick to agree with Harith, this could not go unpunished. Yet Najla had left the matter to him, for it was Harith he’d lied to, after all, and Harith who had volunteered to find a just punishment.

<“You don’t need to hear about such violence.”>

<“What?”> Her whispering was slightly louder now, harsher even, though she could not quite tell if Harith was joking or not. <“You brought your child to see a man die, but you won’t tell me that?”>

<“He’ll see plenty more death before his time, I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”>

<“And I haven’t?”>

She would get no chance to pursue this further, at least not today. The silence of the crowd was quick to indicate what was about to happen, and the armorer was quickly forgotten as the prayers began. They were the same as ever, the familiar words that preceded harsh deaths and blood-stained sands, yet they felt different to Najla when she spoke them. The last time had been just before Thamud’s death, or the slow procession towards it, and even then, she had not felt that sense of dread in her stomach.

It would not be given long to settle, for as soon as the prayers were over, the fighters were ready to begin. Najla merely watched for a moment, though it was not long before her father spoke up, pointing out some of the details he believed his daughter was missing. Perhaps her father should have been whispering this knowledge to Basim, who would find far more use for it, but it was Najla that seemed far more eager to hear it. While Najla appreciated the distraction from the events that were to come, Basim would likely not be half as eager to have the details of the violence pointed out to him. And her father would be wasting his breath on Harith, who would be whispering the same to his son in time, but for now, was grinning like a maniac.

<“See how they’re testing each other? Watch the way they’re estimating each other’s movements.”>

He’d have to begin to explain some of the finer details to his daughter, who continued to ask her father questions about their movements, trying to see if she could understand the tide of the fight better this way. It was also a helpful distraction from her nerves, though Najla would not reveal this to her father as she continued to ask questions, hoping he wouldn’t notice. There was no sense in revealing her nerves to him, he was not a man that would help her to calm down. If that had been her goal, Najla would have asked her mother, but now, her father’s words were giving her some sort of insight she had not had before, which were a comfort in themselves at least.

She had felt a hint of nerves set in when Sa’aqr first struck out, grazing Ketill’s armor with his dagger, though it faded rather quickly when Ketill set upon him, slamming into his shield. Or rather, it was not Ketill that eased her, but Harith’s soft chuckle, as he leaned over where she sat to speak to his father.

<“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t just wasting those shields? It’s no wonder he went through the supply!”>

Harith’s amusement had been a stark contrast to her father before, though this comment managed to bring a smile onto his face briefly. It did not last long, for Najla’s hand was quick to shove Harith out of her line of vision, letting him settle back in his seat as she focused on the fight once more. It seemed her father had caught the impressed look on her face when Sa’aqr dropped his shield to grab the spear, for he was quick to speak again.

<“He’s performing. Don’t let it worry you.”>

His words were affirmed quickly whenever Sa’aqr began to spin the weapon around in his hands, and so Najla simply watched as they finally approached each other again, as Sa’aqr moved to slam his spear into Ketill’s head. As the two tangled together, the fighting seemed to grow more violent, more brutish, and she felt her body tense as they exchanged blow upon blow. When they finally split apart, as Ketill moved back to call for an axe, Najla just watched the way they walked, feeling that dread seep into her stomach again. They were beaten and bruised already, there was no question as to that, and so she could only hope that they’d end this fight soon.

Unfortunately, she’d get her wish. The sounds of the crowd cheering and gasping fell silent as the pounding of Najla’s heart rose in her throat. He’d been hit. She could not tell how badly, but the nerves she’d been trying so desperately to hide showed themselves now, as she gripped her father’s hand tightly. He said nothing as to this, offered no words of comfort, for soon Sa’aqr’s yell filled the arena as Ketill dragged him down, only to be followed by a familiar voice.

Najla looked up across the arena, only to settle her eyes on her husband. He looked terrified, as did his mother, both watching as Ketill raised the axe towards their son. Though she glanced down when Ketill struck, the excitement of the arena would not be able to keep her attention for long, and her gaze returned back to her husband. For a moment, Najla felt only pain, remorse that she had caused such a hardship upon the man she loved. This would not last, for a stern voice in her ear would be quick to redirect her attention.

<“Don’t look away. You sentenced him, you owe him that much.”>

So Najla looked, her expression fading to something completely unreadable, no trace of the remorse or pain, no sense of worry or fear. She merely watched as Ketill pulled the tip of the spear out of his side, raising it in the air, and though her father had told her to look at Sa’aqr, her gaze was on Ketill. She could not read his expression from behind the facemask, but Najla felt as if she could feel his eyes on her, boring through her, harsher than any weapon he’d touched before. Perhaps she was imagining it. Her eyes followed the spear as he lowered it, stabbing it through Sa’aqr’s neck, twisting it and letting the man fall upon the sand. The crowd roared to life behind her, even as Najla watched the blood spread across the sands, staining each grain. She’d sentenced her brother-in-law, and now, the crowd behind her cheered even as her husband grieved across from her. Perhaps she would suffer for this too, later, when the people realized they were cheering for a Servant. For now, they had seen only violence, and they had loved it.

The crowd would quiet as the Sultan stood from his throne. His voice carried across the arena, announcing that the Sawarim had decided in Najla’s favor, officially deciding this matter. As ritual demanded, he would turn to Najla’s family then, and call for them to demand their recompense. This compensation typically varied, from a small sum to the murder of a near relative, depending on the crime. But as promised, Najla shook her head at her father, who stood, his voice answering his brother’s question on her behalf. It was a strange comparison to the first time Najla had sentenced Ketill, where she had stood to announce her will to the court, but it seemed here, in the face of violence, the Sawarim had separate rules about their women’s roles. It mattered little to Najla, who could only tear her gaze off of Ketill when the Sultan would accept this notion, leaving before allowing the crowd to disperse after him.

<“My daughter says she will reject any Qisas that is offered. This suffering is regrettable, and we will see no more of it.”>

With that, it was over. The Sultan would leave, and the crowd would move out just after, gossiping and talking amongst themselves about what had just happened. Najla’s family would not remain, but leave just after the Sultan. She could hear Harith and Adina’s hushed arguing behind her, likely about the violence their son had just witnessed, she could hear Mehmet speaking to Basim, who pulled his nephew along as he spoke about anything but the violence the boy had just witnessed, and finally, her parents, though she could not quite hear what they were saying. Najla however, was quiet up until a slave ran up to approach her, bowing quickly.

<“Sultana, forgive me, the Servant-“>

<“Has a healer gotten to him yet?”>

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

<“Good. If he needs further attention, have the healers sent to his room. And instruct his servant to notify me once he’s healed. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear anything more regarding him unless he dies.”>

---

The Sawarim believed in burying the dead as soon as they were allowed, and so Sa’aqr’s body would be taken quickly, carried off the arena and into a temple. Here, he was joined by his male kin throughout the day, who were tasked with cleaning the blood off his body, preparing him to meet his God. Perhaps it was a cruelty, to force family to do so mere hours after his death, but the Sawarim God was not a soft God, they had long since seen that. Once they were done, they’d wrap his body in a white cloth, securing it tightly with rope, before leaving him to wait until they could bury him. As with all other aspects of their lives, death was a highly ritualized process, and so they would have to wait until the next day to bury him during the proper hours. Until then, they would allow visitors. First it was Osman and his family, of course, but they tapered off throughout the night, until Najla could finally call upon him herself.

The sound of her steps against the tile seemed to reverberate against the temple walls, indicating just how alone Najla was now. There was only Sa’aqr before her, though he was not the man he remembered. She had recalled him as a boastful man, entertaining when he was drunk, prone to large gestures and a penchant for playfully teasing his younger brothers. Now he was a corpse, wrapped tightly in white cloth and set upon a slab of marble. Though his body had been cleaned, so that the white cloth could not be stained despite the injuries that had left him here, it still smelled. Najla was hard-pressed to keep from wrinkling her nose, and instead uncorked the small bottle of pressed rosewater she had gripped in her hand, holding it to her nose as she walked closer.

Najla seemed to hold no fear of a corpse, and so she felt no hesitation as she walked around the slab, stopping behind it to look down at the white cloth that so tightly wrapped his body. It was stainless, an indicator of how he would leave this world, though Najla was certain it would not be so by the time he was buried. They would have to rewrap him if it was dirtied, but she had seen enough funerals to know how many corpses were buried with their mother’s tears upon them. Still, she did not touch it. Rather, she simply lowered the bottle of rosewater from her nose, using a small amount to wet her hands in preparation for prayer. As she set the bottle down on that slab of marble, just beside the corpse, the sound of a footstep came. Far heavier than hers had been, and faster. There was no question as to who it could be, for there would be no one else allowed within the temple while she was here, and so Najla did not even look up as she continued to rub the scented water into her hands, though she could feel her heart starting to race.

<“Were you waiting for me?”>

<“For some time. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”>

<“You shouldn’t have waited.”> Najla’s voice was soft, making it clear that her words were coming more out of concern for him than herself. Finally, her eyes lifted up to her husband to be, and she felt herself falter before her next words. She had never seen Osman so hurt, his eyes bloodshot with grief and lack of sleep, his voice hoarse despite his strangely calm demeanor. It pained her to think that she had brought this upon him, even though she would not acknowledge it yet. <“You need to sleep. I can see that you haven’t rested since.”>

<“Of course I haven’t.”> Osman was quick to walk closer, stopping on the other side of the slab which held his brother. His tone was growing angrier now, though the grief that permeated them was unmoving, resistant to any other emotion. <“I spent the day washing his corpse, and the night scrubbing his blood off my hands. How could I have rested, when my hands still burned with his blood?”>

<“May your pain be taken from you.”>

It was a formal response, though the tone she spoke it in was soft, as if it could bring him some comfort. Osman’s eyes lifted to her, still burning, and Najla could tell that he had noticed. She had not offered to take his pain onto herself, for she could have done that long ago, had she named Harith as a champion. Whether that would have evened the score in Osman’s eyes, she did not know, but something in her words seemed to ease him. It was not that he was not entirely angry, but he was precariously balancing between his emotions, perching halfway between grief and anger. It seemed as if the former won out, briefly, for Osman’s words felt as if he was aching for some comfort, even from her.

<“I feel as if I’ve already forgotten his face. Every time I try to picture him, I don’t see a man anymore I just-“>

He paused here, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. Najla wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to pull him into her arms and take such a grief from him, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift a hand. Instead, she spoke again, her voice barely heard above his heavy, tortured breathes.

<“His face will return to your memories as it is meant to. It will take time, but-“>

<“Stop lying!”> His hands suddenly found the marble slab, leaning against it to steady himself. The anger had returned to his voice, and for a moment, it had caused Najla to jump as his demand echoed against the tiles of the temple. It was a lucky thing that the guards were outside, though Najla did not feel so lucky as Osman continued.

<“Do you see Jalil’s face in your memories? Do you see the boy he was, can you picture that? Or is it just a rotting, crushed skull on a man’s body?! Sa’aqr still bleeds, in my mind he has not stopped bleeding, I cannot see anything else!”>

<“I hear his voice.”> Najla forced herself to continue speaking, though the way his hands tightened upon the marble, mere inches from his brothers corpse, should have been a warning. <“And I- I feel his presence. They say the witnesses never truly leave us, and they speak the truth.”>

<“You made him a witness.”>

The accusation was spoken through clenched teeth, and suddenly, it felt as if Najla was more aware of how empty the large temple was, how the only one that stood between her and her lover was the corpse she had created. The fear had settled for some time, but Najla would not give in just yet, could not bear to show it, in hopes that perhaps his grief would overwhelm his anger. Elif could not understand his grief, but she had spent nights in Osman’s arms, seeking comfort when her memories of Jalil could not be put away by sleep or wine. It was a fleeting hope however, for Najla knew by now that their memories of before would not be enough.

<“I didn’t want this. I didn’t name him.”>

<“Or Harith, hm? Was my family the only one meant to bleed?”> He finally released the marble, now slowly walking around the slab where his brother lay, his eyes frozen upon Najla. She had to force herself not to take a step back, praying that he would not be so stricken as to hurt her here, in the presence of their God.

<“No, I would never wish this upon you. I didn’t want him named, I could never have imagined this.”>

<“Don’t tell me you didn’t know what your dog would do.”>

<“My love, you’re grieving.”> Osman halted, for now he had made it around to her side, though he was still a few paces from her. <“We’ll deal with the dog later. We shouldn’t talk about such things now. Not here.”>

For a moment, Najla wondered if her words had worked. Osman shot a quick glance at the white cloth that covered his brother’s face, and Najla watched as his eyes moved upwards from there, tracing the ray of light that led straight up past the decorated tiles, as if he could see his God in the sky above. After all, while it was the law of God that a man was allowed to strike his wife, it was not a tradition that was smiled upon, especially not in so sacred a ground. Perhaps, given more time, she could have spoken to him, convinced him of the difficult situation Elif had put her in. Whatever brief hope of that had begun, it was quickly dashed, for Najla watched as Osman’s gaze snapped back to her, the anger still very much apparent within them.

<“You think God will judge me here? After all that you have done? You unleashed a Monarchist dog upon your people-“>

<“Osman-“> Her plea was cut off as Osman took another step towards her, and finally, Najla tried to step back, out of his reach. Still, it was too late, for his anger had peaked. Whatever those brief moments of thought had brought, it was not peace, Najla could see that in his eyes. He seemed nothing like the man she had fallen in love with, he was not her husband, but a beast that wanted her gone, dead. Another among many, it seemed.

<“I listened to the people cheer, for the end of my brother’s life, for the glory of an infidel! Look what you have brought upon my family. You should never have returned, you should have rotted beside your brother-”>

<“Please-“>

Her words were barely spoken when they were cut off by a harsh crack, followed by a sharp sensation of pain in her lip. Najla would have fallen over from the force, but Osman was quick to grab her before she fell. His hand wrapped in her hair, as before, but Najla was helpless to do much but struggle as he turned her around, forcing her to face the corpse beneath her. One hand gripped at her left arm, keeping her from utilizing it, and it was her right that gripped against the slab of marble, the sole obstacle besides cloth that stood between her and Sa’aqr now. Osman did not push her lower just yet, content to spit words into her ear, as Najla felt the tickle of blood as it begin to move from her lips.

<“Look what you have done! LOOK!”>

Najla tried to turn her face away as Osman pressed her head farther down, and she could feel that trickle moving on her face now, threatening to spill down onto the precious white cloth. Even in her pain and fear, Najla held one clear thought in her mind: Don’t stain the cloth. They’ll notice. She tried to hold her bottom lip in her mouth, ignoring the pain and the coppery taste that filled her mouth now.

It was not enough. Osman’s words were nearly as harsh as his hands, spilling forth his grief in between accusations, but Najla could not hear them. She could feel the tickle of a drop of blood as it ran down her lip, moving down her chin, aching to fall onto the pure cloth under her. She wanted nothing more than to speak, to beg Osman to release her before he stained his brother’s body with her blood, but doing so would only serve to stain the cloth more, this she knew. So Najla held silent for these brief moments, praying that the drop would not fall, but this too, was to no avail. Finally, when she felt as if the drop would fall from her face, Najla released the slab with her arm. In this moment, she reached up, hoping to stop the blood from falling, and Osman’s strength pushed her down farther without such resistance, so that she nearly fell against the corpse. This moment was short-lived however, for Osman’s arms were quick to pull her back, throwing her to the side, away from his brother. Najla fell onto the tile harshly, the first cry of pain escaping her lips as she did so.

For a long moment, they were silent. Najla slowly pushed herself up to sit upon the tile, looking up to see that Osman was bent over, his head resting on the marble beside his brother’s head, as if in prayer. He was not praying however, the way his shoulders rose with his labored breaths, or perhaps sobs, was enough to tell her that. In this silence, Najla slowly took account of her injuries, touching the arm he had grabbed, the side she had landed on, knowing that these were likely to bruise. Finally, she raised her hand to her lip, and when she pulled away her fingers, Najla could see that the red of her blood had already stained them.

The silence endured, and finally, Najla pushed herself to stand. At the sound of her movements, Osman lifted his head, stepping back from Sa’aqr’s body and away from the slab he was laid on, walking around as if he meant to leave the temple. However, he did not quite seek to leave yet, and his eyes remained on Najla as she stepped towards Sa’aqr once more. She did not look at Osman, nor would she speak, only walking towards that bottle of rosewater she had left, the one that miraculously had not been shattered in the wake of her husband’s assault. Once more, Najla uncorked this, but rather than offer it to the dead as intended, she poured a small amount upon her hands, scrubbing the blood off. Again, she filled her palm with the scented water, wincing slightly as she wiped the blood off her chin and lips, wiping it on the black fabric of her dress. It did not escape her that she had dirtied her own clothes to keep that white cloth spotless, and briefly, she felt thankful that she was draped in all black. Perhaps it was lucky that they were mourning, for Najla was quick to lift the black cloth that was meant to cover her hair, draping so that it exposed little but her eyes. No doubt, she would have to wear the fabric in a similar fashion for some time, though none would question her as to the reason, not until mourning was over. When that was done, Najla offered the rest of the water, pouring the final few drops at Sa’aqr’s feet.

<“Ya Sawarim, forgive our living and our dead. Be generous onto him, and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and rain. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Take him into Paradise, and protect him from the punishment of the grave.”>

It hurt somewhat to speak the prayer, but Najla persisted, though it was mumbled under the cloth that covered her mouth now. It did not matter. Osman, who was still watching her with those burning, bloodshot eyes, knew precisely the words she was speaking. It was only when she was finished that Najla closed the empty bottle again, finally looking up at her husband.

<“Are you waiting for me?”>

<“Others saw me enter after you.”>

Najla did not need more of an explanation than that. They would have to leave together, with her upon Osman’s arm, or else it would raise suspicions. Refraining from mentioning the fact that it was bad timing to get a handle on his emotions, Najla began to walk around the slab, slowly moving towards Osman. He seemed impatient at her pace, and would close the final few steps himself, stopping just before her.

<“Let me see.”>

<“Don’t touch it.”>

He disobeyed her to reach up, at which Najla flinched. The sight of her flinch caused him to halt, but only briefly, and his touch was gentle as he reached out, peeling the cloth that covered her lip. It was a gesture she would have expected years ago, but not here, not now.

<“It will heal quickly.”> Though his voice held no softness in it, his touch did, and Najla would not fight or struggle with him now. Her eyes only searched his, as if hoping to see something other than grief in them, though nothing came.

<“Pity. You should strike my eye next time.”>

It was the first sentence she had spoken to Osman that made her feel as if she was fighting back somewhat, as if she had not given herself over to endure until his grief was satisfied. There could be nothing farther from the truth, but Najla knew that this could not last forever. She could not survive like this, treading lightly so as not to spark his anger, there was no life there. Perhaps it would have been easier to have Osman taken out, removed as a danger to her, but there was no winning there either. To even begin to make up for her misdeeds towards her family, Najla knew she would have to endure, but her words had made it clear that this was no easy task for her.

<“When you take another of my blood from me?”> She opened her mouth to protest, but Osman’s thumb scraped against her lip then. Whether on accident or on purpose, Najla did not know, but she let out a soft hiss of pain as she pulled her face away from his grip. Osman did not try to hold her to him, but let his hand fall to his side. <“The dog will be long dead before you have that chance.”>

<“Even so, what then? I’ll bear you sons and daughters, to pay the debt of death with life? We cannot build a life upon skeletons Osman, our home will crumble.”>

The silence that followed was all that answered her questions, though her eyes spilled plenty more to Osman as he stared down at her. Whatever grand dreams of their future they had held before Najla first left Al-Tirazi, they had been dashed long ago. There was no happiness to be seen in their future, where Najla would be left to fight endlessly against Elif and Osman, and where Osman would have to face her every day, knowing she had ordered the end of his brother’s life. There was no hope to dissolve the wedding either, unless by one of their deaths. Najla had come to fear this prospect for some time, the pain in her lip convinced her that if Osman had wanted her dead, he would have had every opportunity. She wondered if Osman feared that as well, though as far as Najla was concerned, her husband was already a ghost.

<“Others are waiting to pay their respects. We should go.”>

---

The Sawarim held rituals for nearly every aspect of their lives, but none were so carefully decided as their deaths. Sa’aqr’s body would not be given long to rot in the temple, for the day after he had been washed and shrouded, a crowd had gathered outside the temple to mourn. It was Sawarim custom that any who wished to attend the funeral were encouraged, so that while the first few rows of mourners were filled with Sa’aqr’s family and friends, there were many beyond that, often people who had never seen him before the day they’d watched him die. There were only a few men who would be allowed to enter the temple that day however, as it was Sa’aqr’s male kin that lowered him into a casket, which they would lift onto their shoulders and carry before the crowd.

Osman had been one of the kin meant to carry his brother’s body, which left Elif alone beside his mourning mother and sisters, listening to their grieving wails. Najla felt lucky that she was not expected to stand beside them, but allowed to stand alongside her mother, as tradition would demand of them. Still, it was a small comfort, for the rows of mourners were separated according to gender for the most part. They would slowly start to merge as they walked him to his burial site, but for now, it left Najla standing too near to Sa’aqr’s mother. Had it not been for her wailings, Najla might not have even realized who she was, for many of the Sawarim women looked similar now. They were all shrouded in black, most only showing their eyes and the bridge of their nose, their prayers and tears covered by this thin cloth. An irritating tradition, especially in this miserable heat, yet Najla would not complain about the sweat running down her forehead as the other women were so prone to do. It was a lucky thing, for none could see how swollen her lip was now, nor would they until it had healed. Osman’s family would mourn for forty days, no longer, and Najla would do so as well, out of respect for the man she had killed.

Suddenly, the crowd that had been melting under the heavy heat seemed to come alive, as the first words of the prayer started to move over the crowd. It was her uncle that spoke them at first, as he had given Osman’s family an incredible honor by offering to recite the first of the prayers over their son. As soon as he had finished however, others would pick up the prayers. These were religious leaders with forceful voices, who carried over the crowd and who never faltered, regardless of how far the burial sites were or how heavy the heat weighed on their shoulders. Thus, even as the crowd began to repeat the prayer, it was the voice of these leaders that carried it over the wailing and the chest-thumping, as if their God himself would hear.

As familiar as the words were to Najla, she faltered in her prayers for a brief moment when the casket was carried out past her. It was a simple casket, covered in a black shroud embroidered with golden lettering of prayers, but this was not what gave her pause. The casket was perched against Osman’s shoulder, and though he stood straight, as did those of his kin that helped him, there was still no mistaking the pain in his expression. They halted before the crowd for a moment, and once the first verse of the prayer was completed, they began to walk past the parted crowd, who would begin to follow them as soon as they had passed. Najla reached out and took her mother’s hand, for she knew how easy it was to be parted in such a crowd, though none would push and shove where the Sultana stood. That would occur near the back of the train, where those who had been strangers to Sa’aqr would mourn, not where the royal family had gathered.

There was nothing quiet about a Sawarim burial, and it was often said that every death within the walls of Al-Tirazi deafened the city. It was only partially true, for every death within the city did not matter. No one mourned for the street urchins or peasants, no one wailed for the slaves. Had Ketill been killed in the duel, none would have gathered to mourn, and even providing him with a burial site would have been a kindness. For Sa’aqr, the city halted. As if the position granted by Osman’s new attachment to the Sultan’s family wouldn’t have been enough, he was a Sawarim, killed by a Servant. He was a witness now, and for that, the whole city would find cause to mourn.

Those who carried the casket were silent, and though Najla could no longer see Osman’s face, she had not forgotten the look in his eyes as he stepped out with his brother’s casket. Those who followed behind however, were not. The men in the crowd beat their chests as they called out the prayers, some, like her brothers in front of her, did so lightly, more for show than any real desire to mourn. Others would walk away with their chests black and blue, their backs marred with whatever weapons they had seen fit to unleash upon themselves. Every drop spilled for a witness was an honor, after all, and so many of those who beat themselves so thoroughly were not even of Osman’s family, but had simply hoped to gain some favor with God. Noticeably, the women did not scar themselves so, with a few unintentional exceptions. Osman’s mother had not stopped her wailing, and could barely follow along with the prayers, for she could only pull at her hair and beat her chest, crying out for her son. Najla, who followed a few paces behind, only gripped her mother’s hand harder, wondering if she had done the same when Jalil had passed.

The procession had begun within the palace walls, though it would proceed beyond these walls, out to a suitable burial site for Sa’aqr. These sorts of funerals were one of the few times the citizens of Al-Tirazi saw their royals family, and Najla recalled how they would try to edge their way to the crowd near the front of the procession, hoping to catch a glimpse. Perhaps it was a strange sight to them, to see the royals walking, with none of the luxuries to hold them above the rest, but they seemed to enjoy it, regardless of the circumstances. This time however, Najla felt as if she could already hear their whispers, hoping to find Sa’aqr’s killer among the crowd of mourners. Perhaps they would have been drowned out by the sounds of prayer, but Najla would have no chance to find out.

<“Valide, Sultana-”> Najla’s eyes jerked up to see a guard standing near her, clearly uncomfortable at his position in the procession. The Sawarim had strict rules regarding these sorts of burials, and though he was not breaking any by approaching her this way, he would be if he lingered too long. Najla however, seemed to have little desire to make it more comfortable for him. More than anything, she wanted to ask how he’d pointed her out among the sea of women, though there was no time for such questions.

<“You shouldn’t go past the walls. Come, turn back.”>

The request was rather strange, and Najla looked up towards her mother in confusion. Her mother only nodded, indicating that she agreed with the guard, though she did not let go of Najla’s hand as they continued to walk forwards. Women were not allowed to attend the burials anyway, it did not make sense to stop her this soon, not when she could simply turn back when Osman’s mother and his family were meant to. Al-Tirazi had never been her enemy before, who believed it had turned on her so quickly?

<“On whose order?”>

<“Sultana, please-”> They were nearing the entrance to the palace walls now, and Najla showed no sign of stopping.

<“I’m not turning back for a plea.”>

<“It’s your father’s order. Please Sultana, come with me.”>

For a moment, it seemed as if Najla was ready to disobey him, but finally nodded, much to the guard’s relief. Her mother followed her as they wormed their way out of the procession, mostly unnoticed by other mourners. There was no way this could be taken as an insult, for the female members of the royal family rarely had an excuse to leave the palace walls regardless, funerals did not do much to change that. However, it was slightly strange, for it had been under Najla’s command that Sa’aqr had perished, it made little sense that she would not see the consequences through. As they finally moved out of the column of mourners, Najla turned back, searching for Osman, who was likely sweltering under the heat and weight of the casket at this point. However, though she could see the casket he carried, Osman himself was lost in the midst of a sea of arms rising into the air, only to be thrown onto their chests again in a hypnotic rhythm.

<“Where is my father?”> Najla asked the guard, who was about to respond before her mother quieted her with a sharp tug on her hand.

<“He knows best Najla, don’t go asking him questions.”>

<“But I am not in danger, I shouldn’t be leaving like this, it’s not right.”>

<“It’s right if your father says it is. Come, you’ll have much more time to mourn, you should ready yourself for the visitations soon.”>

Whatever protests Najla held were quieted, though not by her mother’s words. It was Ketill’s that rang in her ear now, reminding her of just how little control she truly had. She had not wanted to kill Sa’aqr, but she had set Ketill upon him anyways, the best choice she had in a difficult situation. She had not wanted Osman to punish her for it, but she was reminded of his grief every time she spoke. Now, she was not even able to finish the proper recitation of the prayers to the grave, all from her father’s demand, only to be chastised for even wanting to speak to him. Perhaps her father was right to do so, for while Ketill had put on a splendid show for the crowd, Najla had heard the whispers in the city. Not everyone was pleased with how Najla used her new tool, for while it made for an impressive display, so did Sawarimic funerals, and none seemed to enjoy those either. Whatever the reason, there was nothing more for Najla to do, and so she simply stood aside and allowed the procession to pass her as she continued to whisper along to their prayers, intending on at least finishing her recitation, so that the Sawarim would not seek to abandon her to her sins.

<“In the name of our God and his wife, in the name of the Sawarim, the highest, the ever-present, the lord of worlds, in the name of the Umma, the giver of life, the merciful, the witness to truth, I profess there is no God but the Sawarim. May the Sawarim forgive the dead for their transgressions and reward them for their deeds, may they find peace in their eternal place by your side. May the Umma offer their blood a comfort, and may the dead seek only the highest, for they have died in your name. There is no God but the Sawarim, and it is to him, the all-knowing, that I make this plea.”>

With that finished, Najla was quick to turn back, allowing her mother to lead her into the palace once more, her mind racing. Whatever reason her father had for this, Najla had gotten little hint of it, and that worried her more than the command itself. She only hoped that Elif had not seen her turn back, nor Osman, for that would be a difficult situation to explain without arousing more anger. She could not blame her father, for he could not have guessed what a simple command could mean for his daughter, but it was not as if she could tell him either, only endure.

---

Though the issue of the funeral had weighed on her mind for a great deal of time, Najla knew she could not address it so quickly. After all, her father and brothers were going to be at the burial for some time, and there were few others that could give her a clear answer regarding this matter. Her mother had been little help, only insisting that Najla not pester her father with questions. Rather, she had returned Najla to the palace, telling her to go ready herself for the visitations later. It would be a long few days for her, for Najla knew she’d have to spend a great deal of time with the bereaved’s family, as tradition demanded. It would be a great deal of crying, praising a witness, and retelling stories of his past braveries, none of which she was eager to hear. Still, she would not abandon this matter so soon, and after she was certain the burial was over, Najla had headed off to find her brother, hoping to get some answer from him.

There were few reasons for her father to issue such a command, and in all likelihood, he had done so out of sheer caution. After all, the people believed Sa’aqr was a witness, there was always the chance that they could begin to whisper that Najla herself had created a martyr. It was a prospect that worried her greatly, for there was no easier way to perish in this desert than to lose the favor of the Sawarim God. Still, she’d heard nothing of real consequence from her contacts in the capital, but even that was hardly a relief anymore. Most of her enemies were inside these walls now, and if they had wanted to kill her, they would not have to bring her beyond the walls to do so. Even here, on the path to Harith’s rooms, would be easier for them.

The guards at the entrance were slow to recognize her, but the sound of her voice, or perhaps the commanding tone she spoke in, was enough to touch their memory it seemed. One went ahead to confirm that Najla could enter, a formality Harith usually didn’t bother with, but it seemed he had asked for some privacy today. Still, it wasn’t enough reason for her to wonder just yet, for she was allowed in briefly afterwards. There, Harith’s large rooms were empty, save for the sight of her brothers, leaned back on their cushions still dressed in their black robes. Still, Najla could sense that something was not quite right, for they were both silent as she entered, making it rather obvious that their conversation had been stopped for her. Even more telling was the fact that neither Adina nor Mehmet were present, though Najla would not mention this just yet.

<“What are you doing here, Basim? I thought you’d both be ready to rest.”>

<“We’re just talking. Did you need to talk to Harith?”>

<“Not about anything important. How was the burial?”>

<“Same as the all the others before him.”> It was Harith that replied now, his voice dulled by the exhaustion of mourning under such heat. <“More blood though. I guess that’s to be expected, seeing as they’re calling him a ‘martyr’ and all. I swear, they’d find any reason to bleed.”>

<“Did you not bleed for him today?”>

Though Najla’s tone had been somewhat amused, she could see that her words had brought a rare cloud of seriousness onto Harith’s face, which was surprising, given that his nonchalance seemed to have endured through the funeral. He responded as she moved to join them, settling herself on the cushions far more gracefully than either of her brothers.

<“They only call him a witness because Ketill killed him, as if every cockroach he steps on deserves the blood off my back. Jalil was a martyr. I bled for him.”>

<“May the Sawarim grant him peace. I’m happy to hear your words, but be careful who you repeat them to.”>

<“I won’t have a chance. Who besides you would ask a question like that?”>

It seemed that some of the amusement had returned to Harith’s voice, nearly as quickly as it had fled. Najla did not spare it much of a thought, instead turning her gaze onto Basim. He was oddly quiet, which was out of character for him, though perhaps it could be attributed to the violence of the past few days. After all, the duel itself had been difficult to witness, and to be among the mourners as they sliced their backs open with lashes was hardly a comfort. It was a blessing of sorts that Sawarim women were forbidden from attending the burial ceremonies, though Najla wondered if perhaps that privilege should have been granted to Basim rather than her. Still, something told her that this silence was not entirely due to that, for while it could certainly have been enough to weigh on his mind, her instincts told her otherwise.

<“Who else was bleeding?”>

<“If you’re asking about Osman, don’t worry.”> Again, it was Harith that responded, though Najla could feel her younger brother’s eyes on her. Though he was silent, the way his gaze seemed to see right through the veil that covered her injuries almost unnerved her, and so it was easier to focus on someone who had no reason to suspect anything from it. <“He didn’t seem as eager to beat himself as the others. Not after what happened with his mother.”>

<“What happened? Is she okay?”>

For a moment, both of her brothers frowned as Najla glanced between them, seemingly surprised that she hadn’t heard. To Najla, it suggested that they had not heard of their father’s command to her, for most of the women were expected to turn back at the same time.

<“She lost her mind when they told her to turn back. They had to stop the march for a few moments after she tried to jump onto her son’s casket. How did you miss that?”> This was a common occurrence at Sawarim funerals, where grieving mothers would often beg to be buried alongside their children, wives their husbands, blood onto blood. It was not meant to happen, and disrupted the processes, but it seemed most were quick to forgive the actions of those who mourned.

<“I turned back at the walls. You didn’t notice that I was absent?”>

This drew a laugh from Harith, despite the rather morbid nature of their conversation. They had both seemed surprised, which indicated to Najla that she was right in assuming her father had not warned either of them about his command. She was not surprised that Basim did not know, but her father trusted Harith with a great deal regarding his activities. It did not always use to be this way, for Harith’s unpredictability was not always an asset to their family, but Jalil’s death had changed a great deal. Still, this only indicated that she wouldn’t have much luck understand his reasons why, at least not here.

<“I can’t tell any of you apart during funerals, you all look like a flock of ravens. Speaking of, take that thing off now, it’s too hot to pretend you’re mourning.”>

<“I am mourning.”> Najla replied, trying to hide the slight panic that had arisen at Harith’s words. She hoped that she could simply ignore them, figuring that Harith would be quick to forget, though Najla was not so certain Basim would miss this so easily. Still, she forced herself to make eye contact with her younger brother regardless, hoping he’d see the anger in her eyes above anything else.

<“And shut up about ravens. It’s all I ever hear from Ketill anymore, I can’t stand it. He’s worse than Majnun, except his Leyli is a fucking bird.”>

This drew a grin from Harith, though she saw no such reaction from Basim. He had never insisted that she thank Ketill, or even mentioned it, though she knew there was a great deal he did not quite understand about that night. To be fair, there was a great deal Najla did not understand as well, but she had long since given up on the Servant, labeling him as an irreconcilable madman. Basim seemed far more reluctant to do the same.

<“What did you do with him?”> Najla’s eyes turned to Basim as he finally spoke. There was little hint as to what he truly meant, but Najla would not begin to guess, answering as truthfully as he could hope for.

<“Nothing.”> There was only a moment’s pause before she’d have to speak again. <“Really, no punishment, no reward, nothing. Why, you don’t believe me?”>

<“It’s not that. I’m just surprised Osman hasn’t insisted on something.”>

<“Even if he does, it doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to him. Do you think I’m that weak?”>

<“You’re not weak, it’s just that-“>

Basim trailed off slightly here, and Najla’s eyes flitted between both of her brothers, trying to determine if they were nearing the truth. If Ketill was not the reason they’d come here to converse, then Najla could only hope that Basim had not told Harith about the rest of what had happened that night. He would not be so easily to ignore Osman’s actions as Basim was, and even that had not been a simple process. But if Ketill was the reason, then it would mean that they had sought to have this discussion without her present, a thought which brought along no comfort either.

<“What do you think about giving him to me?”>

Najla’s eyes widened when Harith finally spoke, and for a moment, all she could do was look between her brothers in shock. She had been right then, in guessing that they had come to speak about Ketill, though Najla could not have guessed that they would come to such a conclusion so quickly. The shock in her eyes was enough proof of that, though there was only a few moments before it rapidly turned to anger. With a sudden motion, Najla stood, pushing herself off the cushions.

<“Is this what you two were talking so secretively about? You had a discussion about my slave and decided I shouldn’t be present for it?”>

<“Najla, we never meant to go behind your back. We’re asking you now, aren’t we?”>

Najla turned around then, her face contorted into a frown, though they’d only be able to see the anger in her eyes. Basim’s voice was a carefully controlled calm, trying to ease his sister from making another mistake. She had always found it amusing that he was so level-headed, considering that all his siblings had turned out so differently, but today it only served to irritate her.

<“Should I be grateful for that? Neither of you get to make decisions regarding my property. Ketill is mine.”>

<“He’ll still be yours this way, he just won’t be Osman’s.”> These words made Najla pause briefly, and upon seeing this, Basim turned to Harith. <“Explain it to her.”>

<“We were thinking, you could grant him as a gift to me. I’d find a use for him, and you could still use him to fight whenever you needed. I promise you that. This wasn’t intended as an insult, so don’t go taking it as one. Basim only hoped it’d make this ordeal easier on you.”>

<“Is this true, my blood?”> Najla turned her gaze back to Basim then, who seemed somewhat annoyed that Harith had outed the plan as his so easily. She would not have needed that confirmation, for Najla knew her brothers well enough to guess at whose decision this was. Still, she was furious that they had even sought to consider this option, especially after having told Basim that Osman would not take Ketill. It also hinted that Basim had told Harith about Osman’s threat, leaving Najla only able to hope that he had not told him of the rest. Though her tone was somewhat sarcastic, Basim opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by his sister, whose voice was rising despite the pain it brought to her injured lip.

<“Do you have so little faith in me? I already told you, Osman will not touch Ketill, because Ketill is not his. He’s mine.”>

<“Yes, for now. But when you’re married, nothing is yours anymore. It will change-“>

<“Nothing fucking changes, Basim. You’re smart enough to see that. What do I own now that is mine, outside of where your hands can reach, what do I own that father could not take?! Baba wouldn’t even let me go past the castle walls to see Sa’aqr’s funeral, and you know what? He’s still dead!”>

Najla finally halted in her yelling, taking a long breath as she tried to calm herself. She could see from Basim’s expression that he was more worried than anything, for he had seen how easily Najla’s anger had slipped in front of Elif, and perhaps was simply worried that she’d do something dumber this time. However, Najla saw something else in his eyes, something she didn’t want to address. He had not realized that their father had pulled her out of the funeral, it seemed, and while her father did not know the consequences it might have, Basim’s eyes suggested otherwise. If Osman were to find out that Najla turned back midway through his brother’s funeral, it would certainly be a cause for anger. Perhaps that was why he didn’t defend himself, or likely because he didn’t see a need to, but a glance over at Harith showed that he was not quite as calm as Basim now.

<“Is that why you’re so worked up, because baba asked you to stay in the walls? Ya Sawarim, Najla, don’t yell at the boy because of that, he can’t fucking control it. Besides, baba was just trying to protect you, just like Basim is.”>

<“Protect me from what? The only enemies that concern me now are the ones within these walls, but it’s not like baba would consider that. Making decisions on my behalf is hardly any sort of protection.”>

<“What does that have to do with Ketill, or us for that matter? If you’re going to be this ridiculous, we should just have father take him.”>

<“He’s not his to take!”>

<“Shut up!”>

Though his siblings were far more used to just shouting over Basim’s attempts to quiet them, this was far more than an attempt, it was a command. Perhaps it was the still-present surprise at Basim’s newfound confidence, but regardless, both Harith and Najla fell silent. He stood then, and when he glanced between his siblings, Najla found herself regretting her words to him almost instantly. She did not want to drive him away, all this had been for that very reason, and yet she had lost control of herself entirely, it seemed. Even worse, was that Harith was the only one who seemed angry. Basim held none of that anger when he looked at her, only annoyance coming through his words as he spoke again.

<“If you think you can keep Ketill, what do I care, just keep him. But if you’re letting your pride speak before reason, don’t be surprised when both fall. It’s not like it matters, we’ve got another forty days before the mourning is over, you don’t have to decide which voice to speak with now.”>

Najla had meant to respond to him, perhaps even to apologize, but Basim gave her no option. He simply walked past her, and out of Harith’s room, closing the door after him. For a moment, Najla watched him leave, feeling regret that she had allowed herself to yell at her youngest brother on such a day, though she knew Basim was not the only reason this regret consumed her so now. When he had finally left, she turned back to Harith, who simply sat back and raised an eyebrow at her.

<“Are you sun-stricken?”>

<“No, I’m just- angry I suppose. I’ll apologize to him later, it’s not him I’m angry with.”>

<“Is it father?”>

<“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, this will all be over soon. By the time the mourning period has ended, it’ll be settled, I promise. I don’t want you to have to shoulder any more of my burdens.”>

<“We’re blood, Najla, we don’t have a choice on that. Why do you even want to keep Ketill anyways, I thought you could barely stand the sight of him.”>

<“That’s true, but it doesn’t erase his value to me. Besides, even if he had none, I wouldn’t pass the Djinn onto you.”>

She had meant to say more, but Harith let out a short laugh, before leaning back on his cushions again, just shaking his head. <“You don’t really believe that, do you?”> When Najla didn’t respond, Harith only laughed again. After all, she knew Ketill was a man, he was flesh and blood just as see was. But Harith had not seen all that she had, he had seen a beast, not a demon. <“You’ve got to be sun-stricken then. Just give me the Djinn, he’ll become a man in saner hands.”>

<“No. And if you try and take him behind my back, I’ll tell Adina the names of every one of your bastard’s mothers.”>

<“Don’t make empty threats, my blood.”>

For a moment, Najla thought her words had served their purpose. Harith’s grin faded briefly, and his eyes seemed to dim, leaving Najla to wonder if she’d made him angry. After all, while they both knew she would never divulge the information, they also both knew that she held it. Harith had never quite held the same skills in obtaining silence from the women, and Najla was always prepared to aid her brother in that. Still, it was a topic they never spoke of unless necessary, and there was good reason for that. Yet it was not a touchy subject either, that much was clear when she watched Harith try to repress that all-too-familiar grin as he spoke.

<“You know you can’t count that high.”>

<“You’re an ass.”> His grin finally broke through at these words, though Najla would not wait to see it, turning around and leaving her brother on his own.

After the fight, Ketill was brought to a new room, though from the adrenaline and the blood seeping from his body, it felt more like a blur, everyone and everything moving past him in vague streaks of color. As the guards dragged him past people left and right, who seemed more concerned with looking at him than moving out of the way, one of them handed him a rag and ordered him to put it against his wound. Ketill followed suit – not because he understood the man, but because there was nowhere else to put the rag. <‘’Ya Sawarim, for a beast that can’t be hurt he bleeds a lot,’’> one of the guards said to the other, earning a laugh while they rushed him further.

The healer had been expecting someone it seemed, though from the surprise on the man’s face it seemed like he had expected Ketill to leave in a casket, and for Sa’aqr to need some patching up. But despite that, he got to work quickly, ordering Ketill onto a bed and pushing him onto his side. Within a few seconds of arriving the guards had disappeared, leaving the healer to sew up Ketill’s wound. <‘’You’re coming here far too often,’’> the old man said while he worked, <‘’to your credit, most slaves don’t live long enough to come here twice.’’> With a needle made of bone he pricked Ketill’s skin through, but Ketill didn’t flinch or whince from the pain, focusing himself on the wall in front of him. Soon enough the man had fixed him up, and rather than let him rest, the healer called the guards back and told them to escort him out.

<‘’Why we keep healing this Monarchist dog, I don’t know…’’>

<‘’If his Monarch was so caring, wouldn’t he heal the wound for him?’’>

<‘’That’d mean his God was real.’’>

The two guards continued to squabble as they escorted Ketill back to his chamber. Once again people crowded around them, only making room for them to move past when the guards almost forced them to move. While most people would be deeply saddened by the loss of Sa’aqr, if not for emotional reasons then for political ones, the people seemed to care very little for that at the moment, looking at Ketill as if he was some prized horse, nothing more than a chained beast that did the bidding of his master. It was the truth, no?

No. It was not.

When one particular noblewoman stepped too close and attempted to halt the guards, Ketill lashed out, stepping closer to her and yelling at her, not in Broacienien or Sawarimic, but in the Northern mother tongue, which sounded like incoherent rambling to anyone not familiar with it, and like a strange accent with strange words for anyone versed in Broacienien. The woman stepped back, the fear visible in her eyes even when the guards reached out and held Ketill back, pushing him forwards towards the hallways again. ‘’HORFÐU Á MIG!’’ Ketill then yelled at the woman again, once again being pushed forwards, down the hallway.

He was not a chained beast – not any longer. Najla had not realized it but she had set him free, she had taken the shackles from his neck and from his wrists, from his ankles too, and allowed him to move freely. He was now completely part of her demise – he was the centrepiece that the Gods would shove around in her fate that would ultimately kill her – or worse, kill her family and leave her sitting in the bloodbath, wondering what she had done to deserve it all. As he walked, Ketill’s mind began filling itself with the buzzing sounds of the music of the Gods, the whizzing sounds of the bones on ropes swinging around that could be heard for miles, the beats of the drum, yes, even the sound of Audrun’s many daughters, singing their songs together with their brothers. It was all there. It all made sense to him now, and even with the pain of his wound stinging him, he laughed.

The guards looked at him as if he had gone insane, shaking their heads as they dragged him along then, with Ketill stumbling a bit. They finally got to his chambers, and opened the door. Without much care they tossed him inside, before slamming the door shut. <‘’Did you hear him laugh?’’>

<‘’Don’t talk about it. I prefer not to think about him. It seems that the Sultana has broken him after all,’’> the other guard answered. <‘’I thought he’d always remain an beast. Now he’s just an animal.’’>

As Ketill came to rest in his room, the drums, the whizzing noises, the singing in his head, it all disappeared again and made way for the empty silence of the desert through his window. Slowly he stepped closer to the window, putting his hand on the windowsill first, then his other hand on the edge of the window, more upwards. He stepped into the windowsill, pulling himself up and looking over the vast desert ahead of him. For one moment he felt like a king – all this was his now, this worthless sand was of no value, but it was his. No, that could not be true. If it was true, he could leave, but it was not his time yet, not yet. ‘’Then what is it that they are waiting for?’’ he softly mumbled to himself, before looking up at the sky. ‘’What are you waiting for still? Answer me!’’ There came no answer, and Ketill’s eyes dropped to the ground below. Was that the answer? He leaned forwards, getting a closer look at the ground below. It was a steep drop, some fifteen meters to a small cliff, and then another ten or so meters into the sand itself.

He leaned back then and closed his eyes, the music of the Gods filling his head once more. It seemed to be the answer, but if it was this what they wanted, why had they given him the signs before? Was it all a trick? The cool breeze coming in through the window felt good on his face, and he breathed it in deeply. Yes, it was well. All was well. He lifted his foot and moved it forwards, floating effortlessly in the air outside the castle then, outside his window. He let it hang there for a moment, and was about to take the final step when he heard the door open behind him.

‘’Ketill, do you nee- Ketill!? What are you doing?’’

Slowly he turned around, for Yasamin to see his tired face. Slowly he pulled his foot back, before turning around and stepping down from the windowsill. While the answer might have been obvious, his answer was far from. ‘’Meeting the Gods,’’ he slowly spoke, a faint grin on his lips as he looked at the woman.

‘’Gods? There is only one God, what are you even talking about?’’ Yasamin replied, her face distraught over what she had just witnessed. She inched closer, taking a look at where he’d been wounded. ‘’They didn’t even take the armour off,’’ she mumbled. She began untying the leather straps, and then took the armor off, leaving only the tunic underneath, which was seeped with his blood. ‘’Ya Sawarim, look at this…’’

Ketill didn’t let her look for too long, waving away her hands and moving to the bed, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. ‘’Go, leave. Get me food and wine.’’ Normally he wouldn’t request wine, but just ale, but he needed to drink for his own sanity.

---

For several days he’d rest, the wound closing up leaving a grotesque scab while it healed. The armour was retrieved by some guards later, as it seemed rather unfitting for the slave to own a set of ceremonial armour. However, soon enough he’d be dragged back out and made to wear something else again – for once not on the order of the sultana, but rather the sultan himself. The ultimate goal of it was rather confusing, and Ketill’s initial thoughts went to a punishment for killing Sa’aqr, even though that had been the purpose of the fight. But it didn’t seem to bother the Sawarims when they were hypocritical and as far as they were concerned, a Monarchist dog wasn’t someone to treat with decency anyway. Understandably so – they faced the same treatment in Broacien.

He was retrieved early in the morning and once again sent to the bathhouse, this time without Yasamin. A set of two slaves washed him despite his protest, and made sure to clean the wound and bandage it after he was done in the baths. They took extra care to bandage it extra thick, so that even if blood would come out, it’d not stain his tunic. Though the purpose of this was unknown and seemed to indicate something other than his punishment or execution, it was wishful thinking according to Ketill. The Sawarim obsession with cleanliness meant that even if they were going to execute him, they might just be cleaning him for that. Nobody would want to touch a filthy animal like him, after all…

After they dressed in, putting new pants on him as well as a blue tunic with golden trims on the sleeves and the low v-shaped cut on the neck. The final touch was a dark leather belt that they tightened around his waist. They were about to put him down next to a small stone water basin when he spoke up, expecting the slaves to speak Broacienien. ‘’Is today the day?’’

The slaves kept working, not answering him until he asked again. ‘’Are they doing it?’’

‘’We’re not allowed to speak to you,’’ one of them answered, a frail man with the build of a scholar. He was not olive-skinned, so the assumption that he’d been from Broacien seemed correct and his accent only confirmed it.

‘’Today they kill me then,’’ Ketill answered, being forced over the stone basin of water. He gripped the edges of it and peered down into the water, staring at his own reflection.

‘’No,’’ the man answered, extending his hand to the other slave, a woman with darker skin than him. She handed him a pair of shears and the man immediately pushed it up against Ketill’s head, beginning to trim his hair down a bit. ‘’Now shut up. Don’t move or I’ll cut your head instead, and they’ll kill us both for that.’’

‘’Why are you cutting my hair?’’

‘’I said shut up. This isn’t the Sultana that ordered you here – she couldn’t care less if you looked presentable as long as you can kill. You’re here for the Sultan himself. Don’t talk, unless you are spoken to. Now, shut up.’’

The snipping of the shears was mildly annoying, but as Ketill stared at the reflection in the water it seemed to matter little. While he had maintained his hair himself and occasion had let Yasamin cut it, it had grown out a bit recently. After a while the man grabbed his head and forced him to turn slightly, allowing him to trim off the edges of the beard which had grown rather wildly. Now his beard was tamed back into a more respectable shape, which was perhaps somewhat unfitting for a slave, because for once Ketill looked like a regular man, and not the animal he was portrayed as.

‘’You’re done. Go see the guards outside,’’ the slave told him while taking the stone basin out of it’s holder, that was now filled with water and hair, and moved to empty it somewhere. Ketill got up and moved his hand through his hair and beard, shaking loose some hairs that didn’t fall out yet before turning to the doors out of the bath and left. Outside, the guards were waiting. Now that he realized who he was intended to serve today, he also realized why the guards looked so unfamiliar.

‘’I’m ready,’’ Ketill told them, clapping and rubbing his hands together to get rid of the little hairs on them. The guards merely raised their heads, grabbed him and pushed him forwards. They seemed entirely unwilling to make small talk with Ketill nor explain what was going on – in fact, now that Ketill thought about it, Najla hadn’t mentioned this either. Perhaps she was unaware of it happening. Even if she was, this was the Sultan’s orders, so it wasn’t like she could get mad over it. Knowing her, she’d probably be happy that Ketill wasn’t around to be a bother on her mind for once.

He was brought to the Sultan’s great hall – or rather one of the many – where he regularly received foreign dignitaries from tribes, villages or other cities, as well as Broacienien diplomats who tried to mediate, usually without results. Although this was very secretive, there had also been foreign dignitaries from a newly discovered people, who lived far to the south, much further than the Sawarimic sultanate had ever expanded its borders. The two cultures had been separated by a desert that stretched so wide, it took weeks if not months to cross it conventionally, but explorers from this new people had found the Sawarim sultanate. Rather than immediately invading, it seemed they were more interested in trade and peace – but how long would that last.

The original meeting had been postponed for a while, as the crossing of the vast desert was an undertaking on its own – but the discovery of a route with plenty of oases meant that this meeting could occur sooner than many people had believed – many had even believed it’d never occur at all. But now, the dignitaries had arrived, and entered the city without much splendour at all. Perhaps a political move, but the existence of these people was a secret to most except the highest of the highest within the sultanate. And, now, Ketill was included in that, though not for any good reason.

When he was brought in, he was made to stand next to the sultan’s throne – if you could call it that, since it represented something more resembling of a lounge in one of the many gardens in the palace, though obviously much more luxurious. It seemed like everything today had been put in order to specifically impress the dignitaries, from the arrangements of the guard’s positions, to the locations of the cushions in the lounges for the harem girls, to Ketill’s chain placements.

The guards put him in place and were quick to put a set of chains around his wrists, connected to the wall behind him. While the chains were long, at three meters, it seemed that this had been specifically made to allow him to move around without reaching the sultans throne, which was just half a meter further. Even in the worst case, Ketill could not reach him, unless he freed himself from the heavy chains.

He was made to stand there then, waiting for others to appear. It wasn’t long until a good batch of harem girls entered the hall, seemingly the finest of the finest among them, and took their seats in the lounge arrangements. They simply chatted among themselves, some shooting some glances at Ketill while he stood there, waiting for whatever else was going to come in.

More and more guards poured into the room, trickling slowly but certainly, filling the corners of the room, standing between the entranceways and at either side of the stairs that would lead up to the throne. Rather than the common guard outfits, they were seemingly outfitted in the most extravagant armours, wielding only the most beautiful of weapons – ceremonial, so their effectiveness was likely something that left a lot to wish for. To Ketill, it seemed like whoever was entering the hall today was surely a bit more special than the average guest.

He could not be more right, it seemed. Once the Sultan had arrived, it only took a few minutes before the guests to appear. At the front of the group were a set of guards, armed with long daggers that they cradled in their arm while their other hand would hold spears, the size of which was impressive, surely used to combat cavalry. They were dressed extravagantly in multiple layers of cloth, with the cloth wrapped around their heads and with a hood of chainmail over it, seemingly made of gold. Although it was the least effective material out of all to make armour of, it certainly looked nice – though to Ketill, who was a warrior at heart, it resembled nothing more than stupidity. But, these men weren’t here to fight.

Following the warriors were a group of four slaves, carrying on their shoulders a large wooden plate between the four of them. The slaves, similarly, were adorned with gold, with golden neckbands around their neck, and armbands on their wrists and even their ankles. They wore pure, white cloths around their waist, exposing their upper body. It reminded Ketill of how he looked when he was sent to do battle and killing in Najla’s name, minus the golden accessories. Atop the wooden plate they carried was a large collection of gifts – two ivory tusks with inlaid gold and jewels, shields and swords for the Sultan’s children, artwork made of pure gold. It seemed their riches were without limits – normally this would have intrigued Ketill, to pillage and plunder it to honour the Gods’. All it did now was instil a sense of hate in his heart, for the riches that the sultan would receive, knowing that he already had all he had need of.

Then came a row of two more soldiers, followed swiftly by a man that looked different. Normally, Ketill could have distinguished the country of origin from skin colour – the Sawarim were olive, the Broacieniens were beige like tree bark, and the Northerers were white as snow. The darkest were the slavers and some of the tribes that lived in the Sultanate, especially those close to the small rivers that flowed here and there to provide a stream of lush greenery in an otherwise void desert.

But these men all topped even that – they were dark as coal, their skin shining and glistening almost. But that was not what set the man that followed the guards apart – it was his extravagant clothes. Atop his head was a dark red cloth, with white trimmings and detailing, draped to shield him from the desert heat and sun, over which he put his golden crown. For a culture that fitted their slaves with gold, it seemed only natural that the crown was equally as impressive as the rest. The shapes on it were intricate enough to catch the harem girls’ eyes, though perhaps it was merely the exotic nature of these men that had done that trick.

His robes were equally as impressive, with more golden stitching on it than Ketill imagined you could even fit onto a set of robes. Then, over his shoulder, was the head of a lion, mounted there like a cape with the rest draped over his shoulder. It seemed to match his beard almost perfectly, the collection of his outfit reinforcing his status. Evidently, this man was the king of whatever nation had been found. And from how he looked – there was a lot of gold to be gained there. And also a lot of gold that he could use to buy an army. It was evident now why the Sultanate had decided to be more courteous than not.

Negusi Solomon

The Sultan himself looked equally as good today, though perhaps he lacked the exoticness that enticed everyone to glare at the newcomers. Never the less, the Sultan moved up out of his seat when the slaves that carried the gifts set the large wooden plate down in front of the stairs. He moved down halfway rather eloquently, carrying himself with grace. Naturally, this was his home. <‘’Greetings, friends,’’> the Sultan greeted while lightly bowing his head to the foreign king. <‘’Negusi Solomon,’’> he then added, greeting the king himself specifically.

<‘’Likewise,’’> the king returned, similarly bowing his head. The king spoke with a heavy foreign accent, but the languages matched closely. Perhaps, years ago, long before either of the two kingdoms existed, they had been part of one greater culture – with a similar language. Although it was evident that the two languages were different, they were so close that they might as well have been dialects of one another. <‘’Sultan Kamil al-ibn-Wahad,’’> the king added, before he raised his face to meet the gaze of the Sultan. He looked around the room, his eyes falling on the guards, the harem girls, and then Ketill, staring at him a bit longer than the others. <‘’A chained man?’’>

The sultan merely folded his hands behind his back, glancing over his shoulder at Ketill, before he calmly looked forwards again and stepped down the stairs more to stand on equal ground with the king. <‘’No,’’> he answered simply, smiling at the man. <‘’A beast.’’>

A small stifled laugh came from king Solomon, who seemed amused at the idea of a man-beast. <‘’His chains are steel, not gold?’’> he then further inquired.

The sultan replied in kind, the question doing nothing to make him flinch. It seemed that, while Ketill was versed in the art of a duel with swords and axes, these men were jousting with words, and though it seemed less lethal, the stakes were much higher. But, at the same time, it seemed that the two were friends – despite the fact that this was their first meeting, ever. <‘’Gold holds your slaves, because they are willing and much like man – gold would not hold him, this foreign beast. It is said only blood does. We have tried everything – tame the Daab al-Broacien with gold, women, food, alcohol. Only blood sates him.’’>

The nickname that he gave Ketill piqued negusi Solomon’s interest, though he did not ask for more information straight away, merely nodding at the answer. He then turned and made a wide gesture at the gifts that were presented before him. <‘’For you and your family,’’> he said, <‘’the finest goods Ye’inyani Merēti has to offer.’’>

Once again the Sultan slightly bowed his head in thanks, offering his thanks for the goods. <‘’My family thanks yours for the gifts,’’> he added, and king Solomon returned the light bow. <‘’Please, negusi, let us sit, that we may discuss and eat together,’’> the sultan then said, gesturing up the stairs to his throne, where a small table had been prepared as well as seating for king Solomon. The king merely nodded, and walked up the stairs, his eyes resting on Ketill as he moved until he reached his seating, after which he sat down and looked forwards, where the Sultan was just sitting down as well.

The sultan didn’t even have to say anything, and the slaves were already bringing in plates with food, setting it up on the table, though Ketill had the idea that there would be very little eating going on. It seemed that curiosity got the better of the king, when he opened his mouth and asked the question he had refused to ask earlier. <‘’You call this man the Bear of Broacien – perhaps it is the difference in our language, but I do not know this word ‘Broacien?’ Perhaps you would care to explain it’s meaning to me?’’>

<‘’It is not a word, negusi, it’s a place. Further North is the country of Broacien – a godless people, who worship their king. They are little and puny, not smart enough to even begin to challenge the Sultanate – but they make for fine decorations for our rooms.’’>

<‘’I see – so you marked his forehead with three dots, to mark him out as someone from Broacien? Surely, they are inferior, so they cannot mingle with the populace?’’>

<‘’No,’’> the sultan answered, reaching for a cup of wine, raising it to his mouth and taking a sip before placing it down calmly. Every movement he made seemed to be calculated and calm, reflective of his posture. <‘’They are beasts that harm themselves – he did that to himself. He is, what they call, a ‘Servant’ of his king. They are perhaps the best their army has to offer.’’> The sultan smiled when king Solomon looked Ketill up and down, his eyes searching for more marks of self mutilation. <‘’But again, they are not strong enough to challenge the Sultanate. For all their devotion, they are easily defeated.’’> For the ease of information, the Sultan quietly did not relinquish the fact that these very same little and puny Servants had done extremely well for themselves in capturing castle Coedwin, and had for years stopped any Sawarim incursions into the Broacienien lands.

<‘’It seems that the strength of the Sultanate was not exaggerated when my scouts reported to me then,’’> king Solomon answered, his eyes finally leaving Ketill’s body. <‘’It is good, then, that the sultanate and Ye’inyani Merēti can work together as friends, not foes.’’>

The comment seemed expected as the sultan grabbed his cup of wine again and held it up, toasting to the words that were spoken. King Solomonon followed the same movements, also raising his cup, before the both of them drank their wine, though rather than look up, both men stared deep into the others’ eyes even as they raised their cup, telling books about the stakes of the conversation.

<‘’A test of strength between our people would only lead to needless bloodshed – over what, a piece of sand?’’> the sultan then said when he placed his cup down again. Once more the king let out a stifled laugh, seemingly agreeing with the appraisal of the land they’d be fighting over – yes, a piece of sand. That was all there was.

<‘’It seems that way, though I have travelled through your lands for some time to reach this city. There is more than just sand here – your lands are good, as are the people.’’>

<‘’The entire sultanate thanks you for your kind words, negusi,’’> the sultan replied in kind, simply exchanging pleasantries at this point. <‘’It would please me greatly if one day I could visit your lands, too.’’>

<‘’Perhaps one day – but we did not come here to exchange compliments all day, did we, Sultan?’’> The kings reply was sudden – and culturally, it was likely very strange for the sultan to hear straight forward that they should move on. <‘’After all, my journey is long, and it would be unfitting for a negusi to disappear for a month at a time.’’>

The sultan contained his surprise very well, however, and merely nodded, picking off some grapes from the plate in front of him and putting them in his mouth. <‘’You are right, let us speak about our countries, one ruler to another.’’>

<‘’Our traders have expressed interest in trading with your people – primarily with the city, here, but also the villages. I assume this would pose no problem, as trade is mutually beneficial. You receive goods, gold, and we receive other goods, gold and other fine items.’’> It seemed the king was very obsessed with gold, though from the amount he had on him, it seemed like it was plentiful in his lands, so perhaps he was merely using it as a persuasive tool.

<‘’Ah – our perfumes. They are very desired, even here in the sultanate. Of course, as the sultan, I can simply order them manufactured for your traders. I will arrange for the royal caravanserai to simply make arrangements for that, so it will be done,’’> the sultan replied, a smile on his face when he spoke of the perfumes. It was true that some of them were highly desired, and it could definitely be considered the pride of the sultanate when it came to trading goods. The king nodded in agreement, seemingly satisfied with the offer – whatever the sultanate had to offer he was willing to take.

<‘’Very well. It should be mentioned that the many tribes of Ye’inyani Merēti are always willing to fight for the right amount – in our lands, they are renowned for their skill in combat, and are feared by enemy and ally alike. Though we do not typically allow foreigners to hire them – an exception can be made, for the right amount of money. As a show of good will – I have prepared a gift and a small presentation for you, that you may see the power of our tribesmen.’’>

The sultan seemed relatively surprised by this, though whether that was feigned or not, Ketill could not tell – the entire conversation was a blur to him, and he understood little of what was going on. Their body language gave little away, as did their words – the Sawarim language was still too much for him.

<‘’Ah? I see. Very well, let us visit the courtyard, then,’’> the sultan said, nearly raising to his feet, before being interrupted by the king.

<‘’Ah, sultan… perhaps it would be an idea to bring your ‘’Daab al-Broacien’’ along for the presentation.’’>

To this the sultan nodded, and gestured at his guards nearby to unchain Ketill. They followed the command quickly, unchaining him and holding their hands on his shoulder to avoid him charging off at the two rulers. However, Ketill had no mind to do such a thing, merely rubbing his wrists as the clamps were removed.

---

The group moved to the courtyard, where just a few days, perhaps a week earlier, Ketill had killed Sa’aqr. A troublesome affair for the sultan, but not entirely important at this point. As the negusi and sultan perched themselves atop the platform, the area now devoid of any life besides the two of them and their entourage, a warrior under service of the negusi entered the ring in front of them, stepping to the center and bowing before them, remaining bowed down until the negusi raised his hand and spoke to him. <‘’Raise, now,’’> he said, with his words echoing through the courtyard. The sultan merely looked on, waiting to see what would happen.

<‘’Sultan, I would dare my life on it that my warrior can defeat your ‘’Servant’’ with ease, if he is truly so tiny and puny like you say,’’> king Solomon then said, his eyes glancing at Ketill before moving on to the sultan, awaiting an answer.

The sultan milled it over in his head – although the warrior looked impressive, Ketill was known to defeat anyone that crossed him. Still, he had been injured recently, so perhaps the warrior would win – the only one that would have reason to be upset was Najla, though she would not speak up to the Sultan. Even so… for the sultan to let Ketill fight would mean the risk of having the foreign warrior die – an embarrassment to the king and sure to cause a disruption in the discussion. <‘’You have seen the man – he is not tiny, nor puny. He is a beast, negusi Solomon,’’> he answered, solemnly looking forwards, facing the warrior. <‘’Although I trust my own warriors, too, I would not bet my life on their victory against him.’’>

Rather than feel insulted, the negusi flashed a wide grin, showing his white teeth. <‘’So the Servants are not so weak, after all, then.’’> The sultan remained silent to this comment, looking at the warrior still, his eyes resting in one place as he entered his thoughts. <‘’Perhaps we should give the Servant a disadvantage then, to even the battlefield?’’>

<‘’Negusi Solomon…’’> the sultan began, raising his hand at the two guards that were holding Ketill, beckoning them to come forwards. Soon enough Ketill was standing in front of the raised platform. <‘’See, here,’’> the sultan said as he gestured for them to turn him around. <‘’Raise his tunic.’’>

The guards did as told and raised Ketill’s tunic, revealing the horrendous scars that the whipping Osman had given him had left behind. The negusi seemed visibly shocked at the scars, though he did not gasp or reveal it anywhere else other than his eyes and mouth. The grin disappeared as he looked at Ketill’s back, the scarred tissue seemingly enough to make him question his choice – no man with that amount of scars was to be taken lightly.

<‘’A man that does not speak or scream when receiving those is not a man at all. If you ask me to let your man fight him again, I will not deny you, for I wish not to insult you so by denying your request. I simply ask that you rethink your request. For a man to fight a man is…’’> The sultan looked to his side then, looking at negusi Solomon, before finishing his sentence. <‘’… fair. For a man to fight a beast… the chances are slim.’’>

<‘’Very well, Sultan. Perhaps we could let him fight one of your guards – he came here expecting a challenge. I’m sure it will match his expectations.’’>

<‘’As you wish – whomever draws first blood?’’>

<‘’Agreed.’’>

Ketill’s tunic was let down again and he was moved aside quickly, out of sight of the sultan and negusi – they did not need to stare at a slave any longer than absolutely required. Instead of him, a guard was brought in – nobody in specific, just some random guard that happened to be nearby. He entered the ring and prepared to fight.

The negusi’s warrior was armed to the teeth, having a set of six long curved daggers in the cloth sash around his waist, as well as a sword and a shield made of reeds bound together. However, besides his sash and the cloth around his waist, he wore very little, revealing his upper torso. The muscles were clearly visible, and it was evident this was a man that had trained his entire life to be a warrior. The sultans’ guardsman however seemed better armoured, and it’d be a lot harder to draw blood for the negusi’s warrior.

However, as soon as the battle began, the warrior rushed forwards, seemingly with the same ferocity Ketill possessed. Rather than wait for the other to deal the first blow, he simply rushed in slashing his sword while holding up his shield, and once his sword had passed once, he slashed it back.

However the guard would defend, his fate was sealed – the warriors’ sword fell down into the sand while the shield hid any movements from the guards vision, and before he knew it he was on the floor. The warrior dropped the shield too and pulled out two of his daggers while diving on top of the poor guard, who could do very little to defend himself at that point. Without much force the warrior pushed the daggers beneath the mans helm. It seemed the battle was over before it had even really started.

<‘’No blood – but I think it is done,’’> the negusi said, getting up from his seating and clapping for his own warrior. The sultan merely nodded, looking at the warrior with a sense of interest.

<‘’It is. This man is one of those that would be for hire, then, I take it…’’>

<‘’Better – he’s my second gift to you. He’s a eunuch, so he can serve your women without problems.’’>

Although it was true, it would be truly stupid to let a foreigner guard the women, especially the sultan’s wives. The sultan merely nodded and smiled, getting up then and also applauding the warrior. <‘’My greatest thanks, negusi,’’> the sultan then silently said, before turning and walking off of the platform to return inside.

---

<‘’Let us break the discussion for the day – I have arranged for a guide to show you around the palace. I trust you will enjoy the company of my niece,’’> the sultan had said after a few more hours of discussion. The negusi had agreed, seemingly out of his own boredom with the negotiations. Ketill could only be relieved that he was released from his duties for now. He was escorted back to his chambers, and then left to his own devices. It did not take long for Yasamin to find out and, hurriedly, to come find him.

Once again she barged into the room, just as Ketill was preparing to lay down on bed to sleep. ‘’What happened?’’ she immediately asked, slamming the door shut behind her with a loud bang. It seemed that the curiosity that harem girls possessed had never left her, though he had expected her to already know what had happened.

‘’The sultan needed me.’’

‘’You mean the sultana?’’ she corrected him, under the impression that he had misspoke and meant Najla, rather than her uncle.

‘’No,’’ he said, opening one eye and glancing at the woman, letting out an annoyed sigh at her remark. ‘’The sultan.’’

‘’Ya Sawarim, oh Monarch,’’ she hushed, raising a hand to her forehead, covering it with the back of her hand as if she was unwell. ‘’Who did you insult?’’

‘’None.’’

‘’Then you were sentenced for killing Sa’aqr?’’

‘’No, I was brought in as a tablepiece.’’

‘’Surely you’re joking? For what reason?’’

‘’For some foreign dignitary – a man with skin black as coal, his teeth white as the snow.’’

‘’Snow?’’

‘’It’s- never mind. White as the whitest horse of the sultan’s herd.’’ He forgot that, even if Yasamin was a Broacienien, she was born in Coedwin and had never left that place until she entered the Sultanate – snow was about as foreign to these people as a flying cow.

‘’So it was true?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, nothing. It’s just that I heard of foreigners entering the city – I thought it was just someone mistaking a tribal delegation for foreigners. But it seems they were right. So what was said?’’

Again, Ketill opened one eye and stared at the woman until she realized her mistake, and corrected herself. ‘’Right, sorry, I forgot you still don’t speak Sawarimic.’’

‘’The foreigner gave the sultan gifts – gold, weapons, shields, and some sort of bone with gold and jewels on it – two of those bones, actually. They were very large, unlike any creature I’ve seen.’’

‘’And the sultan? What did he give the man?’’

‘’Nothing – but the foreigner is still in the palace. I suppose he’s staying a while – knowing the Sawarim they will-’’

‘’Pamper him with gifts, yes, yes I know. Perfume, horses, lord, they’ll give him a Sultana if they’re in the right mood. I wonder who they’d pick, ah, maybe Aliyah, she’s just become of the right age. Marrying a foreigner must be a good prospect for her. Tell me, what did he wear? Was he just a diplomat?’’

Ketill shrugged then and closed his eyes, putting his hands behind his head while he told her what he remembered. ‘’Hm, robes with a lot of golden embroidery. He also had a crown, and a deep red cloth underneath it with trimmings. Looked like a king, I guess.’’

‘’A king? Surely, that would be a good prospect for a marriage. His age?’’

‘’When did I become your servant, and not the other way around?’’

‘’Ketill, please, please tell me. I’m dying to know, I’ll do anything for it.’’

‘’If I tell you, you will leave right away and find someone else to bother. He looked about forty, perhaps older. His beard had grey already, though he looked like he could still go to war and partake himself.’’

‘’Not bad, not good, right in the middle. I suppose it’d have to do for Aliya – what about his people?’’

‘’You need to leave.’’

---

The next day the process was repeated with slightly less commotion. The negusi seemingly enjoyed his time in the palace, and the negotiations were bound to continue swimmingly. Ketill was brought in again, once again shackled to the wall. The discussion seemed a bit more casual now, with only a few guards from either side present there, besides the harem girls and Ketill.

<‘’… two daughters and five sons. And that is merely from my brother – my sister has had five daughters so far, and two sons – and she is pregnant again right now,’’> the deep voice of the nigusi echoed through the hall, as the sultan and negusi spoke of their families. It seemed that the topic of marriage had come up sooner or later, which was a prevalent method of unification perhaps for the Sawarim and the foreigners both. For the Broacienien family, things would be much different – the families were nowhere near as large, and marriage was a serious ordeal – there were only so many princes and princesses. For the Sawarim, for every potential spouse there were at least ten others that could fill the same spot equally as good. Setting up a marriage seemed to be the same as shaking hands at times.

<‘’It seems easy then. The only issue is who to pick – I’m sure there are many good potential spouses on either side, however.’’>

<‘’The niece I met yesterday was very kind, so if she is a benchmark for the others, I am sure it won’t be hard to find a suitable husband.’’>

The sultan smiled at his reply, seemingly thankful for the compliment about his family, while returning it in kind. <‘’And if your good nature and traits are a benchmark for your family, then I am sure they will feel no regrets for marrying into it.’’>

<‘’Did you have someone in mind then,’’> negusi Solomon inquired, his brows raised slightly in a questioning matter. <‘’Tell me of them now, so that I can return next year with a selection of princes.’’>

For all his kind words, the negusi remained straight forward and honest – this much earned a laugh from the sultan as he leaned back and dropped a grape in his mouth. Thinking about it, he found himself coming up with one name – but it was the one name that he couldn’t promise. <‘’I had intended for my cousin Najla to be presented when I first heard reports of foreigners. But alas, she is betrothed now,’’> he slowly said, thinking about other candidates too. <‘’It would go against the will of the Sawarim to force a break of that betrothal. Perhaps it would have been good to send her away. She’s headstrong. Might have been a perfect fit for your people.’’>

<‘’She would’ve fit in perfectly, yes,’’> the negusi replied, sipping from a cup of wine as he leaned back. His eyes traced the harem girls now, no longer interested in the Bear of Broacien as it seemed. <‘’Our women are strong. As strong as the men, even.’’>

<‘’You make it seem like women make up half your army now, Solomon.’’>

<‘’That would scare off many invaders, wouldn’t it? But no, our women manage the household. Whatever they say is law inside the house. Anything outside of that is the man’s authority. But there are not many men who can freely say they are fully in control even outside of the house.’’>

<‘’Perhaps it’s different here – but I can’t say for certain. The niece I was talking about, Najla, she has made sure to prove otherwise a few times, and she’s not even married yet.’’>

<‘’Perhaps her family raised her to be strong. It’s not a bad trait.’’>

<‘’Her father is unlike her now, but her brother Harith is much the same. Basim is different – he’s more controlled. If I were a wiser sultan, I would fear that boy, as he thinks like a man with the wisdom of the world, but alas, I am not such a wise sultan, so I can feel nothing but love for him,’’> the sultan explained, before his mind wandered to the missing link. <‘’There was also Jalil – may the Sawarim rest his soul – he passed away in Broacien.’’>

<‘’Sultan,’’> With a sudden movement, negusi Solomon placed his hand on the top of the sultan’s hand as a sign of empathy. <‘’My condolences. No amount of words can remove your feelings of loss, but perhaps they can soften it.’’>

<‘’It’s alright, my dear friend. He passed away some time ago, and time has healed the wound. It’s his family that should have had the blow of losing a son and brother softened.’’>

The negusi nodded at this and patted the sultans’ hand before pulling back and returning to his position of lounging, eyes befalling the harem girls again. <‘’You keep talking about this ‘Broacien,’ and while I believe you when you say they are godless people, I cannot help but be curious about them. They are savages, I take it, but even savages must have culture, a language, purpose and tasks?’’>

<‘’Their only task is to defile the holy lands, their language is one that sounds like death itself, and as for culture, it mostly consists of dredging in mud and swamps. Just look at the beast behind us, and you will see what people roam that place.’’>

<‘’May I speak to him then?’’>

<‘’As you wish, negusi, but you will not get a word out of him.’’>

The negusi rose to his feet, and straightened his robe out with his hands, smoothing them out downwards before he turned to face Ketill, who was still chained to the wall. His entire expression hinted at boredom, but that would change when negusi Solomon approached him.

<‘’Beast,’’> he said, confusing Ketill with his language from the start. <‘’Do you speak?’’>

Ketill could only stare, waiting for him to speak in Broacienien, or clarify what he wanted. But the negusi would do no such thing, his eyes piercing Ketill’s eyes in a deadlock. After a few seconds, the negusi merely repeated. <‘’Do you speak?’’>

When no answer came, the negusi only laughed, looking back at the sultan who also laughed – though, it would not be surprising if the sultan also feared for the negusi’s wellbeing. <‘’What an animal,’’> the negusi commented, before reaching out to Ketill’s shoulder. Before he could grab it, Ketill pulled himself back, not allowing the negusi to touch him. Again the man laughed.

Inside of him, Ketill could feel the fire rising. It was one thing when Najla or Osman punished him or spoke ill of him, but for a complete stranger to use him like some animal meant for their entertainment, it was not something that he could take any longer. He spat his insult, the only he knew in Sawarimic, before anyone realized how Ketill would react. <‘’Your father fucked a horse to conceive you, horse-fucker.’’> Then, the clank of the chains could be heard as Ketill attempted to step forwards and beat the man down, only stopped by the length of the chains around his wrists.

For a moment it went silent, as the guards looked on in shock, as did the sultan. Nobody was sure how the negusi would react – seemingly not even the guardsmen he had brought. Ketill stared at the man’s face, his own eyes spelling doom and anger, the negusi’s eyes spelling something unknown to him. But then the man burst out in laughter, glancing at the sultan with sparkling eyes. <‘’The fire beats within him at least. Savage or not – they are fearless. Imagine having an army of men like him – big, strong, they don’t feel pain and are not afraid to insult anyone that stands across them. You could conquer the world.’’>

The sultan nodded slowly before looking at the table ahead of him, seemingly not reassured of the negusi’s words. <‘’Yes, or they would break your back the moment you stopped giving them things to fight. Guards, please restrain him and return him to his chambers. I am bored of him.’’>

---

Again, Yasamin was eager to visit Ketill immediately after he was returned, as if she could hear from a mile away that his door was opened. She barged in again, though this time she was met with Ketill standing almost right behind the door, forcing her to take a step back. ‘’What is it now?’’

‘’I- I just wanted to ask if you were alright?’’

‘’I’m fine. If that’s all then I’ll see you later.’’

‘’No, wait, how was it?’’

‘’Boring.’’

‘’That’s not what I meant. What happened?’’

‘’They talked about things that I could not understand. I believe Najla was mentioned about two or three times.’’

‘’They mentioned the sultana? And not Aliyah?’’

‘’No, just Najla. Is that all?’’

‘’I suppose,’’ she answered, and her eyes told him all he needed to know. She wanted to know more, but she also realized that he wouldn’t tell her anything more useful than that. She simply took what she could and left, leaving Ketill alone while she went to find the sultana and tell her all about what she just found out.

Najla’s eyes followed Yasamin’s movements carefully, watching as the girl nervously toyed with the hands she’d settled in her lap. Najla had invited her to sit at her desk in order to explain her presence, and now the girl was trying to find a delicate balance between being deferential enough to look away and respectful enough to meet her gaze. It was a thin line to walk, and Najla knew she was not making it any easier. With eyes narrowed over the thin black veil that covered her lower face, fingers drumming on the table before her, Najla presented an imposing confidant to the women before her.

<“You’re certain he heard my name? He understood nothing else?”>

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

Again, silence. Najla’s fingers continued to drum on the table as she took in this new information, trying to understand just what it meant for her. She’d learned that Ketill had been taken to her uncle after the first meeting, though not by the Sultan himself, who had seen no reason to inform his niece of this. There simply wasn’t a need to disturb her mourning, at least, that had been her father’s response when she sought to ask of his brother’s motives. For Najla, who had been fielding off attempts from both Osman and Harith to snatch her prized slave from her, the action felt far more loaded. This notion had only been confirmed when she realized she would not be brought face to face with the foreigners in her time here. Instead, she’d been kept hidden from the public eye as tradition demanded, unable to face any but her family in the forty days after Sa’aqr’s funeral. Yasamin’s appearance was a substantial exception to that rule, though the information she’d brought with her made Najla question whether tradition was the sole reason for this.

<“What of the others in the room, the guards and harem girls. What did he say of them?”>

<“Nothing, Sultana. I only asked about the foreigners.”>

Finally, Najla’s gaze released Yasamin, and she leaned back in her seat, glancing around the room as she tried to piece this new information together. She did not have much reason to believe what the girl was telling her, that Ketill had heard her name spoken, likely as a possible candidate for marriage. After all, Ketill’s knowledge of Sawarimic was extremely limited, whatever his account of the conversation would be, Najla trusted his eyes far more than his ears in such a regard. Beyond that, she had no reason to trust anything that came from Ketill, even if it came through Yasamin, who had more reason to provide Najla with accurate information. She could not even be certain if her name had come up as a candidate for marriage, perhaps it had been another context that called for it.

And yet, though she tried, Najla could think of no other context that would allow for her name to be called forward in such a manner. He had not noted the name of any other woman being spoken, a fact that settled uneasily in Najla’s stomach. Because, if this was true, it could not bode well for Osman. She knew that the duel had left the Sultan with a tainted view of her husband-to-be, but Najla could not imagine that the image of him had been warped so. Perhaps it had pushed him to realize something else, that she was being wasted on Osman. It wasn’t as if her uncle lacked enough daughters and nieces to make up for this position, but few of them carried the particular sort of prestige that had come with surviving Broacien and taming a beast. It was foolishness to give her to Osman, rather than offer her, story and all, to a prince, and Najla wondered if her uncle had realized this.

Regardless of her uncle’s intentions, Najla would only be able to react to this news with anger, feeling it bubble within her as she drummed her fingers onto her desk. If this was true, if her uncle had even considered sending her to be the wife of some foreign king, either before or after her engagement, then he had no concern for the years of service she had given him, no use for the information she took such care in obtaining, and above all, no interest in keeping Najla beside her family. Even with all that had happened, Najla took comfort in the knowledge that a marriage to Osman would keep her within the palace, where she could be among her blood. After all that she had suffered in Broacien, all Najla had wished for was to return to them, and now she was learning that her uncle was willing to send her to unknown lands, alongside an unknown prince. She had already been sent away once under his name, and though she tried to tell herself that this was an honor, being sent away as a brood mare to a foreign prince hardly felt like a reward. It was a position of great power, especially if Ketill’s description of the man as a king was truthful, though Najla could not afford to pay the price it’d require.

<“Sultana-“>

Najla’s thoughts snapped back to the girl in front of her, realizing she had been silent for quite some time. Yasamin seemed uncomfortable with calling her attention, but Najla’s expression did not change, nor did she speak, so Yasamin simply went ahead.

<“Did you wish for me to ask him about the guards?“>

<“Do you believe he’d be willing to tell you anything?”>

It was the only hope she’d have to limit these possibilities, to understand exactly what her uncle wanted from her, and yet Najla knew the answer before Yasamin spoke it.

<“He is never willing, Sultana, but I can ask.”>

Najla replied to that with a nonchalant click of her tongue, shaking her head just barely before she spoke again. <“Don’t push him. Anything he’d have to say won’t be worth you coercing it from him. Does he know you still speak to me?”>

The question came suddenly enough to visibly surprise Yasamin, though she recovered in mere seconds, seemingly thinking through her answer before she spoke it.

<“I don’t know, Sultana. I couldn’t say for sure, he’s never mentioned anything to me, but-“>

<“Instinct won’t allow you to say no. I understand. Does he still treat you well?”>

Najla asked the question every time she spoke to Yasamin, and the girl nodded in response, clearly used to these words. Najla spoke them almost as if she was genuinely concerned for her well-being, a fact they both knew to be untrue.

<“Yes, Sultana. I have no cause for concern or complaint.”>

<“I’m glad. You know what to do if that ever changes.”> Again, Yasamin nodded, and Najla leaned back, clearly satisfied with that. For a moment, it felt as if she were about to excuse her, but it seemed Najla was not quite done with her yet. <“You said the foreigners were dark men, darker even than the Rabiyah. Was their king as dark as the others? Did he say?”>

It was an odd question, although it would give Najla an insight to the conversation she would not otherwise have. More than anything, she wanted to come straight out and ask Yasamin if the king was handsome, if his movements were gentle, if he was a man she should fear or crave. He was too old for her taste as it were, but perhaps there was something redeeming in there after all. Unfortunately, it was not Yasamin who had seen his face, but Ketill, who had only said he looked like he could fight. Of course he wouldn’t notice anything else.

<“He would not answer my questions about his people. He only told me that the man’s skin was as dark as coal, and that his teeth were as white as…”> Her words faltered for a moment, and she glanced up to see Najla’s unblinking eyes trained upon her once more, expecting nothing less than the truth. <“I did not understand the word. But then he said they were as white as the whitest horse of the Sultan’s horse.”>

<“What was the word?”>

<“…Snow? I didn’t know what it was, Sultana, and he never explained.”> It was said after a long pause, with a great degree of hesitation, as if Yasamin could not quite believe she was speaking the right words. Had she been able to see Najla’s face, her fears would have been eased, for the Sultana broke into a small smile at the word. She had not heard it from another’s lips for some time. It was only when Najla began to speak again that Yasamin eased a little, confident now that she had not fed her the wrong information.

<“No need, I know what he intended.”> She had never seen it within the Sultanate’s borders, she’d only ever see it here when the sun rose backwards and the sky met the sand, Najla imagined. Yasamin’s curious gaze was ignored, and Najla did not seek to explain it to the girl. She’d tried to explain it to Sawarim before, but it was difficult to explain the concept itself. She’d spent a great deal of time trying to help Basim understand what she’d described as ‘cold, useless sand’, but she would not waste her breath explaining it to a harem girl.

<“If he mentions anything else, come speak to me once more.”> Najla moved to stand abruptly as she spoke, making it clear to Yasamin that the conversation was over. It was a particular sort of luxury to be able to dictate the conversation as she pleased, and one that Ketill had never been willing to allow her. Yet Yasamin stood as the Sultana did, bowing her head to her as she waited for Najla to offer her parting words, or rather, a final command. <“But if you come to find me during mourning again, do so more discreetly. Your fate is not tied to the Servant’s anymore, but you are still his, there are few who do not know your face.”>

<“I-“> Najla had nearly turned around, expecting that Yasamin would just leave, but it seemed Najla’s words had startled her. While she had few qualms about pressing Ketill for information, Yasamin faltered slightly when Najla turned her gaze back to her. Still, Najla seemed impatient, urging the girl to speak.

<“What is it? If you have a question, ask.”>

<“Forgive me Sultana, I just didn’t know- are you giving me to another?”>

<“No.”> Najla’s eyes traced over the girl, reading the curiosity in her eyes. She would not make Yasamin ask another question, having guessed at what had given her cause for confusion. <“You are still his servant, but his fate does not determine yours. You have proven yourself to be of great value to me, whatever Ketill might bring upon himself, he cannot bring it to you. Go now, and rest easy. You will understand soon.”>

Yasamin nodded and turned, endless questions still brimming in her eyes. Still, she would not ask them, and Najla seemed certain that she would not go to Ketill with this new information. Hopefully, she would not be foolish enough to do so, for it would immediately reveal just who Yasamin came to visit, or more likely, confirm Ketill’s suspicions. Even if she did, it would not matter. Najla had made her mind up as to what Ketill’s fate would be, and now could only wait until another decided her own. She listened to the girl close the door behind her before Najla finally ripped off that cumbersome veil, moving to lay down on her bed as new thoughts swam through her mind. Her wedding to Osman would still take place after the mourning period was over, all that was left to do was wait and see if her husband lived until then.

---

Najla had expected the month-long mourning period to feel like years, but the weeks passed by all too quickly. Her conversation with Yasamin had been enough to occupy her mind quite well initially, though Najla took little action beyond thought. After all, it would be useless to fight her uncle’s will on this matter, whatever it may be. She was still angry that he would think to send her away so carelessly, to toy with her life in such a manner, but Najla was not stupid to believe she would have been an exception. If anything, she was angrier with herself, furious at the small tinge of relief she felt regarding the notion. It would restore a great deal of honor to her family, to have their daughter as a queen of sorts for a foreign king, what did it matter that she’d be sold like cattle to do it. Najla would find herself in a position of great power, and perhaps more importantly, out of Osman’s reach. In many ways, her uncle might have been doing her a kindness, but Najla would never know, would never even seek to know. It felt like a mirage, a promise of a new reality when her fate had been sealed within this one. The price to shift her path was far too high now, but perhaps she would be forced to pay it regardless.

Though Najla did not seek to act upon the information Yasamin had given her, she continued to gather all the information she could regarding the foreigners. Their arrival had been secretive, but Najla had easy access to the few that knew of their presence, and it was no difficult feat to gather such information from them. It satisfied nothing more than curiosity however, for Najla would not even be brought before the foreigners, despite how often she had worried about such an encounter. She was mourning her brother-in-law after all, Najla was hardly surprised that the Sultan had not called for her. Grieving was a near holy process among the Sawarim, and though Najla shed no tears for Sa’aqr, it would have been an insult to the Al-Suwaidi if she were to disturb her grieving with foreign guests. Rather, her forty days were spent shielded from any besides her family, disturbed only by the occasional presence of her husband to be.

It had been a shock the first time she’d seen him, when he’d made his way into her room in the afternoon, his face still scarred with grief, the black of his clothes seeming to swallow him up. She’d reached up to her lips, still healing, but found it unnecessary. He did not strike her that day, and though his anger slipped in a few of the visits that followed, Najla had noticed a new sense of restraint about him. She’d wanted to believe that his grief was fading, but that was not the truth, she could see it every time she looked into his eyes. They were still ghosts to one another, any conversation they held was brief and forced at first, marred by grief and resentment. They’d discuss little details of the wedding, without any of the excitement they used to hold in such conversations, instead hurriedly agreeing on unimportant details so that Osman could return to his grieving and Najla to her solitude. It was better that way.

But as their visits increased, the forced nature seemed to fade, especially as Osman’s grief was healing. At least, Najla might have imagined that his grief was fading, considering that his restraint was bleeding into all his actions. He was not speaking to her so harshly, his touch was gentler the few times she felt it, but the grief was there, still waiting. Whatever the reason for his change, she would never seek to know, only hoping that perhaps it’d be permanent. They would continue as if it was. Najla continued to plan the details of her wedding from behind the curtain of mourning that hid her from the world, as if she was certain she would be allowed to marry him. Thus, as the mourning period finally ended and the foreigners left the palace, Najla was left with a wedding that was all but set in motion, still half-hoping it would have been snatched from her.

<“That dress is wasted on Osman. It’s a pity, honestly. You would’ve been a queen.”> Zahira’s voice was as playful as usual, though Najla knew she was not just teasing now. Tearing her gaze off of her own reflection in the mirror, Najla glanced back at where Zahira was reclining on the cushions, watching her with a grin on her face.

<“Zahira, sss.”> Beside Zahira, Najla’s sister Nura sat as well, occupied with the Arghyle, or waterpipe, that had been brought in to occupy the Sultanas as they watched their blood. They had both come in just after the mourning period was over, dragging their husbands to the capital to help Najla prepare for her wedding. It had been a remarkable relief to have them back by her side once more, but it was nowhere near the relief that had come with the end of the mourning period itself. Her bruises had healed, she had shed the dreary black, and most importantly, both she and Osman were still breathing. The foreigners had left the palace and Najla had been left behind to follow the path she’d set for herself. Whether for better or for worse, she did not know, but Zahira had made up her own opinion regarding the matter. Still, Nura seemed quite uncomfortable with letting her speak it, glancing over at the tailor before continuing. <“You can’t speak so freely, we’re surrounded by more than scorpions now.”>

Hearing Nura’s words, Najla glanced down at the girl that was stitching her dress, only to frown slightly. She hadn’t said a word since entering the room, only obeying their orders quietly, though her work was clearly expert. She had not thought it strange, used to silent slaves, but Zahira’s words would explain the notion all too easily.

<“She’s a mute, no need to worry.”>

Najla looked down at the girl with a fixed stare now, who was working as if to ignore the fact that these Sultanas seemed so comfortable talking so crudely about her within her presence. Likely, she was used to it. Najla however, kept her eyes on the girl as she spoke, curious as to her situation.

<“By birth?”>

The girl glanced up at Najla, surprised that she was addressing the issue so casually. In reply, she merely shook her head, at which Najla felt a sudden surge of pity for the woman. Though she was noticeably older than the Sultana’s around her, the light of youth had not yet faded from her face. She had wide, doe-like eyes, clear olive skin, all the potential to be a true Sawarim beauty. It left little question as to what had caused her to fall into such a position, but Zahira would volunteer the information anyways, eager to sate Nura’s curiosity.

<“Ahumia had found reason to bring her to her husband’s estate, some years ago. She had taken a liking to her work, and Ahumia’s husband had taken a liking to her. After she caught them together, she made certain no one else would ever know of the shame and sent her to me, which I then gave to you.”>

Najla clicked her tongue in sympathy, only to look down at the slave. She had threatened to use this same punishment upon Ketill, but was not certain she’d ever have the stomach to go through with it. Looking down at the woman, Najla was now certain of it.

<“Poor thing.”> The woman looked up in surprise, only to startle once she saw Najla’s gaze upon her. It seemed she was used to be talked about like an absent presence, especially judging by the way Zahira spoke of her, but to be pitied was new. After all, she was alive, most in her position could not ask for such luck. <“It’s not easy to say no to a Prince, is it?”>

The girl shook her head, but before Najla or her could do anything more, Zahira picked up the conversation, tired of talking about her new gift. If only she had felt Najla’s annoyance when she’d brought Ketill.

<“Same goes for you Najla, though you would have been quite well off. Don’t you agree, Nura? The symbol of a new peace between two kingdoms, from a princess to a queen, Najla would have been much better off there. A position of greater power, a marriage to a king-“>

<“A king I do not know, a people I do not know, and a husband I do not know.”>

<“I don’t know, sister.”> Nura finally spoke up, taking a moment to let out a soft exhale of smoke before speaking again, the careless attitude of someone who knew others would wait for their words. <“From what I heard of the foreigners, you’d spend your life drowning in gold.”>

<“Yes, and from what I heard, they meant to take me as their foreign brood mare.”>

Najla spoke harshly, no longer entertaining their teasing gestures. It had been a nerve-wracking experience to wait until the foreigners left, always waiting for the day she’d wake up and find her husband dead. It had been a blessing and a curse to see them leave before the mourning period was over, allowing her to continue with her wedding as planned. Her eyes traced over her image in the mirror again, ignoring the frail slave that crouched at her feet now, pinning the dress to the Sultana’s liking. Najla smoothed her hands over the fine fabric, before reaching a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, speaking without tearing her eyes from her own reflection.

<“Perhaps I should place my trust in my own eyes, and nothing more.”>

<“It’d make your job quite difficult, Aynaya.”> Zahira responded, to which Najla found herself grinning in return as well, though it faded quickly as Zahira continued to speak. <“What will you do with the girl who fed you this falsehood?”>

<“She fed me the Servant’s understanding, it wasn’t met to be a falsehood.”> Najla replied, though the kinder reasoning would soon give way to another, one that was far more truthful. <“Besides, her position is one of use to me. I am not a fool to risk it.”>

<“Does that mean you are keeping the Servant then?”>

<“In a way.”>

Najla would not elaborate on this, instead, swiveling around on her position to give the two women a view of her dress. She had made up her mind regarding what to do with Ketill some time ago, a precarious compromise between her family, her husband, and her own safety. It would not last, Najla was certain of that, but it was the only option she held. It would be a bitter medicine for all of them to swallow, but she would try to ignore that now, focusing on far more pleasant subjects.

<“Forget all that. What do you think?”>

The dress itself was magnificent, as if designed solely to showcase the wealth of the Sultan and his kin. In Sawarimic tradition, the dress was dyed a rich, deep green, meant to mimic the color of paradise. Adorning it were gold and jewels of various sizes and shapes, meticulously patterned along the dress so that it glistened with every movement. It was a difficult feat for the tailor to follow this delicate pattern of jewels all while maintaining the perfect fit as well, but the Sawarim would allow no compromise on either. The dress was meant to fit along her figure so perfectly she would likely have to be sewed into the dress itself on the day of her wedding, with long sleeves, a skirt that grazed the floor under her, and a neckline that revealed only her collarbone, leaving just enough room for a thick cluster of necklaces. Even with the sheer amount of gold that had been stitched into the dress itself, Najla would don the gifts she was given that night. Though she was expected only to wear a few pieces from her own family and her new one, it would still be enough to weigh her down upon her wedding itself, she was certain of it.

<“It’s blinding. You look like the sun itself.”> Despite her teasing words, Nura had finally abandoned the arghyle to stand and approach her younger sister. They looked even less similar than Zahira and Najla, for Nura had taken after her father and Harith, with those flashing eyes Najla still envied. Yet as Nura smiled, Najla’s own mimicked hers so perfectly, there could be no mistaking their linkage. Nura took Najla’s hand in hers, holding it gently as she looked her up and down, taking in the dress.

<“You look beautiful, sister. Osman has been blessed by God.”> Before Najla or Zahira could respond, Nura kissed her sisters cheek affectionately, before turning to look down at the slave that was still crouched somewhat, trying to work around the Sultana’s as she fit the skirt even tighter. <“Go bring her veil, I should like to see it all together.”>

The slave stuck a final pin in before standing and nodding, quickly running off to fulfill the Sultana’s request. As she did so, Zahira’s voice came again, calling attention to that which Nura had hoped to ease over.

<“Will he be coming today?”>

Najla did not say anything for a moment. Proceeding with her wedding celebrations had been a strange transition to make from mourning. Though Osman had come to visit her on occasion, and had been ready to proceed with their wedding as planned, few could pretend it was a normal situation. Few even tried, besides Osman himself, it often seemed. Though the family of the groom was meant to be present at much of these preparations, especially to come by and see their daughter in laws dress, Najla knew better than to expect their presence here today. They would be coming to the henna night, nothing more, she assumed, so this forced air of normality felt strange to her, and unnecessary. They would follow only the traditions they had to, ignoring the ones they didn’t, and for what? She would be part of their family at the end of it all anyways, why take a Sultana in if only to distance her from their own family? It made little sense, but to those outside either family, it seemed as if they were doing only what the Sawarim demanded of them. To those within the families, the tension was still palpable, but they could do little more other than assume the same.

<“Najla, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter if he does.“>

<“He’ll come.”> The certainty in Najla’s voice cut off Zahira’s attempt to comfort her. Najla’s eyes flashed as she glanced between her sister and cousin, suddenly more certain in her words than ever before. <“He said he would.”>

<“Aynaya-“>

<“Oh, the veil! It’s lovely!”>

Nura’s excited voice cut between the two women. Najla’s eyes were determined as she set them upon Zahira, certain beyond all reasonable hope that Osman would come to see her, even without his mother present. Zahira and Nura knew of his visits, but did not share Najla’s certainty, believing that he’d only grow more difficult once they were officially married. This was seen in Zahira’s gaze, near worried as she looked onto her cousins determined expression, but their eye contact was broken as Nura reached for the veil, placing it upon her sister’s head and over her face. It was sheer and jeweled delicately, so that Najla’s face could still be seen from underneath it, waiting to remain half-hidden until her husband lifted it. Nura secured it with the thin golden circlet, forcing a smile onto her face as she stepped back.

<“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Zahira?”>

<“Truly. May the Sawarim bless your union.”>

As sudden as Nura’s actions had been, they served their purpose, allowing the women to return to far easier topics. They prodded at Najla, indicating how they wanted the tailor to fix her dress, discussing what jewels she’d wear with it, all the details that would distract them from the truth of this wedding. They would not be able to continue this conversation for long, as a sudden knock on the door sounded, and they sent off the slave girl to answer it. It was unnecessary however, for Najla knew that her family would not bother to knock, and there was no one else who had cause to disturb her.

Even still, she was slightly surprised to see Osman walk in, though not quite as surprised as her family. He was still dressed in black, even though the mourning period was over, and would likely continue to do so until the day of their wedding. It made a rather severe contrast to his lover, who stood before him in green and gold, her eyes tracing his movements in the mirror, from behind the thin veil. The first time she saw her husband in the mirror was meant to be on the night of their wedding, where she would lift her veil to see her future smiling at her for the first time. Rather, he’d fulfilled his promise only to show himself in his mourning clothes, an unintentional glimpse of the future she feared he’d truly promised her. It was superstition, nothing more, Najla told herself as she turned to face him.

<“You came.”>

Her voice was warm as he stepped towards her, almost as if she were smiling, though Osman could see quite clearly that she was not, even from behind her veil. Rather than respond to her immediately, he turned to where Nura and Zahira sat, bowing before them, then turned back to his bride-to-be. Though Zahira looked quite surprised to see him standing there, Nura hid her surprise far better.

<“I told you I would.”> Though his response sounded kind, there was little emotion behind it, almost as if he were stating a fact. It was little different from his behavior before, as Najla felt as if he was simply living their relationship as he remembered, not as he felt it now. Still, she could only be happy that he was here, and looked towards her family expectantly. Nura understood at the first glance, standing up and snatching Zahira’s arm, preparing to pull her out.

<“We’ll return with mother once the dress has been properly fitted, she is quite excited to see it. Come cousin, there’s much to do.”>

Osman bowed to the Sultana’s once more before they turned to go, and a flick of Najla’s hand was enough to send the tailor after them, leaving her and her husband alone. A few weeks ago, Najla would have feared such a situation, enough to feel her heart pound in her chest at the thought. Now, he was merely a ghost, and a ghost could not harm her. Rather, he took in the sight of his bride-to-be. For a moment, Najla waited, hoping to hear something, anything, that might betray how he felt. They had been speaking of their dreams of marriage for years, after all, even if it was no longer a pleasant fantasy, it had startled Najla somewhat to see it inch closer. Osman showed none of that, merely looking upon her with something unknown. It was the same expression she’d seen since as his presence had started to calm, as if he was trying to hide his grief from her. She could not quite tell whether he was restraining his hands or tongue, but she could feel it all the same. He’d only failed in containing it at the beginning of the mourning, nothing quite like what she’d seen in the temple. Now, he did not caress her nor did he strike her, rather his presence haunted her like a silent, patient ghost. What he was waiting for, she could not tell, but it was hardly as if she could keep him from taking it.

<“How much of his flesh did your father sell for that dress?”>

Najla found herself smiling slightly, so barely she was certain Osman could not see it. Even though they could not pretend at love, could do little for more than appearances, it was clear that they could not shed their familiarity with one another. After so many years together, it was near impossible to pretend they were strangers, though at times it seemed they both wished to be.

<“It was worth it, don’t you think? Tahir’s new gift goes splendidly with it.”>

With that, Najla walked towards the dresser, careful to move comfortably in her dress. She reached out, taking two splendid golden earrings off the table, only to hold them up to Osman. He took a few steps forward to inspect them, there was still a distance between him and his bride to be, though he did not need to bridge it. The light glistened off the earrings, making her point regarding their splendor difficult to argue with.

<“I thought the Servant was his gift to you.”>

<“He is no longer mine. It’s fitting he should have sent another gift, though he did not know that. This was a kindness.”>

<“You’ve decided then.”>

Najla bit her lip carefully, gently moving to rest the earrings on the dresser. She had not told Osman her decision regarding Ketill, and truthfully, did not believe he would be happy about it. It was too precarious of a situation, though Najla had little other choice. With a soft sigh, she moved to lift her veil, so that she could speak to him clearly.

<“Yes. I won’t change his master. He is mine now, so he will be yours in name.”>

<“In name?”>

<“His new position will be under Harith. Your property will serve the Prince.”>

Osman’s eyes studied her with something unknown, something that even their years together could not explain to her. They both knew just what it meant. Najla had given Osman control of Ketill, she had not been able to escape that, but he would go through hell if he wanted to touch him. Harith would find some task for him, he’d have far more use for a man like that than she would, though it worried her to think of Ketill surrounded by weaponry. More than a purpose, Harith would be the barrier between Ketill and Osman, placed just as Najla herself was removed. It meant that if Ketill stepped out of bounds, if he crossed the thin line she’d drawn, he would be removed from all protection. Otherwise, he was untouchable. She’d placed his life on a thin, tense rope, hoping to satisfy the demands of her family and husband alike. Najla waited silently as Osman tried to process this information, but to her surprise, he was not angry. It was that newly familiar look of restraint again, and he nodded briskly.

<“Fine.”>

<“Fine?”>

<“Yes. I don’t give a damn about his position, so long as I retain all his rights in name.”>

Najla did not respond. There was no need. She had technically relinquished control, Ketill was a debate between Osman and Harith now, one she would forever remain trapped in the center of. She feared for their future disagreements, wondering if one day she’d be torn between losing another brother or becoming a widow. In this sense, Ketill’s death seemed nothing short of a blessing now, though she was distracted from her thoughts as Osman took a few steps towards her, bridging the gap between them.

<“Who did you stand up to in making this decision, me or your brother?”>

<“My own pride, mostly.”> Najla looked up at him, her expression softening somewhat. This was the closest they’d been in some time, another teasing hint of normalcy when the truth was anything but. <“In truth, I do not believe I’ve ever made a good decision regarding the Servant. They have all driven me farther from you. If this does not drive you to hate me more than you do already, then pride be damned, I will not regret this decision.”>

<“Our language is just a toy to you. You spoke quite those same words to Basim when he was angry about the Al-Uba’yd, don’t you remember?”>

<“Yes. And I love him, just as I love you.”>

<“Liar.”> For once, Najla did not flinch as that insult spilled from his lips. He was not angry with her, not now. There was simply no need to lie about their situation any longer, at least, not to each other. He was here to play the loving husband-to-be, but only to those outside the walls, who could not hear the truth. Perhaps they’d believe he forgot his brother’s death so soon, but both Najla and Osman knew otherwise. <“Don’t tell me you still love me. You’re not that stupid.”>

The words shot through Najla like an arrow, a wound she knew Osman could see in her eyes. She had not expected such words to hurt her so, and it seemed that Osman had not expected them to hurt, but there was a truth to it.

<“I don’t know.”> Her voice was soft as she spoke again, as if she was threatening to spill into tears, though her expression did not waver as she looked upon Osman. <“I don’t know what it is not to love you. You’ve been part of me for so long, deeper than the roots of the olive tree. It feels like I’ve been made a widow already.”>

<“Perhaps you will be.”>

<“God forbid.”> Najla replied swiftly, suddenly easily able to pretend that it was an unheard of notion to her. <“It doesn’t matter how we feel. We’re not children, to call after Leyli and Majnun. You are the blood in my veins, the Sawarim has given me no choice but you. My fate was sealed the night our eyes met.”>

There it was again, that expression she could not understand, though far softer now. It was a strange sight, for Najla had not been lying to Osman, or at least, she did not believe she was. There was no one more familiar to her, and yet, he held something from her, something she could not read. Before she could study his eyes for too long, he gripped her cheek, the kindest touch she’d felt from him since before Sa’aqr’s death. He could not bring himself to touch her afterwards, and so to feel him lean in now, kissing her forehead gently, was a shock she had not expected her words to bring.

<“I’m ordering the Servant to be at the wedding. Will your brother take issue with this?”>

<“He is yours now.”> Najla replied as Osman released her, taking a step back. Their visit was over, she could tell that he was ready to leave, just as she was ready to see him go. Still, she frowned slightly as his request, unsure of why he would want Ketill to be present when he despised him so. Likely to torment him during the wedding, or perhaps to offer him as a gift to another where Harith could not reach him. It hardly mattered, if Ketill was dead, she would breathe easier. <“It’s a strange request, but it’s not mine to fulfill.”>

<“I’ll talk it through with him. I should go. My mother was not too happy that I came, she insisted I make it quick.”>

<“I’m glad you did.”>

Osman moved as if to go, having spent the time as he wanted to. There would be none that doubted they followed the required traditions now, up until the wedding night, they would be free of one another’s presence. He hesitated however, turning back to look at her. For a long moment, Najla waited for him to say something, but only stood quietly as he took in her wedding dress, his thoughts unknown to her.

<“What is it?”>

<“You look beautiful. I could not have imagined.”>

Najla wanted to smile at the compliment, but there was a sadness in his voice now. Rather than linger in it, he turned to leave, walking out of the door with a haste that left Najla worried. He’d left her with many questions and a heavy heart, and Najla turned back to the mirror, eager for her family to return as distract her from both.

---

The Ibrat Al-Layl was to meant to be the favorite night of every bride, a final chance to celebrate with her family before she became part of her husbands, but Najla only felt ill as it approached. Not only was she opting to be permanently marked as one of Osman’s tribe, a woman of the Al-Suwaidi, she was going to do so in a room full of those very women. Though the mourning period had ended by the time of the celebrations, there was little to convince Najla that night would go about easily. The worries would only begin to erode as each of her family members came into the capital for the ceremony, one by one, so that she felt far more confident as the night approached. However, she could not ignore a sensation that had lingered in her mind, urging her to approach such joyous occasions with the utmost caution.

It was getting easier to quiet that sensation as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and Najla arrived at the courtyard, giggling alongside her sister and cousins. Nura gripped at her arm, pulling her into the gardens, and her other hand was occupied by a cup filled halfway with that venom she so despised. Despite all the difficulties that had led to this night, there was no choice but to enjoy it now. She had prepared for this night with the company of her family, trading gossip and wine until Najla felt prepared enough to face the women who were waiting for her. And so she entered the courtyard with her family, dressed exquisitely, already affected by the alcohol, and nearly in tears from whatever Nura was whispering in her ear. Najla quieted quickly as they entered the courtyard however, silenced by the far more somber appearance of those waiting.

It was a beautiful sight, truly, those who worked within the palace did their jobs well. They had taken the smaller courtyard below Najla’s window, the one that was restricted solely to the women of the palace, and as such, the obvious choice for nights like this. The gardens were thick and green still, and the pools were already occupied, mostly by the younger girls that would otherwise be clutched at their mother’s skirts. All around them, candles had been placed around the courtyard, illuminating every inch possible. As she remembered during her engagement party, candles had been placed to float in the pools as well, though their effect was dulled by the children who splashed around them, under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Food and drink practically spilled over their trays, constantly offered to the women who sat on cushions around the center of the courtyard. It was little different from most of the parties held within the capital, if it were not for the sole presence of female slaves and eunuch guards. Musicians sat at the edge of the courtyard, playing for women who danced freely, uncaring what of their body was and wasn’t covered when men were not present. However, they parted as Najla moved through to sit on a Takht before them all, where she could view the courtyard. Here, her mother waited for her, as did two faces that were far less happy to see her, and a somber reminder in the midst of a happy night.

<“Mother.”> Najla stepped out of the small group of women, bowing before her mother first. She took her hand, pressing it against her forehead before rising. Her mother leaned in, kissing her on the cheek softly, before releasing her to face Osman’s mother.

At this, Najla turned, bowing again before the woman. She was trying to maintain her expression, that much was clear, but Najla recognized that look in her eyes. It was the same glare she’d seen just before the trial, only now, it was tinged with grief. Still, she would not speak nor show it, only allowing Najla to take her hand and bow as she had done to her own mother. They exchanged no words, and Najla was allowed to pass along to Elif without further trouble, though the awkward nature of the exchange had not been lost on the women behind her.

It would only grow worse, for Elif and Najla were no longer meant to bow to one another. Najla knew the tradition, the two of them were sisters now, she was meant to kiss her cheek like an equal. Instead, Najla only nodded her head at her, a brief gesture of acknowledgement. She could never pretend that Elif was her equal.

Behind her, the women began to whisper, and Najla was certain that if she listened closely enough, she would be able to distinguish their conversations. The women of the Al-Suwaidi were likely gossiping regarding their Sultana, whispering about her audacity to kill a man and then bow before his mother so, before walking past his wife. Meanwhile, any woman who bore the name Al-ibn-Wahad was speaking of Najla’s position, how difficult it must have been for her to even nod towards a woman who had spoken to her in such a manner. And somewhere deep in the midst of it all, she could have sworn she heard another voice taunting her, telling her just how low she’d sunk. There was nothing to do but ignore it, and Najla stepped back, ready to take her seat.

Elif returned the nod, though Najla had expected there to be something…else. More venom, perhaps, or even a sort of smug pride. Instead, Elif showed little emotion, and when she returned to her seat, she was even smiling as she spoke to the women beside her. Najla took her seat then, frowning slightly as her eyes began to trace over the women.

She had expected far more. There was no need for that sensation in the pit of her stomach, if it were not for those expectations. After all, Najla had seen the way Osman’s mother looked at her. That woman would be satisfied to see her dead, though she had greeted Najla as respectfully as custom demanded. The other women of the Al-Suwaidi were similar, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, though Najla couldn’t help but note that the two families were reluctant to mingle. Otherwise, nothing seemed too far off, and this was exactly what ate at her thoughts now. Perhaps the pride of obtaining a Sultana truly was above that of losing a brother, but Najla could not allow herself to linger on these thoughts for too long. If she was worried about any of the Al-Suwaidi, it would have been her husband. Instead, she turned her body slightly to lean into her mother’s ear, speaking as she looked over the courtyard to where the older women had gathered some of the younger girls, launching into the familiar stories to a captive audience. The sounds of music had halted as they spoke, and besides the whispers of playful conversation, Najla could hear little but the story itself now, bringing a strange eeriness onto the courtyard.

<“They were so quick to start the stories, I thought I would have more time-“>

<“You would have, if you hadn’t been hiding from your mother-in-law.”>

Her mother’s response was sharp, though she raised a hand to touch the thick hair that pooled down Najla’s shoulders now, moving it over her shoulder to see the details of her dress more clearly. It was a kind gesture, one that served to dispel some of Najla’s nerves regarding the night ahead, though she decided that the venom she drank had been far more effective.

<“I’m a grown woman, I wasn’t hiding.”>

<“There was no need to, look how easily the night is going. Your wedding will go just as smoothly, only if you relax and enjoy it.”>

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla’s mother repeated the phrase back to her, before finally releasing her daughter’s hair so that they might hear the rest of the story, and the voice of the animated old woman was suddenly forefront in Najla’s mind.

<“Though the crowd threw their stones, Majnun continued to yell, saying there was no God if not Leyli, until finally, a woman began to speak. Her voice rang out over the crowd, as sweet as a desert date, as she called ‘please! Do not beat my lover! For he is not in his senses, so you must all come to your senses for him!’”>

Najla smiled as she watched the young girls, their eyes wide as they followed the old woman’s story carefully. They were sure to hear it again, as Najla had many times over, but it was a story she had adored as a young girl. It was not hard to imagine their excitement, as she could easily recall hers, when she had begged her mother to tell her the story. The tale was a common one throughout the Sultanate, though it’s exact telling varied by tribe. She had always preferred the version her mother’s tribe had told, for the Nasir tribe were one of the few that granted it a happy ending. The capital was not quite so kind to its listeners.

<“She lifted her veil, and in the face of such a great beauty, the crowd parted. Leyli ran to her lover, draping her body over his as she pleaded. ‘May I take his pain, for I have taken his sanity as well. It is the copper of my skin that makes him curse the sky, the red of my lips, the arch of my brow. If you must stone a man for his insanity, beat that which has caused it!’ Upon hearing her words, the crowd lowered their stones, for none could bear to hurt Majnun, for fear that they would bruise Leyli’s lovely skin. They saw that she spoke the truth, for Majnun found a new strength in her arms, standing though his body was bruised and bloodied, so that his lover could help return him home.”>

<“So he lived? Were they married?”>

The old woman chuckled, for she had told this story often enough to grow used to the children’s disappointment when the ending they sought was not the truth. It was not a stories purpose to end well, Najla had been told when she had complained as a child, but to impart a new wisdom onto the listeners.

<“Leyli pleaded for it. She loved him too, you see, and so she pleaded with her father as Majnun recovered from his wounds. He laid in bed for 20 nights, and every night, Leyli fell to her father’s feet before evening prayer. There, she pleaded with her father to allow them to marry, for she knew that Majnun would only be cured if he were allowed to possess the softness of her heart for himself. Upon the 20th night, Majnun rose from his bed, and pleaded the same of her father. The nights of pleading had softened her father’s heart, and he did not wish to hurt his lovely daughter, but, he could not allow them to marry.”>

<“Why not?!”>

<“Majnun had cursed his God. He had put Leyli in his God’s place, believing that she was higher than him. Her father refused, saying that the only punishment for such blasphemy was stoning, and that by recovering from his wounds, Majnun had avoided repentance. Yet as Leyli began to cry, her father could not bear to see his daughter’s suffering, and so he refused to stone her lover. ‘If my daughter wishes to take on your pain, I will not hurt you, for I cannot hurt her.’ Thus, he banished Majnun to wander the desert for 40 days and nights, twice the time it had taken him to recover. ‘Go’, he said to Majnun, ‘and if you return, then I know God has cleansed your sins, and so you will have my daughter.’ And so Majnun left, and for 40 days and nights he walked, and no food nor water touched his lips, for beside the sweetness of her lips, even the ripest grapes tasted of ash. The first night, he forgot the name of the moon, for in his darkness, that too, became Leyli. Then, the sun was forgotten, and its name too, became Leyli. He wandered this way for 40 days and nights, and when the final night came, Majnun wept tears of joy, for he knew he could return to his lover once more, and tell her of how he had survived. When he sought to return home, he found that north was Leyli, but so too was south. There was no star to direct him, for they too, were Leyli, no wind that could lead him, for they all spoke her voice. And so he fell to his knees, realizing that he had not been granted repentance, and that he would never be cured of his madness.”>

<“What?”> The outraged cry of the young girls caused a sudden ripple of laughter among the women present, who had all heard the story before. In some versions, Leyli died, for she had taken on the pain of her lover and starved in his place. In others, he returned, only to find his lover married. Yet this version, the one in which Majnun suffered eternally, it was the most common told within the walls of Al-Tirazi, and the old woman’s next words made it obvious as to why.

<“Our God is not a weak God, but he is a merciful one. Majnun will live on forever, long after Leyli has passed, for he needs only her memory to subsist. If you are ever alone in the desert, the wind will certainly carry her name to you, for Majnun wanders it still. And if you are brave enough to follow this particular wind, you will find a frail man, his throat hoarse with years of calling, his eyes blinded by sand, still searching. But he will be smiling. For though his madness was not cured, our God deepened it, so that all before Majnun is Leyli, and so that the madman would be satisfied in his madness.”>

The story ended, the young girls began to speak amongst themselves as they dispersed, most being called back to their mothers, while others ran off towards the elegant platings of food. Najla’s eyes were not upon the children however, but upon the woman that moved to kneel before her now. She was a woman well into her forties, a respected Mother within the palace. The Al-Suwaidi tribe had offered to bring someone of their own to do the job, most tribes typically did, but it had been refused as politely as possible. Those who came in such close proximity to the royal family had to be held in the utmost confidence, and the way Najla nodded her head at her in greeting made it clear that she was such a woman.

<“You know what that story means, Sultana?”>

<“Unfortunately.”> Najla replied, reaching out for her wine glass. She raised it to her lips before the Mother could protest, downing the remainder as she heard a few of her cousins giggling behind her. Zahira’s enthusiastic cackle was the loudest, especially since she knew the pain Najla was about to receive. The end of the famed story of Leyli and Majnoon meant that it was time for her to be marked with that eternal symbol, the one that they claimed would help these lovers connect as Leyli and Majnoon were never meant to. It was an excuse, they all knew the story was a distraction, but she did not mind pretending otherwise.

<“Sultana, please, I’m begging you not to drink. This is delicate work-“>

The way the woman spoke made it rather obvious that she was used to dealing with the royal family, a strange notion for the Al-Suwaidi women, who would spend most of the night dancing gracefully around their own words. These women were held in the highest of confidence, they birthed the royal family’s children, patched their scrapes as children, introduced the princesses to womenhood, and for their position, they were afforded some leniency in their speech. It was often necessary, in fact, as Najla made clear when she ignored the woman to finish off her wine, setting it down again only when it was empty.

<“Don’t deny me a drink before you prick needles into my skin, that’s cruel.”>

<“They’ll hurt her if she fucks up because you’re bleeding too much. Have some compassion.”>

This voice was clearly not that of the Mother before her, but her cousin Zahira, who had silently moved beside her to whisper in her ear like a snake. Najla grinned at her words, looking down at the Mother who took her right hand now, pulling it forward as she looked over it.

<“Don’t try to feed me that, I was the one sneaking you sips of venom every time the Mother so much as blinked on your night.”>

Zahira laughed at the memory, resting a hand on Najla’s shoulder gently as she straightened up. <“Of course. It’s criminal for a woman to be sober on her Ibrat Al-Layl.”> Najla felt her pat her shoulder gently before walking away, and she barely heard Zahira’s words as the Mother placed Najla’s hand on a steady surface, just beside the needles and a small stone basin containing a dark mixture.

<“I’ll get you something to smoke instead.”>

As the Mother began tracing over her hand, drawing out the design, voices began to rise up before where she sat, as did the patter of feet as others moved to stand, eager to dance to this new song. The Al-Suwaidi were far more somber, and most chose to remain seated, but the royal women did not seem to mind, for they were quite content to dance with themselves. The song was a familiar one, though for once, Najla would not raise her voice to join the others. Her eyes were on the pattern that was developing on her skin, the thick lines that followed the same pattern as Elif’s, as Osman’s mother, as all the women that would rather see her dead than family. Their displeasure would not matter, but Najla chose to ignore that possibility altogether, focusing on the rising voices of the women and the drum that beat relentlessly behind them.



The songs continued as the Mother traced the design into her skin, making certain that it was symmetrical, above all. The Sawarim valued this symmetry highly, as could be seen in the designs of their art, their palaces and temples, and in the careful lines the woman drew upon her now. It seemed there was no mark without another to match, just as there was no God without his wife, no life without death, and no union without dissolution. Najla took a final inhale of the pipe, passing it back to Zahira. Before she could even nod at the woman that she was ready, Najla let out a soft hiss, the smoke fleeing her mouth as the woman pierced through her skin.

<“Ya Sawarim, that stings.”> The woman did not relent, clearly used to working through a princesses complaints. For Najla’s part, she did not move her hand, trying to quiet the urge to pull it away or smack the poor woman who was causing her such pain. Rather, she turned her face up to her cousin, who stood beside the wooden platform where they sat, grinning widely. The smirk stretched that thin line down her chin slightly, making the reason for her laughter even clearer.

<“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t just bitching?”>

<“You’re still bitching.”>

Zahira did not respond, but only laughed when the Mother continued to trace along this design, pricking the needle in and out of Najla’s flesh. Najla let out another hiss as she pierced her skin again, though now it was her mother’s voice that replied, far gentler than Zahira’s.

<“Not too loud, or they’ll think you’re too weak to bear children.”>

Najla could have rolled her eyes at those words, annoyed by her mother’s advice. Those were superstitions of the tribe she had come from, one far deeper into the desert than any of the women who surrounded them now. Her female relatives were pampered, the only pain they felt came in their monthly bleedings or in childbearing. The women of the Al-Suwaidi were not quite so spoiled, Najla could see this in the faces of many of the tribal women sitting across the courtyard now. However, Osman’s family came from the greener lands of the desert, which would be evidenced by the mark she would soon bear on her skin. Their lives were not filled with all the same sufferings that Najla’s mother’s tribe had known, and as such, their rituals were not quite so strict.

<“They think me to be many things, but never weak.”>

Najla whispered the response to her mother, so low that even the woman piercing her needle could not hear. Rather than anger, or a chiding response, Najla felt her mother place her hand on her hair, stroking it gently. It was meant to bring her comfort, but the fact that her mother had nothing to reply with was not. It only meant that her words must be true, and a glance over to her left, where Osman’s mother sat, would only confirm this. She had moved so that she was closer to her own daughters, a movement that brought about no cause for awkwardness, at least not between the Al-Suwaidi and the Al-ibn-Wahad’s. These nights tended to be segregated between families, usually because they were simply more comfortable with each other, though Najla’s particular night had an unspoken, yet unavoidable, reason for this. What caused Najla to frown was the sight of Elif, who was sitting farther away from Osman’s mother than any daughter-in-law was meant to. She was still among Osman’s sisters, but Najla could not help but note that she looked slightly excluded from their conversations, as if she was not quite a part of the Al-Suwaidi, despite all her years with Osman. This realization might have brought Najla some joy, but just then, Osman’s mother would glance up, her eyes burning into the mark that was forming on Najla’s hand. Najla would not look away, but waited until the woman finally raised her eyes to meet hers, at which Najla would bow her head respectfully and look away. She could still feel that glare burning into her face, but Najla would not look back again.

Rather, her gaze moved forwards, to the cousins and family that were dancing in the center. The younger women danced as the older ones clapped and sang along, gossiping about this one’s grace or that one’s clumsy footwork. They would not dance as they did at their parties, for the Sawarim women seemed to know a whole world where the men did not, and here, they were free to dance as they pleased. It was a seductive art to those who did not quite know its art, but the women who danced it followed a graceful technique, though they did so in a passion that often masked it. Their hips moved to the hypnotic rhythm of the drums, their feet twisting in careful circles, dancing around the golden coins the elder women threw at their feet. It was a welcome distraction for Najla, and as the companions around her shifted constantly throughout the night, she found herself gossiping with them much like the older women sitting around the circle. Now, she was sitting beside a daughter of the Sultan, who had passed her a cup of wine, to which the Mother before her would only object briefly. There was no point, for the process had taken quite some time as the night moved on, and Najla had not bothered to follow much guidance during this period.

<“It’s her own fault she got caught, don’t feel too much pity for her. At least now she will remember to teach her daughters better.”>

Ikram’s words were harsh, but Najla did not receive them as such. They were speaking of a noblewoman, a friend of Ikram’s once, though this friendship was little more than a formality these days. As it often went in the Sultanate, the only true allies they held were their blood, and so Ikram was quite eager to spill her friend’s secrets to entertain her cousin’s ear. The story was hardly a pleasant one, as Ikram was telling her of how the girl’s new husband had found out that she was not a virgin before their marriage. Though he had told no one, for the shame it was certain to bring him, the news could not stay contained forever. It was something Najla would never need to worry about regarding Osman, and for this, she felt some gratitude.

<“I thought she’d be smart enough to soak a sponge, at least.”>

These words were another indicator of the secret world Sawarim women often held, for she would not have to elaborate for Ikram to understand. It was a common secret among women, to soak a piece of sponge in blood in order to fool their new husbands. The Mother who still kneeled before her, squinting at her hand using candlelight, had often whispered this trick to many a frightened girl.

<“She did! Believably enough too, up until she started taking him like a trained whore.”> Najla interrupted her cousin here, letting out a laugh before she felt the Mother grip her wrist, steadying her in place. As she tried to relax herself, her cousin continued to speak. <“Ya Sawarim, it’s a good thing she was sent across the desert, I don’t think her family can hear that shame from the Awjila.”>

Najla responded with a smile now, keeping her body steady as the Mother continued to prick in and out. The pain had become tolerable by now, but the Mother was working on some of the smaller details, and a relaxed and drunk Sultana was hardly a pleasant canvas. Before she could say anything in response, or change the conversation to another topic, Ikram was quick to do the job for her.

<“Look Aynaya, you have a well-wisher.”>

Najla looked up from that hypnotic prick and pull, first at her cousin, then up to where she was looking. Across the courtyard, Elif had parted with the women of the Al-Suwaidi, and was now threading her way towards the sultana. It was expected that she’d come to speak to Najla at some point during this night, though for once Najla found herself cursing the Sawarim’s penchant for ritual. Likely, Elif was doing the same.

<“I hate to leave you to that insolent bitch. Is there any song or story you’d like to hear?”>

<“Serenussi has been asking for the tale of Yaseen and Bahiyya for some time now. Ask for her sake. If you must do something for me, ask her how loudly she is willing to tell it.”>

Her cousin smiled, pushing herself off the wooden bench, before she clicked her tongue, throwing her head back slightly to indicate a simple ‘no’.

<“Fuck, no more virgin lovers. I can’t hear any more. Besides, this calls for something with a little more violence, don’t you think? Rustam and Sohrab? Rustam reminds me a great deal of your bear, it might interest the women to hear it.”>

<“Have you forgotten how that story ends? Sohrab dies in his father’s arms, she’ll lose her tongue for telling a story like that. It’s the wrong crowd for it, dear cousin.”>

<“The story of Sudabeh, then. It must’ve been quite a shock when they caught her fucking her stepson, I’m sure her people thought the Sultanate would never see a scandal like that again. Imagine if they saw the scandals her descendants would conjure up.”>

Najla laughed softly at her cousin’s comment, choosing to watch her leave rather than watch Elif as she approached. She would not have the luxury of ignoring her forever, and she was given only a few moments of peace before Elif stood before her. Najla nodded her head once in greeting, Elif bowed slightly in return, and for a moment, Najla felt as if the entire courtyard’s eyes were upon them. It was a fantasy born of suspicion, for many were too distracted to notice them, but she still breathed slightly in relief as the old woman started up her story. Elif moved to sit a little ways away on the wooden bench as a new series of words began,

<“You should have stayed beside your new family, sister. You’ll find nothing from me, neither anger nor friendliness.”>

<“I don’t want either of those.”>

Rather than answer, Najla looked down towards her hand, where the Mother was continuing with her work, pretending as if she could not hear the two of them. Behind her, the women were enthralled with the story the woman was now telling, though Najla noted she had indeed grown louder since the first time. It was for the best, anyone distracted by her would be hard-pressed to focus on whatever Elif and Najla were saying. Although in truth, Najla already knew why she was here. She had to be, there was no reason other than that, just as Najla had been forced to invite her to the party. Still, she had hoped that Elif would be content in ignoring traditional roles during the party in favor of leaving her alone, but it seemed the girl was not quite bold enough to flout convention. Or more likely, she was unwilling to project a poor image of her husband to the women here. Najla had left it up to Elif to explain, and the girl would not be silent for long before she did.

<“You have little care for your husband’s reputation, to ignore me as you did before.”>

<“I care deeply for it, but not at the expense of my own.”> Najla’s anger was tightly controlled, a fact that could barely be hidden from her voice. Her eyes were down upon her hand, watching the design evolve with those same bored eyes she’d mastered so well. She had given in to her anger with Elif once before, and though she could not push the girl away, she would not allow her to push her lower. <“Is that why you’re speaking to me? Because of Osman? He hasn’t got a cunt, so he’s not here to see.”>

Elif did not reply to Najla’s dismissal, a fact that could not have gone unnoticed by either. Elif would never have dared to withstand a Sultana’s command before, but they were equals now. In some ways, they were equals before the law, but more importantly, they were equals before their husband. With no one else besides a silent Mother to hear her speak, Elif’s words had grown far bolder, and Najla could not have been ignorant as to the cause.

<“You’re bleeding.”> Elif remarked, looking down at Najla’s hand. Elif held a similar design on her hand, though they varied slightly, they were both markers of the same tribe, forever marking them as sisters. A lie, Najla knew, but a lie that was inked into her skin now. <“I don’t suppose it’s the first time you have bled for your lover.”>

Najla’s jaw tightened, and it took all her restraint not to clench her fist as well, still well aware of the mark being inked into her skin. Elif had to be drunk, Najla could see it in her eyes now, though it was not the wine that had brought this sort of bravery. She knew that Najla was trapped within her own appearances now, unable to do much to Elif for fear of starting even more trouble just when it was beginning to pass. Yet even that was not enough reason for her to approach her only to speak to her so, after all, she had done more than Osman’s mother in keeping up appearances already. There was a more tangible reason Elif felt so comfortable speaking to a Sultana in this manner, and Najla did not have to ask in order to guess at just what, or who, it was. If Elif’s distance from Osman’s family hinted anything to Najla, it was that they had not forgiven her for her role either, not entirely. More than anything, it annoyed Najla that Elif would dare to equivalate their fears, that she’d dare believe Najla feared their husband as much as Elif did. They were not equals, not before the Sawarim, their people, or even their husband, and Najla could not allow Elif to forget this.

<“Osman was the first man to strike you, wasn’t he?”>

Elif’s carefully controlled gaze quickly slipped into a confused frown, and she turned her head to look at Najla. The Sultana however, was looking down at her own hand, watching the last few marks of the design come into form, always glancing at the Mother to see just what she’d hear. She’d told no one of Osman’s anger, but the Mother would not speak, and Elif’s expression confirmed her guess without need for a word.

<“You know how I can tell?”>

<“How?”>

<“Because you’re still afraid of him.”>

To any who could see the pair talking, they looked as if they were holding a polite conversation, their expressions carefully controlled so as not to arise suspicions among the women. It was growing easier for Najla however, who allowed the barest of smiles to slip through as she glanced back up at Elif, repressing another hiss at the prick of the needle. She had not forgotten that this conversation had another witness.

<“It must have been quite a shock, the first time. It is frightful, I must admit, and painful. Men always seem to rejoice in their strength. But it must have been far worse for you. The pain of betrayal cuts deeper than any edge, hm? To realize you would lay your head on their chest even as they slit your throat…it must have been the greatest pain you’ve ever known.”>

<“What are you saying?”>

Najla’s eyes were cold as she finally turned her gaze up to Elif, that precarious hint of a smile having died down at her words. Her voice died down slightly as she snatched her hand to her, ignoring the Mother’s protest so that she could speak to Elif as if she were telling a secret.

<“I’m saying, there are worse things out there than Osman and worse grief than that pain. I have seen them. I have survived them. I have become them. For all that I have seen, I fear nothing more than I hate you. I will never forgive you for taking my husband from me. Make your threats, if you like, but do not forget this. I will suffer no fate that you will not see tenfold.”>

With that, Najla straightened up again, offering her hand once more to the Mother, who took it cautiously, watching the pair. Najla’s eyes moved over her for a brief moment, knowing she’d have to do something about this woman, for though she was a trusted figure among the women, Najla trusted no one with the knowledge of Osman’s anger. She would have little time to ponder it now, for her gaze turned back to Elif, wondering just how her threats had settled. There was a small flicker behind Elif’s eyes, perhaps fear, though Najla wondered if she had simply imagined it. Elif controlled her expression carefully, and her words followed much the same pattern, as she stood and bowed her head barely to Najla. It did not feel like a victory, but much the same way as when Ketill bowed to her, a mockery only she could read.

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla could have snarled at the phrase, but she would not have time. The process was near completed, and upon seeing Elif leave, Najla’s family would be quick to return to her side. Her mother was seated beside her, and the women began to sing as the Mother brought out a bowl. It was filled with a thick substance, a mixture of soot and breast milk, which Najla nearly cringed at even as the Mother looked over her hand, preparing to apply it. Even in the noise of the song, Najla heard her mother whisper in her ear, a concerned hand running through her hair.

<“What did Elif say?”>

<“Nothing of substance.”>

Najla would have been ready to end the conversation there, but she could tell her mother was slightly worried. She had every reason to be concerned about her daughter, though she did not know most of them, and Najla could see this in her eyes. It pained her to think she could bring any kind of strife upon her mother, and it was made even worse when she comforted her, or attempted to.

<“Osman will forget her as soon as you bring him children. Your line is strong, far stronger than Elif’s, by the grace of God you will have even more children than I did.”>

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla said nothing else as she turned back to see the woman spreading the thick substance on her hands, letting the color soak into the marks she’d made with her endless poking. The song continued around her as it did, only to end as the Mother wiped off the excess, revealing the final product. Even though her hand was pained and swollen, still somewhat dirty-looking from the mixture that remained, Najla could see the design clearly.

It was an olive tree, the base of which started near her wrist, the branches pushing straight to her knuckles, only to stop just before. The symbol of the Al-Suwaidi and the olive trees they held so dear, a marker of Najla’s new alignment. She was part of her husband’s family now, first and foremost a wife before she was a daughter or a Sultana. Though the voices around her were giddy, Najla was pensive for a moment, taking in the new mark on her skin. She was Osman’s now, marked as his forever. She licked her other thumb, but just before she could move it across the mark, a voice spoke up. Not the woman that had worked so hard on it, but her mother, who could sense her unease as if it had been her own.

<“You’ll only have a permanent smudge that way. Leave it, it suits you.”>

---

The night of the wedding was one they looked forward to with a great degree of excitement, but Najla could hardly tell the difference between excitement and dread at that point. Rather, she’d simply run through the motions, celebrating as she was expected to, until the night of the wedding came. Then, she’d sat in front of a mirror for hours as slaves fussed over her hair and face, sewing her into her dress, covering her with gold and jewels, all before placing the veil upon her face. It was only veiled that she was able to leave the presence of her female family members, and meant to be brought before her husband, and the entire Sultanate, all at once. The only thing blocking this path was a thin curtain that covered the entrance to the balcony, which did nothing to quiet the ululations or the deafening music.

She took a deep breath, hoping to find the strength she needed to continue. It did not come, and yet Najla felt her feet move one in front of the other, following the path she had dreamt of so often as a girl. She moved under the curtain as it parted, the light of the courtyard nearly blinding, but though she could hardly see, Najla did not falter. This was a familiar path. Her feet carried her to Osman, who stood waiting for her at the edge of the balcony, a hand extended to help her reach him. She took this gently, allowing him to lead her while she took in the sight of the courtyard.

However splendid Najla’s engagement party had been, it could not compare to what she saw now. The courtyard seemed to have been flooded with candles, so delicate they looked like stars flickered around the sights of the palace. Truly, it looked like paradise. The candles reflected the lush green they surrounded themselves in, the flickering of the clear water that filled the countless fountains, they even seemed to glitter off of the people themselves. Underneath the balcony, a crowd of well-wishers had gathered, flooding the courtyard with their cheers and ululations. Yet Najla and Osman would not move to join them now, as they had during their engagement. They stepped to a small, luxurious bench that had been set just for the two of them, where they were meant to sit as if they were a king and queen for the night. First, Osman helped Najla sit among the cushions, only to be seated himself. Once he was, delicate jeweled hands moved to pull a veil over both of their heads, holding it so that it did not fall. As tradition went, this task was given to the unmarried female relatives of either side, and though Najla knew just who this honor had been granted to, she could not turn to see them. Rather, her eyes were meant to be lowered demurely, even from behind the veil, raised no further than the spread before them.

The low table before them was covered with fine fabrics, and even finer materials were set upon them. They were all symbolic to the life their family had wished upon them, the bowl made of crystallized sugar gifted by a wife of the Sultan, baskets of fruit, decorated eggs, and spices, candles around the entirety of the table, and finally, the mirror. It was exquisitely designed, and placed right in the center, so that Najla could see her new life every time she looked up. Now, when she looked, she could only see a veil that had been placed over their heads, but once it was lifted, she was supposed to see her future, the man she’d given herself to. The truth was, he had shown himself in the mirror before, dressed in black, and Najla knew that they would get no other chance at a first start for their life.

There was no choice but to continue this one. As the cheers died down, their family would begin to approach one by one, placing various items on the table as continued wishes. Najla’s family came first one by one, placing jewels, flowers, spices, and cups filled with rosewater. Najla greeted them with little more than a nod of acknowledgment, for she was allowed to do little more, and Osman’s voice thanked them in her place. It felt strange, to have her voice replaced by another’s, but there was little she could do. Rather, she stayed silent as Osman’s family trickled in. First came Elif, placing a delicate golden bracelet down on the table before backing away. A gift for Najla, as custom demanded, given without any smug looks or smiles. Najla’s eyes followed where Elif moved to return to Osman’s family, only to be distracted by his kin. Their attitudes seemed similar to her own families at first, cheerful, drunk, simply excited for their son’s engagement. But as Najla peered at them from under her veil, she could not quiet that sensation in her stomach that told her to run before it was official, to refuse her name on the contract and flee before any could force her otherwise. All she could do was ignore it, and she watched as Osman’s cousin Na’ib stepped forward, a cup of that dreaded viper’s sweat in his hand. It was one of the final items that would be set upon the table, and he placed it so that it was just before Osman. Within the groom’s reach, as the tradition went. Yet as Najla eyed the drink he’d set down, something did not quite settle to her. It did not look quite like viper’s sweat, though it seemed to mimic the substance, it did not seem quite as cloudy. Perhaps it was meant to be a slight to her, though she would not be the one that drank it. It was Osman that reached out for the glass, though Najla watched him from the corner of her eye as he took a swig. He did not flinch, nor gag, though his expression did contort as if to express his distaste. A strange reaction, Najla thought, for surely someone who had someone who had known the drink since youth would only react involuntarily, if at all. Yet there was no flinch, only that expression that faded too quickly, as if it had been real.

It was not. Najla could feel her heart beginning to race, trying to fit the pieces together even among the rush of the event itself. Why would anyone need to fake viper’s sweat? Was it fake, or was she allowing the paranoia to seep into her conscious, tainting her present vision? Even as she sought an answer to these questions, Osman’s family stepped back, and a final figure approached. She bowed her head as he did, as did all the others, lifting it only when he stopped before the table.

There was her Uncle, draped in clothes so fine even Najla sat in awe. He wore the long, elegant thobes that the rest of her family sported, but the golden embroidery was far more intricate than any of theirs. Just beside him stood a guard, a strange sight at a celebration like this, though Najla was used to how protected her Uncle was. There were few times when he was not surrounded by a guard. The Sultan reached down, picking up the gilded holy book from the table gently. Even though Najla was watching him from under the veil, she watched as he hesistated, looking at the book that sat just beside their holy book, a small, gilded copy of collected Sawarimic works that Jalil had gifted her years ago. Najla had insisted that it be placed on the table alongside the other symbols, and now, she saw a small smile flit across her Uncle’s face at the sight. It only served to make her feel less confident in what she saw, and Najla eyed Osman’s drink once more, wondering if she had imagined both the smile and the viper’s sweat. Perhaps, but the smile had faded even before her Uncle turned outwards slightly, so that the crowd could see as well, and the drink was still there, not quite swirling. Osman had set it down on the table in a haste, the drink spilling onto his hand slightly, but he did not have time to do much before the Sultan’s voice rang out.

<“May the Sawarim bless this couple before me today. May the Umma grant their union peace. May they always find comfort in one another, and may the desert sands part if they should ever be too far.”>

With those familiar words, the recitation of the wedding vows had begun. Her Uncle would continue to read the prayer, his voice carrying effortlessly over the quiet crowd. She’d heard him recite these vows many a time, for any kin of his that was to be married, as it was considered a great honor to have the Sultan bless the union. Najla was merely meant to wait until he was finished, until Osman had agreed to the terms of the marriage, and then she would agree as well, solidifying her place by Osman’s side forever. Still, it did not feel right, something had still settled uneasily in her heart, though she tried to force it out as her Uncle continued to recite prayers as the guard backed away. It was a symbolic movement, for the only time the Sultan did not have his guard’s protection, he was protected from harm by the Sawarim himself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a hand, a strange gesture that nearly startled her. Osman’s hand wrapped around hers, holding it tightly. It seemed a sweet gesture to those before them, the only contact a Sawarim couple were allowed to have even seconds before their vows were read. Yet Najla felt her heart drop at the touch, even as she squeezed his hand in return. The last time he’d touched her so gently had been when he saw her in her dress, and before that, she could not even remember. Ever so gently, Najla lifted his hand under her veil, raising it to her lips.

Water.

Najla’s eyes widened, her heart stopping as she gently released Osman’s hand once more, licking her lips to confirm. She’d seen it spill upon his hand, she knew the taste of viper’s sweat, but this was not that. Osman did not release her hand however, and Najla left it in her hand limply, her heart pounding in her ears. Something wasn’t right. The prayer continued, pounding away in her ears like drums, and Najla suddenly found the strength to pull her hand from Osman’s, watching as his cousin approached to take the holy book from her Uncle. It was as tradition demanded, but Najla could feel that dread rise up inside her as the Sultan attempted to finish the last lines of the prayer.

<“Ya Sawarim, by the grace of our God-“>

<“UNCLE!”>

Just as Najla’s scream came through, so did Na’ib’s blade. Without a guard to protect him, there was little to block the path of the blade, and Na’ib stabbed it through the back of his throat. Blood splattered over the open pages of the holy book, and as the Sultan fell forwards, the crowd descended into chaos.

Najla would not wait to watch her Uncle die. The scream had ripped from her throat too late, but as soon as it had come, she had moved to flee, and Osman’s hand had tried to reach for her once more. Najla had just barely managed to slip out of his grasp, but when he reached for her again, she did not feel the warmth of a man’s touch flitting past her. In its place, steel raked at her side, grazing it lightly as she tried to flee. She could hardly feel the pain, trying desperately to lift her skirts and run before he could catch her. Najla had only made it a few steps before she felt the steel of his blade catch her once more, raking at the small of her back now. The blow forced her onto the ground, and from where she fell, she could see the glint of a weapon, something that would give her a chance. It was a thick shard of glass, broken from the mirror when her Uncle had fallen, and Najla gave no care to the pain in her hand as she snatched it up.

Just as she did, a hand wrapped around in her hair, yanking her upright onto her knees. The veil had fallen from her head the moment she stood, leaving a clear vision of what her husband had brought. Death, carnage, all around her, she saw her family fleeing or falling, their screams reverberating in the night.

<“I’ll take care of her, don’t let her brothers get away!”>

Though she knew the voice as Osman’s, Najla could not tell who he was yelling to. Her eyes were trained ahead, where her father was fighting off two of Osman’s family. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She wanted to call for him, beg him to run, tell him a ceremonial sword would do little, but before she could even find a word in her throat, it was over. A sword was drawn over his throat and he crumbled, and her cry for her father turned to a bloodcurdling, wordless scream in her throat. Just as Osman tried to position his blade to bring her father’s fate upon her, Najla turned swiftly, stabbing the shard of mirror into the closest flesh she could find. It pushed into the flesh of his thigh, and the sound of Osman’s cry of pain was left far behind as she scrambled to her feet.

<“Grab her!”>

Najla did not hesitate, lifting her skirts as she tried to flee off of the small balcony. They’d be slaughtered up here, trapped like animals, but they’d be slaughtered anywhere, it seemed. The crowd below her had been thrown into chaos, rebels and guards fighting as the crowd around them tried to scatter or chose a side. As she reached the top of the stairs, Najla did not allow herself to glance back, running as fast as she could on the stairs, a difficult feat in her fine skirts. The crowd pushed around her as she did, either in attempts to flee, or in a foolish effort to find their loved ones. Najla could only push on, and she had nearly reached the bottom before another of Osman’s kin found her. He kicked out at her, and the force of his foot in her knee was more than enough to cause Najla to tumble down the remaining stairs, collapsing in a heap at the bottom. The people that had bowed before her minutes ago had little care for her fate now, so that Najla was worried she might be trampled before steel ever kissed her throat. Rather than allow that fear to linger, Osman’s kin was upon her again, standing before the bleeding princess as he raised his steel, prepared to let it fall.

He’d never get the chance. His expression contorted into one of pain just before he fell, and Najla would have no time to look at her saviors face before he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her from the ground with little care as to how pained she was now.

<“Get up, you’ve got to get out of here!”>

She’d recognize her brother’s voice anywhere. It might have brought comfort any other day, but now, it brought a new strength, and she felt as if the pain was shed while she ran behind him, allowing him to pull her forward, the sword in his other hand. It was much like Ketill had, when their camp had first been attacked by slavers, but the way Harith cut through those before him was anything but. Then, they had been clearly determined, slaver and expedition, but now, Najla felt as if she watched him cut a path through friends and foe alike. His blade struck through another even as Najla called out to him, yelling though his hand was wrapped around hers.

<“Where’s Basim?!”>

<“Alive! Go, run, you’ll catch him!”>

<“Me?”>

Harith stopped, a movement that would have startled Najla, for every hesitation meant death here. It was quickly answered, for he pressed the sheath of a dagger into her hand, trying to push her onwards.

<“See him? Go, get to Basim and get out! Don’t look back!”>

<“What about you?”>

<“I said go!”> He turned to run then, away from her, in the opposite direction of where he needed to be headed. Najla was near the edge of the courtyard, the few points where the crowd had managed to slip through the doors of the courtyard, and back into the palace, likely only to be slaughtered again. But Najla would not let him, and she called again and again, knowing her life ticked away by the second.

<“Harith, please! We’ve got to go! I’m not going without you!!”>

He swiveled around then, his gaze focusing on her with the intensity of a lion, the sort that strike fear into her stomach if he had meant it to. Rather, Najla drank it in, as if realizing it’d be the last she ever saw of him.

<“Fuck off Najla, my son’s in there!”>

With that, he turned, vanishing into the crowd once more. Najla did not spare another second for her brother, she could not afford it. Rather, she turned to where Harith had pointed out Basim for her, fleeing from those who wanted him dead. He was not there, no longer in her line of vision, but as she moved closer, she spotted him once more. Basim was trapped under another man, both without weapons, but it was a fruitless battle regardless. The man rained blows upon her brother, as if hoping to end his life without the use of a sword, a sight that filled Najla with dread and anger. She ran towards them, using the dagger Harith had given her to stab through the back of the man’s neck before he could turn and see her behind him. As he collapsed, Basim rolled out from under him, looking up at Najla.

<“Where’s Harith?”>

<“He’s not coming.”> Even as Najla answered, Basim had reached down to the man, pulling the dagger clean out of his neck before forcing himself to stand. From underneath the bruises and blows, Najla could tell this news had saddened him, but Basim would not give either of them time to feel it. Rather, he took her hand as Harith had done before, and they passed through the exit of the courtyard, back into the palace hallway.

<“We’ve got to get to the stables.”>

<“We’ll never make it!”> Najla cried out, though they both knew it was the truth. Ahead, she saw a figure, recognizable even when she could not tell friend from foe. Tightening her grip on Basim’s hand, she tried to pull him in the direction, though it did little but force his attention.

<“Basim, this way! Follow Ketill.”>

<“He’ll kill you!”>

<“Come on!”> Unable to pull him, Najla slipped her hand out of his grasp, turning in her path to chase after Ketill. Basim was right, she knew that even in the midst of this chaos, but she did not care. They’d all kill her here, Ketill was the only one who might spare her brother.

<“Najla! Fuck, wait!”> His voice called after her, and he was beside her again in a few paces, the dagger still clutched in his hands. His sister reached back for him now, grabbing his free hand as the two ran, bruised and bloodied from the mess Najla’s husband had left behind.

After the foreigners’ visit, it was evident that there was not a whole lot of tasks laid out for Ketill at that time. He had done his due, performed the tasks required of him, and with the death of Sa’aqr, the period of mourning started. During that time Najla had no contact with him, and he had none with her, and so he was left to his own devices as before. A welcome change at first, but a boring affair later. The only frequent visits he received were from his servant, Yasamin. Her prying and prodding words were a curious deal to him, but it was better to occupy himself with her than with doing nothing. Ever more frequently he found himself staring out of the window overlooking the vast expanse of the desert, wondering to himself about the visions’ he’d seen. Seiðr, or magic and it’s different forms, was usually a task reserved for the women, who were called völva, the equivalent of a witch. Practicing magic as a man was said to be a sign of homosexuality, but these men did exist, called seiðrman, although there were those born with the second sight – a form of magic that was more hereditary than practiced – which could take different shapes and forms.

Theoretically everyone was capable of this second sight – but few people had such a connection to the other world that they could readily access it. Even if magic was seen as an act of homosexuality, however, it seemed like second sight was almost in a different realm of magic – it was treated with less taboo, and more with fear. It was not so strange that these völve or seidrmen kept their visions to themselves most of the time.

Pondering over this, Ketill wondered whether his visions were a form of second-sightedness. Perhaps his new-found connection to the gods had weakened this barrier between the other world and his own and had allowed him to see these visions or perhaps it was simply the will of the gods. He would never know, but it was like him to ponder regardless. He never stopped pondering the supernatural, even as a Monarchist, so he had no cause to stop now. If anything, with his new-found strength in Audrun, he had all the more reason to ponder.

Yasamin appeared again one day, bringing with her a comb. His hair had grown again since he had last been shaved by the servants of the Sultan, and it was like the Northerners to take great care of their hair, despite their perceived ‘savage’ nature. She had also brought several tight rings, though for what reason she did not know. He had simply asked for them last time and never explained why. Being a servant, she merely sought to comply. ‘’As you asked,’’ she said, putting them down on the desk that had been useless to him during his long stay here. He nodded and got up, seating himself again on the chair that overlooked the window. Without waiting, she began combing his hair, meticulously so.

While she was busied with that, he began braiding his beard in true Northern fashion. Although his beard was not quite long enough to make anything more than a few braids, he managed to slip the rings in, which would’ve been a status symbol in the far north. Here, now, it would be little more than the dress-up that Ketill’s masters so desired from him when they put him on display. When he was done, the rings were carefully placed in his beard, almost symmetrical, or at the very least the best he could do by touch and without being able to see. To the northerners or even the Broacienien, he must’ve seemed like a lord or a king. To the Sawarim... a mere plaything. Yasamin had finished too, so when he got up and turned around, she looked upon the rings with some sort of fascination. ‘’How new,’’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘’Perhaps a new fashion for the slaves – oh, I must bring the idea to the Sultana, I am sure they’d love their slaves to wear golden rings in their beards. Only the slaves, though. I doubt the men would willingly braid their beards like the hair of the women. Oh, so wondr-’’ She was not allowed to finish.

‘’Are you done? Golden rings won’t do good. They’re too soft. Iron or steel rings. Silver at best.’’ Ketill’s reply was, for once, not dismissing her ideas entirely, which was new but not unwelcome to Yasamin. ‘’Go, tell them then. Just leave my room,’’ he finished, returning to his regular demeanour at once. She obliged as always, finding some Sultana to propose the idea too.

---

A few days later, an unexpected visitor had shown up, flanked by two guards. But as was customary, all of his visitors, no matter how unexpected, were familiar faces. It was not strange that those who did not know him preferred to avoid him, after all. With a confident step Harith entered the room, looking around to see what it was like. ‘’The room given to you on my orders?’’ he asked, his gaze then meeting Ketill’s.

‘’Yes,’’ he answered, looking back, though unlike with Najla there was no hostility in his eyes for once. ‘’Luxurious for a slave,’’ he followed up. Harith shook his head at that remark, indicating that it was not at all luxurious for a slave. It was a step up from the barracks but there were some that had it far better. Royal scribes, eunuchs and other magistrates and officials that had been taken from the ranks of slave had it far better. They were not free perhaps, but it was as close as a slave was going to get and, in some parts, better than being free.

‘’Better than Broacien, perhaps. I came to inform you of something,’’ Harith then spoke, pulling a chair from the left and placing it down, taking a seat there. ‘’Najla has placed you under my command. The reason for that should be clear to you, with the marriage with Osman coming up. I advise you to tread carefully. Najla wouldn’t tell you this – but there is not much I can do for you if you’re not my property, and when she marries Osman, he will have full control over you.’’

Ketill glanced away from the man, seemingly thinking about it, before his eyes went back and sized the man up. ‘’So you are the only thing stopping him. As a prince.’’ To this Harith nodded, the gaze in his eyes a rather uncharacteristic serious that Ketill hadn’t seen in Harith often. ‘’That’s not good.’’

To these words Harith could only grin, nodding slowly. ‘’There is no other way.’’ It went silent for a second as there was not much else to add. ‘’I will find duties for you once the wedding is complete. Most likely you’ll work with the royal guard.’’ Harith made ready to leave again, getting up and shoving the chair aside, but was stopped when Ketill made a final remark.

‘’I get a strange feeling that there won’t be a time after the wedding,’’ he said, the reply somewhat mystical, vague and uncertain. It was unbecoming of Ketill and he did not know why he felt this way specifically, but something felt off, and his body seemed to scream at him that there was more going on.

Harith stopped in his tracks and, without looking back at Ketill, replied. ‘’Good to know someone else shares that feeling. Call it a warriors instinct, I suppose.’’ There was no reply and Ketill only nodded, somewhat relieved that his foreboding sense of danger was shared with someone else. But there was no evidence – and so, very little Harith or Ketill could do except be on their guard. These senses had a tendency to be hit or miss – perhaps they were just nervous. Not that there was much to be nervous for in Ketill’s case.

It was not until much later, on the day of the wedding, that Ketill would be retrieved. He was dressed up again, wearing finery he’d never seen before and that he had no doubt was made for this occasion. That morning he saw Yasamin, who had headed off to the Sultana to assist her, although it would not be personally and she would most likely take a backseat role. Ketill himself was brought to the baths again and forcibly bathed, though they left his beard and hair for now, seemingly satisfied with the care he had taken of it. <‘’Perhaps take the rings out?’’> one of them pondered to the other.

<‘’Leave it, it’ll look more foreign, and that’s what they like. Besides, I don’t think he’s going to last long enough for it to matter.’’>

<‘’Right… where did that man say we could get our payment?’’>

<‘’Afterwards. All we have to do is open the doors for ‘’them’’ to come in.’’>

Of course, Ketill couldn’t understand their conversation, and just sat there as they did their thing, measuring him and making some final changes on the clothes before they got him dressed and ready. Once they were done, he was led out to the largest main hall, where visitors were already starting to mass. He was lead by golden chains – later to become a mistake on the part of whomever had organized his exposition at the feast – and was promptly chained down to some steel circle hanging from the wall and quickly forgotten. They had begun dressing him late in the afternoon and by the time they were done, the festivities were barely starting. But Ketill could not quite see any of it, since he was placed in a hall that was separate from the place where Najla and Osman would be seated. It reminded him of when they had agreed to marry, and a similar feast was organized. Except this time he was even further away from it all. He saw a constant stream of people heading through the corridor to the room where Najla and Osman herself were, supposedly to deliver gifts, congratulations or simply watch the marriage itself take place. It took nearly an hour before Ketill could make out a familiar voice, as the noises died down even in the halls further removed.

By now, Ketill had attracted some visitors of his own, as some of the party-goers crowded around him while listening to the Sultan speak. There were four of them, one woman who had her arm looped into that of who Ketill presumed to be her husband. The man himself looked like a tribal, but a wealthy one, so Ketill could only assume he was part of Osman’s delegation. The other two looked tribal too, much younger and more virile, clearly warriors of sorts.

Silence, for a moment, before a blood curdling scream followed the final words of the Sultan, both final of his speech – and his life.

The lack of communication between the halls however meant that Ketill was given some time to react. As the four figures standing around Ketill looked up at a balcony, which lead to the area where both Najla and Osman would’ve been seated, Ketill too looked back. Something was wrong and everyone knew it, and slowly the masses began to churn looking for an exit. The older tribal man then nodded at his two companions, who pulled their swords, and similar movements were made around the room as followers of the al-Suwaidi drew their blades, daggers and tribal axes, while guards in the room did the same.

There was no word to describe the situation that followed – even chaos would have been cutting it short, as chaos implies that you don’t know what’s happening. To Ketill, however, it was very clear and it made his purpose clear – get to Najla before anyone else did. Or her relatives. It was not chaotic, but everything seemed much more disorganized than even that.

With a roar Ketill pulled his hands up, the golden chains clanking heavily before a crash snapped them. Gold was a soft metal – nice to look at, but dysfunctional in any purpose other than decorative. The chains broke at his hand, luckily, so he didn’t have to haul the golden chains around while he worked his way through the palace.

The small gap of time he had was enough to prepare himself, as one of the tribal men near him stormed forwards wielding a dagger inlaid with silver, curved like most of the weaponry of the Sultanate. He had it raised above his head, his face grimaced with the face of a man who was fighting not for gold or fame but for purpose – it seemed like the al-Suwaidi were here for a reason they really believed in.

Ketill raised his arm in instinct and blocked the man’s arm entirely, stopping it dead in its track before it could even be flung down. He turned his body and grabbed onto the arm and with a ferocious swing swung the man around over his shoulder, bashing his head into the base of a statue that stood at the side of the stairs. A spot of blood marked the place he’d hit the statue and, besides a sickening crunch, nothing much else showed what’d happened until the man slumped down lifelessly, the dagger slowly slipping from his fingers. But in the sounds of the chaos even the clanking sound it made on the floor was lost. Before Ketill could move to escape or kill the others, he was grabbed from behind, the other man wrapping his arms around Ketill to avoid him fighting back.

It was useless however, as Ketill’s superior strength allowed him to break free rather easily, and with a large turn of the body and swipe of the arm, he battered the man in the side of the neck, nearly breaking it. He was about to step forward towards the man, who was rearing backwards and holding his head in pain, when a familiar person rushed past, and with a single swipe cut the man across his back, finishing off the job well enough.

‘’Ketill, have you seen my wife?’’ Harith bellowed, allowing himself only a single moment of rest. When Ketill shook his head, he rushed off again, somewhere in the distance into a hallway. ‘’Go left, Ketill! Najla and Basim are on their way outside! You’ll find them there!’’ The last sight Ketill got of Harith was him cutting down yet another man in his way, seemingly uncaring as to whose side the man was on.

Then Ketill remembered the old man with his wife was still around, though when he glanced around he could not find him anymore. It seemed they had been placed there specifically to eliminate or capture Ketill, though that plan had evidently backfired. Already Ketill could hear the sound of Osman’s anger when he learned that Ketill had escaped the castle – somewhat satisfying, perhaps, even if it was purely his imagination.

Without questioning Harith and driven by his purpose of exacting revenge against Najla, he set out to the corridor he had pointed out. In the chaos of it all, some people seemed to have taken shelter in the hallway that was normally reserved for servants to allow them to pass from one room to the other without bothering guests. Now it was home to a cowering emir and his wife, among others. When Ketill pulled the door open, they all stepped back and rushed for the door on the other side, afraid that Ketill might harm them. Rather, he plowed through them, on his way to finally get what he’d been waiting for. He pushed those in the way aside roughly, then barged through the other side of the hallway into an even bigger mess. It seemed like the fighting had moved into this hallway as members of the royal family had attempted to use it to escape. Naturally, they and their guards were swiftly followed by the tribals, who had obviously had much more time to prepare and seemed to know exactly who to capture and who to kill. Only select members of the family were allowed to live – namely those that were married into the family, and those that were weak enough to relinquish their titles and claims in favour of survival.

Najla was, as expected, not one of them.

As he entered the larger hallway, there was fighting all around him – nothing he wasn’t used to, of course, but this was different. He was on neither side here, and was merely a spectator. It was entirely likely that the royal guard would take him down because he was a risk, and the al-Suwaidi were likely looking to decapitate him for the offenses he’d committed against Osman. Momentarily he looked left, then right towards the exit that would lead into the way out of this palace. In the distance he saw Najla, who then rushed into a nearby room, where the courtyard was. He was about to give chase when a ferocious yell came from the other side. Instantly he turned around and was forced to throw up his hands, catching a spear by the handle just in time to stop it from hammering his skull. He tugged on the weapon, pulling the man closer. His muscles tensed up as his other arm swung hard, knocking the man over the head and swiping him aside, landing with his head against the wall with yet another sickening crunch that could only hint to the damage.

As he looked back over his shoulder he saw Najla and Basim both enter the hallway again, visibly distraught. Without thinking he reached back towards the man he’d just killed or crippled, and grabbed his spear. In a near singular motion he turned his body and took a step, sending his arm with the spear forwards and propelling it towards Najla – missing her by a few inches at best, the air whooshing past her face only giving her a heads up. But it seemed she was not his target, as the spear connected with a man behind her who had his shield and curved sword raised in the air as if to strike her down. Ketill began approaching her and Basim then. Red fog crept in again, his mind going blank and feeling numb, and those who looked closely might’ve seen him frothing at the mouth. Whether it was out of anger, or because he’d awoken some deeper state that was only seen in the most brave and strong warriors of the north, it was anyone’s guess.

His slow walking pace turned into a jog, and he casually grabbed the handle of an axe, which had been left stuck in a body. As he walked past he easily pulled it out and began running for Najla, and when he was close he’d ready his arm.

Even if she had noticed his intention, there was no escape now given how close he was. Her saving grace was Basim, who stepped in front of her and raised his hands at Ketill. ‘’Ketill!’’ he screamed, barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of swords clattering against each other, the screams of people fleeing or dying, but it was enough to stop Ketill. His arm had been swung and the blade of the axe now hovered before Najla’s face, but the crisis had been averted by Basim. ‘’We can do this later! If we don’t leave now, they’ll kill you as well, so then your revenge would’ve been worthless,’’ he continued hurriedly, looking beyond Ketill as more and more tribesmen and al-Suwaidi rebels began flooding into the hallway to clean up the last batches of resistance before they would ‘cleanse’ the palace.

Ketill lowered his axe, looked behind him, but did not reply. He pushed forwards, grabbing Najla by the arm and dragging her with him. Harith and Basim had both tugged her along as well, but not with the anger and strain Ketill was applying now. The red fog in his mind was still there, and there were remnants of the froth on his mouth. If they managed to get out, then Najla would owe her life not to Ketill but to Basim. Not many people were capable of stopping a berserker dead in their tracks after all, especially not lithe and fragile men like Basim himself, who was by all means a scholar, not a warrior.

When they were about to leave, a familiar face appeared in front of them. The girl, who had normally looked quite beautiful, was distraught, her hair a mess and a bloody cut from her eye to her cheek. Not deep enough to kill – but deep enough to hurt and leave a permanent mark. Her eye was held closed, and Ketill could only guess that she’d either lost it, or had it damaged so badly that it was useless. ‘’Ketill,’’ she said. ‘’H-help me.’’ Only a quick glance was given to Najla and Basim, before Ketill nodded at Yasamin, and pushed her forward with the hand that held the axe, towards the courtyard.

‘’Harith?’’ Ketill uttered as they pushed into the courtyard, where men were fighting left and right. It seemed that this was where the royal guard were to make their stand – the sultan was dead, the location of the heir was unknown, and the al-Suwaidi’s had full control of the palace. But there was no captain of the royal guard – Najla’s father had been cut down initially, no doubt in a controlled and planned take down of all important targets. They were disorganized and it seemed like these were mostly new recruits and crippled veterans. In all honesty, when Ketill looked them over, he realized there was no chance the royal guard was stopping this. At this point it was not even a rescue mission anymore – they were purely trying to contain the threat long enough for the loyalists to arrive. Unknown to them, it did not seem like there would be any of the royal family left to take the throne once the palace was cleansed. Ketill, Najla and Basim were likely the few members that were able to get out alive before the al-Suwaidi’s would clear the passages to the courtyard and block off all access.

Ketill did not take them to the gate, instead heading for the stables. It was the same plan Najla and Basim had had, and it was the most logical. He’d drag Najla forward by her arm and push her towards a horse, most of which were white as they seemed to have stumbled into the sultan’s own stables. Ketill, fittingly, picked the only black one there. As they mounted up, Ketill did not waste any time, and the moment he was in the saddle he urged the horse forwards, extending a hand towards Yasamin and pulling her up to sit behind him, then moved on past the royal guards. They were planning to stop him, or even cut him down, but it seemed they changed their mind when they saw Najla and Basim. Their eyes rushed over the four of them uncomfortably while they rode past before their eyes trained on the palace doorway again.

Riding through the town would prove to be nearly as much of a problem as the al-Suwaidi’s had a presence here as well, or at the very least the news of the sultans’ death had slipped through the cracks of the walls. On the nearest and largest townsquare, that was home to the most rich and wealthy salesmen as well as the largest crowd, a man came running in, his clothes bloodied and a sword in his hand as he held it up, dripping blood onto the ground. <‘’THE SULTAN IS DEAD!’’> he proclaimed, turning a few heads before he proclaimed the same sentence again, even louder. <‘’THE AL-SUWAIDI FAMILY IS THE ONLY RIGHTFUL INHERITOR TO THE THRONE! LONG LIVE THE NEW SULTAN, SA’DADDIN AL-SUWAIDI!’’> The crowd was unsure how to react, and it remained largely quiet for some time as the man made his way to the centrepiece of the square, a large wooden platform that was used for executions, whippings and hangings. <‘’Look there!’’> he proclaimed once more, gesturing towards the nearby street that lead to the gatehouse out of the city. Right at that time, Ketill, Basim, Yasamin and Najla would gallop past. <‘’In the face of their adversaries, the al-Suwaidi family, they would flee rather than stay! Truly the al-ibn-Wahad family is a group of decadent rulers that care little for the way of the Sawarim!’’>

Ketill was preoccupied with something else entirely, however, as he’d noticed that they were being followed by a group of five riders, all of which were clad in more armour than just the people inside the palace. Although the al-Suwaidi’s had expected everyone in the palace to die due to the fact that most al-ibn-Wahad family members would be present during the marrying, it seemed that they were smarter than that and had taken a precaution to avoid any people escaping the massacre. Ketill tugged the reins uncomfortably, pushing the horse to go faster as he hobbled up and down, being very out of practice. He’d not ridden a horse at all in the last years, but his instincts were still there – it just made the ride slightly more painful than it should’ve been. ‘’Hurry!’’ he urged Najla and Basim, looking over his shoulder to trail the pursuing forces.

The city erupted into chaos then, some immediately rushing home to deal with the death of the sultan – leaving the city, moving to Broacien in fear of the al-Suwaidi’s, to pray, or even to join forces with the new rulers. Others, the loyalists who had an unwavering loyalty to the al-ibn-Wahad family, would move to help the remnants of the family. They were chosen by the Sawarim after all, and that was more important than anything.

It was these loyalists that turned out to be the saving grace for them. As they passed the gates, the loyalists gathered there to prevent the riders from following them, harassing them, standing in the way, when one of the riders struck the men that were trying to stop them from giving chase. As Ketill looked back he saw that the loyalists responded by pulling the men off their horses and had begun beating them to death with nearby items and fists. Their escape had been successful for now, but now the long arduous journey home. ‘’Home.’’ A foreign concept to Ketill at this point. Broacien no longer felt like home, with these feelings of being abandoned lingering in his mind. But he’d never been in the North long enough to remember it feeling like a place to belong. And what of Najla and Basim, who had both just lost their homes to the power hungry tribe of the man who she was set to marry.

There was no place in the world for any of them that was truly ‘’home.’’

---

It was late in the night when Ketill finally stopped riding, for a tired Basim and Najla to catch up to him. He’d stopped just below a dune, and dismounted, the axe he’d taken in the castle still in his hand. He weighed it in his hands as he looked at Basim and Najla, who’d also dismount, finding themselves quite in the middle of nowhere. ‘’Are we making camp?’’ Basim would ask, though he received no answer, only receiving the rein of the horse being pushed into his hand.

Ketill stumbled up the dune, the sand being pushed down every now and then when he almost slid down on the steep hill of sand. When he reached the top, he peered over into the distance. ‘’Making camp would be foolish – they’ll give chase. As we are speaking, they are probably trying to find our tracks. I can see a small house from here with a low wall around it. We could ask for help – but honestly we don’t know who lives there and who they’re siding with.’’ He glanced back at Basim and Najla then, a twinkle in his eyes for a moment. ‘’Unless you’d like to offer them the hand of Najla for some water. I assume you didn’t think to bring waterskins, did you?’’

Basim shook his head for no, prompting Ketill to sigh. Slowly he let himself glide back down to the horses, where he sat down in the sand and put his axe down next to him. ‘’There’s a saga from the North, Basim. They talk about Sigurd and his companions and they go raiding. The house they raided had a wall around it but it was an easy feat to enter, because Sigurd gave a mighty leap and hooked his axe onto the wall, then used it to climb in. If you come with me, then we can see if we can make a saga of our own.’’ There was little other option for Basim other than to nod and follow Ketill back over the dune, then down towards the walled off house. There was no light inside, neither from the bonfire nor a torch, so they had to assume nobody was there. They had left Najla behind with Yasamin, to guard the horses on their own, mostly because they would not be very useful at all during such an endeavour.

Remarkably easily, Ketill launched himself up and hooked the blade of the axe around the top of the low wall, and using his massive strength, lifted himself up and grabbed the edge of the wall. He left a fearful Basim behind, who was scared they’d get caught red-handed. Thievery was not exactly a prestigious activity either, nor was it morally justifiable… but the goals hallowed the means, especially now. <‘’Forgive me, ya Sawarim…’’> he ushered under his breath, carefully wating for anything to come from the other side – sounds, people, items… anything.

Ketill dropped on his feet into the sand, and took a quick glance around, finding that he’d landed more or less in the open courtyard. He had been mistaken originally, as there were two houses, not one, but one of them was so small that even the small wall hid it, supposedly a storage room or something of the sorts. In the center was a well, which was primarily what Ketill was interested in. He kept low, skulking in the cover of the night, using the darkness as a blanket to cover his approach as he moved towards the well. He lowered the bucket as quietly as he could and raised it again after he’d heard the splash of water. During the time they’d spent on the horses, riding away from the city and towards Broacien, and he’d been left parched as a result. Without bothering to find a container to drink out of, he raised the bucket to his lips and drank until he was filled.

He then moved to the house itself, opening the door. A creaking noise escaped from the metal as he opened it, but it wasn’t enough to wake those inside. Directly in front of him laid the family – an older man, about 40, and his children and wife. In the back was an old, old woman, who he presumed to be the mother of one of the two adults. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him. Following that were several soft thuds. He raised the axe into the air and let it fall each and every time into the heads of those that were sleeping – barbaric, but it was more honorable than to take anything without fighting for it. Najla and Basim would not know – nor have to know – that he earned these items with bloodshed. Once he finished them all off he searched the house, finding two leather drinking sacks – large enough to hold enough water for the trip. One of them held a cheap wine, the other was empty. Without any more thoughts about it, he slung the leather straps around his belt and attached them so he had his hands free to search the rest of the home. Aside some cheap jewellery that he pocketed, some golden rings with Sawarim writing inside of them, he didn’t find much of use – no swords, daggers or any other weaponry. In his angry attempt to take anything of value, he simply took some sheep-wool coat and slung it around himself to at least be comfortable during the cold night.

Twenty minutes must’ve passed before Ketill returned, hopping over the wall in the same way he’d came inside. He undid the leather strap around his belt and handed one of the leather sacks to Basim, which had now been filled with water. ‘’Nothing of value, but we needed this more than anything,’’ Ketill told the boy, ignoring the fact that he’d left the bloodied axe behind. He kept the one with wine for himself – for now. Together they’d go back, and no mention was made of the slaughter nor of the theft of the other items. As far as Basim was concerned, the items were a gift. Or he didn’t want to think about it – either of the two was fine with Ketill.

When they got back to Najla and the horses, Basim opened the sack and drank some water before passing it on to Najla. ‘’Where are we going?’’ Basim enquired, expecting his sister to know the answer. It wouldn’t be her, however, that answered.

‘’We’re going north,’’ Ketill told him, and without a word mounted his horse again. ‘’There is nothing left here.’’

‘’What do you mean?! Everything is left here!’’ Basim answered immediately, stepping up next to Ketill and looking up somewhat defiantly. ‘’We can gather those that still support us, and prove our claim to the throne!’’

Ketill stared at the boy almost absent mindedly, waiting for the realization to sink into his head that that wasn’t going to happen. Even if they gathered an army, it would never be enough with the way that the entire family was slaughtered. Basim was a cousin of the sultan, and had a meagre clam at best. And Najla had even less of a claim. ‘’If that’s what you want, you’ll be doing it alone.’’ His eyes moved to Najla, as he now spoke more to her than Basim. ‘’Whatever bound me to your service is now powerless, and Najla is coming with me.’’

‘’For what? Where would you even take us? To go back to Broacien and make her into a slave again?’’

‘’Again? You say that like I made her slave. The same way she made me slave. But that’s not what happened. She’s responsible for that herself. But no, I don’t need her as a slave. I need someone that can guide me through the desert. She owes me that much. Whatever happens at Coedwin…’’ He didn’t finish his sentence – he wasn’t sure yet what would happen at Coedwin. Perhaps he’d get rid of her there, to exact his justice. Fulfil that insatiable desire for revenge and give her what she deserved. Or perhaps send her back to find her death in the sultanate as Osman would, no doubt, hunt her down as quickly as he could.

Basim glanced at Ketill for a moment before his eyes shifted to Najla, questioningly looking at her as if she’d know what to say. ‘’Let’s go,’’ Ketill ordered and he kicked the horse in the side gently, moving it forwards before picking up the pace. Within two nights they’d reach Coedwin, if they rode fast. Really, there was not much they could do. Ketill needed them, that much was certain – the desert was a one way path to getting lost unless you knew your way, and Basim would not have been useful since he’d never strayed further than the palace, it seemed. Najla knew the way – but her usefulness ended about there. Similarly, Najla and Basim needed Ketill. The road was dangerous and, despite their fast pace, danger lurked around the corner, as they saw scouts at least twice. Whether they were the al-Suwaidi’s or just local tribesmen, Ketill did not know, and if Basim and Najla knew, they didn’t tell.

---

Passing Coedwin was easy. The three red marks on Ketill’s forehead provided them with all they needed to know, and it was relatively easily to convince them that Najla, Yasamin and Basim were servants. That they were both wearing extraordinarily expensive clothes and Ketill was wearing some ragged old sheepwool coat was something they didn’t ponder about too long – as a Servant, Ketill had no reason to lie to them. They stopped at Coedwin only briefly – Ketill refilled their waterskins and got an extra one, and then acquired a new longsword for free from the local blacksmith who was always happy to help the Servants. It wasn’t anything special, but it got the job done and that was all that mattered.

There was no time to enjoy the stay, and they left immediately, exchanging the horses for fresh ones. Although Najla and Ketill had both been here before, and were likely happy to leave the place, Basim was quite interested in it. He’d made his peace with leaving the sultanate after travelling for the last two days, and in fact seemed rather interested in the idea of going beyond the borders to see the world – something that Ketill could appreciate, if it weren’t for his anger towards Najla.

During the two days of travel he’d made his mind – he’d take Najla to the Althingi and have her judged by the court of judges there. It would be true justice and the gods would approve – and given the offenses she had committed, it would not be unthinkable that she’d end up getting executed regardless.

The Althingi was perhaps the most ancient of all legal structures in the entire known world, but it was also the most rudimentary and, according to some, unjust. However, all the tribals put their faith in it with the understanding that the good name of a man weighed more than the actions he performed, at least most of the time. That was precisely the way it worked – the accounts of all involved parties were weighed, and then it was up to the representatives to use legal frameworks to defend themselves. A harder task than it would be in Broacien or in the Sultanate – the frameworks were not written down and had to be memorized entirely to make any kind of sense. It was for that reason that most of the time, the Althingi was a spectacular event of jousting with words, before ultimately one of the two sides would have had enough and came to blows.

They had left Coedwin quickly, and rode north further, travelling the lands of Broacien with exceptional ease compared to the desert of the sultanate, where they had to stop every now and then to estimate where they’d have to go. Luckily for them, Broacien was known ground to Ketill and even now, after years of being gone, he had remembered the roads they were riding on, and knew the exact way to go north. They rode in silence for the most part, as Ketill ignored the two of them while he got reacquainted with the Broacienien lands. With the reacquaintance came a sad realization that it no longer felt like the place it once was. Nothing had changed, except so much had changed within him that there was no way he could return here. Not after what happened.

They passed by more travellers than they did in the sultanate, and despite the trading being of lower value and less organized than in the sultanate, there were a lot of carts and carriages going back and forth across the road. It was an indicator that Broacien was easier to live in than the sultanate, that there was not a constant worry for water or food when you were travelling. It also meant that Broacien was fit to overtake the Sultanate unless something drastically changed – there was better lands, and that meant more population and in the long run, more soldiers. Ketill had often wondered if the Sultan had known this – perhaps he had, but had not seen fit to change it. Thinking back now, so much of it made so little sense to him.

Even now Ketill was unchanged. He had expected the freedom to liberate him and turn him back to how he once was, but somehow he hadn’t seemed to change much – he was still the same man.

They travelled for five days, resting at inns and taverns along the way for free, as he was a Servant and most people were willing to cheaply accommodate them in return for a blessing or the feeling that the Monarch had noticed their good deed – Ketill complied whenever they requested a blessing, although his lack of faith in the Monarch was sure to make it meaningless. For the peasants however, peace of mind was more valuable than an actual blessing. The afterlife was all they had to look forward to.

After those five days they would pass by the Hoffburgt, that castle in the middle of the water held up by naught more than rocks and cliffsides, it’s backside port still dead and unused. The bridge had been raised, for some reason, so Ketill could do little more than point at it and tell Basim, ‘’the capital.’’ It looked far less impressive than the golden city had looked, but it was better, Ketill knew, especially now with the al-Suwaidi’s sure to run it. ‘’Not as golden as yours. But better defensible. If the bridge is raised like it is now, nobody gets in.’’

Basim raised an eyebrow and looked at it momentarily as he swung side to side in the saddle, as they rode up a small hill far away from the castle. The area around them was still green and lush and, occasionally, they’d even seen wildlife ranging from boars and sows to deer and stags. Basim, however, had had more eye for the people, and now, the castle. ‘’Nobody gets out either. It’s perfect if the attackers are already inside. They just lower the bridge and…’’

‘’They did the same in the palace to your family. There was no bridge there. No fortress is impenetrable, you’d do well to remember that. In the heat of the moment, all you have is yourself.’’ They were stern words, but they were certainly true, and Najla and Basim were sure to know now that not even being part of the royal family meant anything in the face of a man with a weapon and a mission. Basim’s black eye was a reminder of that, though it made him look older, slightly more handsome, and certainly more manly.

A long silence followed as they rode up the path, until the Hoffburgt had vanished from sight. Normally, Ketill would have visited it and paid his respects to the king, or even informed him of the ill-fate of the expedition, but as he was no longer a Monarchist, he no longer felt the urge or pressure to do so. It was a relieve, really. ‘’So where are we going now?’’ Basim asked a few miles down the road.

‘’North. Past the Barren Flats. We need to stop there, but we’re avoiding the Hall itself. I’d rather not make my presence known,’’ Ketill replied. It might’ve been strange for Najla, as he was a Monarchist in her eyes still, more so in service of the king or lord Jachsen himself. Unbeknownst to them, lord Jachsen would not have survived the years in the sultanate, and had succumbed to an infectious wound a few months earlier. His son had taken his place, with the princess of Broacien acting as his regent as the son was merely 4 years old. A sad affair, but one that none of them could’ve known of.

They stopped in Rochwin, a small village with a stone wall fort atop a hill, where the local earl collected taxes and generally tried to make a profit off of an otherwise dead village. The only reason they were stopping here was for the Red Rat, a tavern that was famed for being ‘the last one before the mountain’s’. It was true, but it was a sad excuse for a tavern at that. The place was barely holding up, so when the four entered the tavern, it was not so surprising to see Basim look with a glance of horror at the conditions. Upon noticing this, Ketill could only grin. ‘’It’s a lot harder to clean wood and grey stone in muddy, rainy areas, as opposed to sandstone in areas that only collect dust.’’ Basim nodded as if he’d just heard some profound knowledge, looking around the place like he was in some sort of crypt.

‘’Two rooms, four beds,’’ Ketill said, raising his hand to the tavernkeep, who nodded and went to open the door to one of the rooms for him. Ketill then turned round and looked at Najla and Basim. ‘’Go ahead, I need to get some things before we go on,’’ he instructed them, gesturing up the stairs towards the bedrooms. He then left immediately, leaving the creaky old tavern in favour of a farmer who lived not far down the road. He left Najla and Basim with enough time to talk things through in the privacy of their own room. Yasamin would be content to sit in the room she shared with Ketill. Over the course of the journey, the wound on her eye had healed, leaving a grotesque scar that permanently marred her beauty, and left her eye damaged so badly that it was useless, the scar already nearly shutting her eye for good. Whatever use of it was left was so insignificant that it’d have been less painful to cut the eye out. Despite never being a highstanding woman, Yasamin had always had her beauty as a mark of pride. Even that was gone, leaving her a pitiful mess of a woman – it was no wonder she’d not spoken during the trip.

---

Trodding through the mud reminded him of home – finally, a feeling that he thought had left him forever – even though he knew he’d trade it for snow soon. Passing by the houses he felt the comfortable clank of his new sword moving around and hitting things, an annoyance at first, a comfort now, knowing that he always had a weapon by his side. If any fool with the same attitude as Osman would try to do something now, they’d be ran through like a pig on a spitroast. A welcome realization at any rate.

The farmer he approached was one he’d known for a long time, though as of late, he had of course not seen the good man for a few years. Even so, the moment Ketill knocked on the rickety door, the man was quick to answer and immediately invited Ketill inside, who he’d recognized instantly. ‘’Ketill! Good grief, man, you look like you just got shat out by the king’s horse!’’

‘’Not far off, might I say,’’ Ketill replied, ducking slightly to fit under the doorway which had sagged slightly. This place reminded him of the tavern – just as poorly maintained. ‘’Listen, Karl, I’m here for only one reason – I need supplies to travel north. I’m-’’

‘’You’re going home, I get it, we’ve always known it, the moment you came over those mountains. But, see, the harvests haven’t been so good, and we don’t have much to get by with here, Ketill.’’

‘’I know,’’ Ketill answered, pushing his hand into his pocket and taking out two of the three rings he’d taken from the home in the sultanate. He placed them onto the table, and the farmer immediately picked them up to inspect them. Once it was clear he was satisfied with the offer, Ketill elaborated. ‘’Took them in the Sultanate. It’s not just gold.’’ Karl nodded and showed him to a chest in the corner somewhere, where he retrieved some items. ‘’I need four cloaks, a broad axe and a splitting axe, and a dagger. I’ll also take a bow and arrows, if you have one left.’’

Again Karl nodded, taking out whatever Ketill asked for. The rings were more than enough to pay for these supplies, which were in ample supply in Broacien. ‘’And food?’’ he then asked, placing the items on the table for Ketill to take. ‘’It’s still a journey to get there, you know that,’’ he continued. Ketill nodded, but didn’t wish to ask for anything, especially if the harvest had been really bad.

‘’Anything you can miss. Keep the rest.’’

The provisions wouldn’t last much longer than a few days, but luckily that was all it would take to reach the far north. Once they were there, they would have to fend for themselves. But first came the Althingi. They’d need to travel to the place where the tribes would meet – an interesting spectacle even if you were only there to peddle your goods and trade, or even just for spectating.

The four of them would leave the next day, the eyes of the peasants here burning into their back as they watched the Servant and his two ‘’Sawarim servants’’ leave. It wasn’t usually the case that Servants visited this far up north – only Ketill and some other locals that had joined the order. Usually, in the North, it was the Robed Swords that came here to purge heresy and heathenry.

Ketill would’ve handed off the coats to the two of them, and handed the dagger to Basim. It’d be more dependable than that ornamental dagger that still hung from his belt. The two axes Ketill had gotten he kept close by, hanging them from leather loops on the horses saddles.

After two days in the forests, which gradually got colder and would quickly remind Najla and Basim of the cloaks they’d gotten, they’d reach the mountainpass. The only sign of civilization now would be the towers of the Barren Hall, far off in the distance shrouded by the clouds and mist. You could see perfectly then how gradual the snow set in – the further to the north you came, the more snow there’d be, and slowly all green-brown grass was consumed with the pure color of white snow. ‘’Snow,’’ Ketill remarked to the woman that was seated behind him, who dropped the depressed attitude for a moment to ponder the white sand that was now beneath them. Ketill looked over the hilltop then, taking in the North. Despite being ‘’home’’ for him, it was a place he hardly knew. ‘’Won’t be long from here on out.’’ All he knew was that the Althingi was held closeby, in the most hospitable of areas.

---

The temporary camp was bustling with activity as people moved about, and for a moment it seemed almost like the North was an extension of Broacien, though it could not be farther from the truth. The four traveller from the south had tied their three horses down somewhere, and left to partake in the Althingi. ‘’What is this?’’ Basim asked curiously, watching the people move by, although it was far more evident that the people here were staring at Najla, Basim and Yasamin more than anything. The strange warrior with three red dots on his forehead, too, was a strange sight for them, although they easily understood he was a Northerner from the way he looked.

‘’Althingi,’’ Ketill answered, his Northern accent falling in place almost flawlessly, as if he’d never really left. ‘’It’s court.’’

‘’Court? For what?’’

‘’The laws of man.’’

Basim glance at Najla momentarily before looking forward again. Why they were in court was a mystery to him, but he ventured a guess that it was nothing good for him or Najla. As they moved along, people moved out of the way for the imposing figure that was Ketill, followed by his three exotic followers, almost as if they were an attraction. Perhaps it was thought that he’d be selling these three as slaves, but that would not be happening. Not today, at any rate.

As Ketill approached the center of the Althingi, they would see what he’d meant with ‘court’. There was a circle of wooden boards that marked the outline of the the ‘courtroom’ surrounded by hills on all side where men were seated watching what was happening. Right when Ketill and his group approached, a man was being sentenced.

‘’… and for the killing of a thrall, you will pay compensation of a sack of hacksilver to Ivar.’’

The man nodded respectfully, in fact, even seemed happy that he was paying compensation. The other side seemed equally happy to receive money, so it seemed like there was no loser in this case. The accents were most likely far too thick for Najla and Basim to follow, though they would easily be able to pick out familiar words.

The crowd seemed unamused, but kept watching for the next case, where a burly looking man was lead into the court, carrying only a dagger, but making a fine point out of it to store his axe close to the entrance with wide gestures. As Ketill stood on top of one of the hills, he leaned in to the man next to him, asking him, ‘’who is that?’’

The man did not look at Ketill, his eyes fixated on this man in the court. ‘’Grettir Snorrison, killed four men and hung a fifth, then burned down the homestead. It was done in revenge for the killing of his brother, so he is not accused of murder, but of arson. But the family that was harmed demands more than that, and wishes to accuse him of murder because they claim the five men couldn’t defend themselves.’’ Ketill nodded, and this information all seemed to make perfect sense to him. To Najla, Basim and Yasamin, whatever they would have been able to follow in the story would likely not make much sense at all.

‘’Grettir Snorrison, you stand accused of arson today, what do you plead?’’

‘’Guilty.’’

‘’What reason did you commit the arson for?’’

‘’Their family burned down my father’s homestead and went unpunished. It was my good right to return to them the same as what they gave to our family. I only killed five, to repay the debt of my brother, who was a highstanding trader and had a lot of value. I could’ve killed them all – but I was honour bound to only kill as many as was fair and just. I see no reason why I would lie about the arson then, as that too was only fair and just.’’

The crowd cheered for him, as they all agreed that returning the favour after a misdeed was only natural, and it seemed that the feud between Grettir and the other family was the feud of the generation as everyone seemed invested in some way. ‘’And the victims, what do they say?’’

A short, but stout man walked up then, carrying only a dagger as well. ‘’He’s a liar! We did not kill his brother, only fed him and then sent him on his way after he came knocking on our door! We thought he was a hunter from far north, one of those that live in tents, so we wouldn’t harm him!’’ The man looked at Grettir with eyes that were filled with anger then, continuing while staring the man down, though Grettir did not seem impressed, in fact, barely looked at the man. ‘’After all, ‘t was not our fault that his brother was sick and died a day later!’’

Then Grettir got angry, and turned around. Although this wouldn’t have gone over well in any other court, it seemed normal here. Honour prevented them from fighting right away. ‘’You poisoned him, of course! You were too cowardly to fight him, so you poisoned him and took his money! How could you mistake a wealthy trader for a hunter, you idiot?!’’

‘’We have reached a verdict already! The two parties must commit to a holmgang, or face the shame of not accepting the challenge and be declared the loser of this judging! By committing to a holmgang, both parties are cleared of any blame, and Audrun himself will determine who is right by who lives and who dies! Grettir will fight for his brother, as he is the one who took his revenge, and the victims will determine their own champion.’’

Grettir seemed satisfied – he looked like he would win with almost full certainty, but the victim looked less happy. He glanced at his family, and there were very few that would be capable of fighting, let alone winning against a thug like Grettir – who was by all means not a man to be crossed, and although he was honourable, that word had a different meaning here. It meant to be upright, honest and straight forward, and not underhanded and backwards. That still meant he could murder someone honourably.

The two men marched off, the holmgang not taking place until much later. When nobody came up, Ketill got up and rudely grabbed Najla by the arm, forcing her forwards. The crowd looked up now, and even the judges – who were old, wise men – seemed relatively surprised by this stranger and the exotic stranger he was bringing with him. He led her into the court and then took a place on the side.

The judges were quick to speak. ‘’May we know your name?’’ one of them asked Ketill.

‘’Ketill Grímhilðrson,’’ he replied, perhaps being the first time that Najla, Basim or Yasamin had even heard his surname. Such basic info, yet it was unknown to them. ‘’I was a thrall for this woman for many years in a place to the south called the sultanate, where the snow is yellow and is not cold but warm.’’ He knew that such tales usually were received with a lot of interest – if there was anything more strong than a northern survival instinct it was that of the travellers instinct. ‘’She mistreated me, so I came looking for a judgement.’’

The judges were silent for a moment as such a case was truly unique – usually the cases were between locals, people that they knew, but these were two strangers, one of which was not even from the north, but was far away.

‘’Your people are from where? I have never heard of a man named like your father.’’

‘’We were hunters from a tribe to the south west. We hunted alongside the mountains, but my parents perished when I was young. I left the north then.’’

‘’As you likely know, since you were born here, a thrall has certain rights but not many. Which did she break?’’

Ketill turned around then, raising his coat and tunic for them to see the horrid scars that lined his back given to him by Osman, for a reason that would not have been enough for this treatment in the north. That there were different laws in the Sultanate seemed to matter little. ‘’She also did not pay me any wages for my services as her thrall, and so I was unable to buy my freedom.’’

The judges all nodded, though there was a hesitation there that Ketill had expected. ‘’We must speak for a while, as this case is new, and never occurred before. A decision must be reached in communion with the gods, so please be prepared to stay here for a few more days.’’

As they left, voices picked up and the crowd was going somewhat wild over the story that Ketill told them. A land with yellow, warm snow? It was unthinkable, but from the way Najla looked it was apparently true, for nobody like her had been seen before – only those from Broacien that they traded with, and they looked like northerners. Ketill also left, taking Najla by the arm again and forcing her with him. Once he’d collected Yasamin and Basim as well, he’d take them back to the horses, but they were stopped on the way by a man dressed in fine furs, and wearing some gold around his fingers, which was uncommon for most tribals in the north.

‘’You are the stranger from the south. Please, come sit with us, and tell us your stories. We have good food and ale to share, in exchange for what you can tell us!’’ The man was burly too, like most men seemed to be from hard work. In comparison, Najla, Basim and Yasamin all looked remarkably small. Ketill eyed the man up and down, trying to anticipate just what kind of man it was, before nodding and agreeing. They followed the man to his tents, which were large, luxurious and had a fire inside.

Ketill pushed Najla deeper into the tent and sat down a bit away from her, not wanting to have her closeby. Basim and Yasamin, similarly, didn’t sit too close to Ketill, sitting close to Najla in an attempt not to be too noticeable – although that was impossible, for everyone had their eyes on them.

In the tent were three other men, all younger than 20 – well armed, with spears with stone tips and some knives in their belts, as well as fur clothes that kept them warm. It hadn’t snowed recently and the snow had been cleared, but the ground was still frozen and so they had put more furs on the floor to keep the heat inside the room as much as they could.

There were also two women, one blonde, older and apparently the wife of the wealthy man, the other with raven black hair, perhaps the daughter.

_{the Man’s daughter}

Almost immediately they were offered food, consisting of gruel, bread and salt, and a mug of ale in a goathorn that was hollowed out. Ketill gratefully accepted it, bowing his head slightly in thanks. Basim, Najla and Yasamin were all offered the same, as it seemed that the servants of anyone were treated the same as the one who owned them – and it was still assumed they were his servants. Ketill immediately tore off some of the bread and threw it in the fire, saying some words that did not sound familiar at all, words that were far older than the language they spoke now. The women and men nodded approvingly, and the wealthy man joined them then, sitting down near the fire, across from Ketill. ‘’Thank you for your generosity and hospitality,’’ Ketill said to him first, though he did not save any time getting to the food, eating the bread and salt first as was customary, before spooning in the gruel in a remarkably fast time.

‘’It’s natural,’’ the man said, ‘’all we have is our good name and fortune.’’ To this Ketill nodded, as it was the truth for the north. ‘’Do they speak our language?’’ he then asked, referring to the three seated not far away.

Ketill put away the bowl and plate that had held the gruel and bread, leaving just some sprinklings of salt on them. He then glanced at the three before looking back at the man. ‘’They speak Broacienien, so they can probably understand you if you speak slowly and clearly. If we speak like this, they probably can’t hear more than a few words.’’ The accents seemed to get thicker and thicker, the sounds changing almost entirely at times. Basim, despite his cleverness, seemed to have trouble following along at times.

‘’What is this sultanate you spoke of?’’

‘’A land in the sand, where nothing grows except next to the water. To survive you need to plan your journey months in advance and hope for good tidings, and bring plenty of water. No snow to melt.’’

‘’The people are all like them?’’

‘’Mostly.’’ Of course, Najla and Basim were both royalty, but that meant nothing at all to the tribals. They were just asking about their looks – it was how they recognized people, anything else didn’t matter to them. ‘’None are like us, at any rate. Some of them have skin black as coal. But those are few.’’

The man looked to be astonished, almost captivated by the information as he stared at Najla, his mouth somewhat open. ‘’They are your servants, right? Will you sell them to me?’’

Ketill shook his head then. ‘’They’re free people, so I can’t sell them. You would not want them either,’’ he said, before getting up and walking over to them. He skipped Najla, but walked to Basim, pulling him up. ‘’Too short to reach anything,’’ he started, then grabbed his arm and raised the coat, showing the boys meagre arms in comparison to Ketill’s soldiering arms that were bulky and strong. ‘’Can’t hold a spear, can’t shoot a bow further than a few meters,’’ he explained, before letting the arm drop and pointing to his head. ‘’This is where the value is, but it’s no use to us. The boy is clever, but what use is clever if he cannot survive the first winter?’’

He then glanced at Yasamin. ‘’A pretty concubine perhaps. She talks too much but understands too little. But now she has that scar – she looks like a shieldmaiden. But like him, too weak to hold a shield.’’ More than that he couldn’t make of it, for the woman had lost a lot of weight over the past few weeks, diminishing her already small stature even further.

Lastly, Najla. ‘’Don’t even bother with her – she thinks she’s Audrun’s daughter herself, and even if she could work, she wouldn’t. Never worked for anything in her life,’’ he told the man, before leaving the three alone and sitting down again. The three young boys that were standing nearby watching them seemed amused at the way Ketill had treated the three of them, but also seemed enthralled by the strangers. ‘’She will die here, whether the Althingi gives me her life or not. She’ll die of hunger, cold, or my blade.’’

The man nodded understandingly now that the value of these people had been explained to them. ‘’Then do you have anything else from there?’’ he inquisitively asked. Ketill nodded again, pulled the last golden ring with the inscription in it from his pocket, and threw it over. ‘’What does it say?’’ the man asked, instantly noticing the inscription, but Ketill raised his shoulder.

‘’Something about their god, I imagine. Here, give it to them, they’ll tell you.’’

Without much warning, the man threw the golden ring towards Najla and waited for an answer – if she’d understood. Ketill was quick to instruct her in more understandable Broacienien. ‘’He asks what it says. The inscription.’’

Najla watched quietly, her gaze emotionless as Ketill left, her brother tagging along behind him. She spared no glance towards Yasamin, though Najla could hear the girl. She was sniffling somewhat pathetically, likely from the pain of her eye, though Najla felt no sympathy as a result. She felt nothing. Once Ketill and Basim had moved out of her line of vision, Najla’s gaze moved upwards, towards the stars, though she did not quite see them. Much like Majnun had been abandoned by his stars, Najla saw they brought no direction. Tonight, they brought only madness, for they had left her to her thoughts.

Her bloodline was gone. Slaughtered. The veins of a powerful family had been split open, their claim to the throne splattered along the walls of her home. They had cut her father’s throat like an animal, left him to bleed while they chased after his wife. Her mother, her poor mother, who had never been the same after the loss of her eldest son, she would never be left to live. Najla had never even seen her sister, nor many of her female cousins, but the memories of giggles and gossip would forevermore be overwhelmed by the sounds of their screams. Those, she would always hear. Her brothers, her nephew, family, friends, her uncle.

It was all her fault.

Najla all but fell onto her hands and knees, taking a deep, shuddering breath as her fists clenched into the sand. It was her husband that had done this, her mistakes that had torn her family to pieces, that had taken all those she loved from her. She only barely kept herself from screaming at the thought, stifling her sob with her own hand. It would be death to scream in this god-forsaken desert, but perhaps death would have been a kinder fate. Najla could feel a trickle of blood as it came from her palm, but it barely registered as she let out another noise of despair, something between a sob and a scream. Hot tears flooded her eyes as the realization of what had happened continued to process, and Najla felt the grief wash over her, drowning her. While one palm stifled her sobs, another dug itself into the sand underneath her, her fist clenched tightly as her nails dug into her palm. It continued in this manner for some time, an eternity to Najla, perhaps mere minutes to the world around her. She did not know. It would not stop on its own. Though the grief might have overtaken her forever, more memories continued to flood in, more vivid than ever now.

She could see the blood that stained her home, her thoughts were filled with the sight of swords piercing through guts and daggers slicing over throats, sights that would churn the stomach for all but the most hardened of stomachs. The sight of her uncle’s throat as it was stabbed through, the sensation when she drove the shard into her husband’s leg, as if she could the flesh of his thigh rip beneath it, the feel of driving a dagger through a man’s neck- it was too much. A sudden wave of nausea passed through her, and for a brief moment, Najla felt as if she might give in to it. By some miracle, the nausea was held back, though it rose dangerously in her throat. Still, she did not rise. She could feel Yasamin’s eyes on her, watching the grief overtake her, but Najla was far past caring. Rather, she tried to steady herself, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. The sobs no longer wrecked through her body, and the tears fell slowly now, as if the sudden show of emotion had exhausted her. They would come later, no doubt, but as she calmed, another new sensation came through her, more welcome than those before.

Pain. She unclenched her fists as she sat up, realizing how tightly they had been dug into the sand. One palm had only the scars her nails had left in, but upon raising the other, Najla merely watched as the blood trickled down past her wrist. She had gripped the shard with little care as to her own pain, and it had cut into her palm rather painfully, as well as along her fingers. She hoped it was worth it. She hoped she had crippled him. After all, there was little more worthless than a Sawarim who could not ride. The rather cruel thoughts did not settle as she moved to open her hand, wincing as she did. Turning her hand over, Najla’s eyes fell upon the tattoo that had only just been drawn onto her skin, yet one more marker of what she had done to bring this. Osman had made certain it was not the only one.

The cuts his sword had brought stung, but Najla was hardly in a position to inspect the damage it’d done now. Still, she could feel the burn along her back and across her side, a reminder that she’d be dealing with those scars for some time to come. Bruises would be sure to grace her body tomorrow, she could feel the ache in her body even now, but none of these hurt quite as bad as she might have guessed. The grief outweighed it, it outweighed everything, Najla could feel nothing but that sorrow.

Her eyes glanced up once more as the sounds of someone approaching came, but no fear filled her. They were familiar, one a damning presence she blamed nearly as much as herself, another, the last of her blood. She’d need both of them near equally now, a strange thought, though she did not let it occupy her long. Though Najla had little issue with allowing Yasamin to see her grief, it seemed she was not quite so eager to allow her brother to see, though he shared in it better than anyone else. Basim should not have had to bear the burden of their strength on his own, though Najla would have been quite willing to abandon herself to grief. She was not so quick to abandon her brother. As he passed her the leather sack, Najla took a drink from it, careful not to spill. An instinctive gesture to the Sawarim, who valued only blood higher than water. She listened carefully as Basim stepped up to Ketill, her eyes tracing her brother as he spoke.

It was foolishness, Najla knew, and the way she looked at Basim made that quite clear. Her eyes were bright red from the sudden wave of sorrow, though none would be able to see in the dim light the moonlight provided now. Still, it would not be difficult to guess. It did not surprise Najla to hear that Ketill would be taking her with him, for she knew he would drift about in the desert forever without her. It was best for her as well, Najla understood this even in her grief. Osman would find her. He’d scour the desert for her, however deep into Broacien he dared to go, he’d look. She was responsible for the death of his brother, and as soon as he found that that she had escaped with one of her own, he’d be furious. Even more so, his family would be furious with him. It would have been a pleasing thought, but Najla’s pleasure was disrupted as she turned her gaze onto Ketill, watching him as he spoke to Basim.
At the mention of Coedwin, Najla did little but stare at Ketill coldly, though she could feel that slight shiver of fear creep down her spine. It was not the castle itself, nor the memories she held of it, but the thought that she truly did rely on this man now. He’d take all that he could from her and slice her throat to satisfy himself, and still, somehow he was her best option. She truly had become a host to a Djinn. Her eyes followed him as he moved his horse, only to fall back onto Basim quickly. She did not speak, and Basim’s questioning gaze fell onto her, as if trying to gauge how she was feeling.

<“Najla-“>

<“Forgive me, my blood.”>

The words came out shakily, as if on a breath, but they were clear enough to Basim. The sound of her voice had made it rather obvious that she’d given in to grief, and by the way she spoke, it would sound fragile, as if she might give in again at any moment. She did not move for a moment, but Basim stepped towards her, concern in his voice as he answered.

<“Don’t take this on yourself. Think, please. What are we going to do?”>

<“Forgive me.”>

The words came out hollow, as if she was whispering them to a ghost. She could feel the alarm in Basim’s voice as he closed the gap in between them, looking down at his sister, though she could not meet his gaze any longer. Najla was slipping, her mind fading into the recesses of grief where she could feel and understand little. A far kinder fate than awareness, but she was abandoning Basim in the process, leaving him for a place he could not follow.

<“Stop it. We have to go with Ketill now, but what of after? I’m not letting you die in Coedwin, surely you must have someone in the Redsand-“>

<“May God grant me every bruise, may I take all your pain onto myself, all their pain. They’re dead Basim, he took everything, they all suffered for-“>

Her words were halted by a sob, though this time, she did not use her hand to try and hide it. Instead, it was muffled rather quickly by Basim, who wrapped an arm around her, drawing her in. It was the same way her father had held her as a child to comfort her, the way Harith would have done only to mess her hair, which would always begin an argument. Now, it was a gesture that reminded her of all she’d lost, and she nearly broke down once more. However, Basim’s touch had offered her a greater comfort than he’d ever know could come from such a simple gesture. He was here, he was still flesh and blood, and without her, he’d rot in this desert. With that realization, his words were a strength to her, finally piercing through that haze of grief she desperately wished to lose herself in.

<“I know. I know, sister, I’m grieving too. But I need you now. You’re the last of my blood, if you go mad, Osman will truly have taken everything. Don’t let him. For my sake.”>

He released her then, at which Najla nodded. It felt as if someone had splashed cold water onto her face, for while the grief was still there, the darkness in her mind threatening to swallow her up, nothing was clearer than her brother. He shouldn’t have had to bear the burden of their strength on his own, and Najla could not bear the thought that she would abandon him to a worse fate than even this.

<“I’m here. I’m sorry. Help me mount my horse, we should hurry.”>

Even these words were received with some concern from Basim, though the command sounded more like Najla than any of her pleading apologies. Still, it was an odd notion, for Najla was a Sawarim, and thus, should have been entirely capable of mounting a horse on her own. He’d seen her do it plenty of times. But now, when she needed to prove her strength to him, he was reaching a hand out to help her up.

<“Are you hurt? Can you ride?”>

Najla clicked her tongue at that, looking down at Basim as she waited for him to mount his horse as well. Her voice was still soft as she spoke, but there was a new strength in there now, one she could not have brought herself.

<“They’re shallow. Osman was never quite that strong. I’ll manage fine.”>

---

He would not hear her apologies for some time after that, and Najla was not quite so eager to offer them again. It was not because she felt that she had been absolved of her role in this, but because she saw that it would only hurt Basim to see her in this state. It was for her brother that Najla forced herself to enter the Coedwin castle again, despite the memories that clawed into her flesh. Worse, those memories were not alone. The man that had touched her before was dead at her own hands, but there was one who had done far worse, who had been left alive. Perhaps if she had been able to fight him, to take his life before she fled, she would have found some comfort in that matter. Oftentimes, Najla would find her hand on her own leg, tracing just where she estimated she’d driven the shard of mirror in. She had not seen how deep, but she had heard his bellow of pain, and he had been unable to chase her as a result. She comforted herself with the thought that she’d driven it deep enough, that she’d struck the right part of his leg, that perhaps she had taken something from him as he had taken everything from her. Thus, Najla spent her nights praying she’d crippled her husband.

She’d occupy herself much this way as they traveled, finding it far easier to keep her burdens from Basim. He was hurting just as she was, neither of them were entirely capable of hiding this, nor did they try to. They’d speak of the event as they traveled, in bits and pieces, never more than what Basim believed his sister was capable of. They’d share their stories, recounting who they had seen flee, who they had seen perish, and who they had not seen at all. They would never seek to speak of it in front of Ketill, for though Basim had tried once, he quickly found that Najla simply would not engage in that conversation in front of him, not even in Sawarimic.

But they spoke of it at night, often, especially when they were in their rooms alone. It became a familiar pattern as they traveled, as Najla would often ride in silence during the day, while Basim would take in as much of the land as he could, eager to learn more of it and its people. It was nowhere near as exciting for Najla, who had seen much of it before, and did not quite care to see it again. Rather, she spent most of the ride in silence, absently replaying horrid memories in her mind.. Then they’d rest at night, in their beds, and Najla would stare up at the ceilings as they spoke, hoping to piece together what had happened. Basim had not seen what happened to their father, and it took nights before Najla could bring herself to speak the words, choking them out in a sob that ended the conversation abruptly. She had not seen her mother flee, but Basim had seen her push Nura ahead of her to flee, only to lose both in the crowd. They’d recount these in pieces, and when exhaustion, either emotional or from the travel itself, took over, they’d fall silent. Usually, it would be whenever Najla herself had enough, and Basim felt that another word would make her break down. Then, Basim would turn over, and Najla waited each night until she heard his breathing steady, finally allowing herself to fall to her emotions. She was no fool, to believe that Basim had not heard her pitiful tears at least some nights, but they’d not speak of it in the morning. The most he’d do was remark that she looked like she hadn’t slept, at which Najla would only nod. She couldn’t. The wedding replayed endlessly in her dreams.

It felt odd, to be trailing after Ketill this way, but there were few other options now. He seemed intent on bringing Najla with him, for what reason, she did not know. If he wanted to kill her, he’d had plenty of opportunities. Basim had stopped him once, but she knew it would not be enough to stop him again. Still, the reason itself was meaningless, for they had few other options. Basim’s questions regarding Najla’s network received a damning answer: Osman knew. He’d been her most trusted confidant for years, and though their relationship had deteriorated in the time before the wedding, it would not mean that he forgot all her words. If they went after those Najla knew would help her, the odds that Osman would find them were overwhelming. And that was only if they wished to help. After news of the Sultan’s death would spread, there would be few that would not sell them back to the Al-Suwaidi. They needed Ketill to get through Broacien safely, Najla remembered how they treated her people here, but they could not return to the Sultanate either. There was no safe place on earth for them, they were only safe with Ketill. And they both knew it would not last. Still, they followed him through Broacien, for it seemed they were out of choices.

It had been a surprise to Najla that they had not entered the Hall, but she did not speak of this, at least not to Ketill. She was not eager to return either, not wanting to relive the year she’d watched Jalil rot, nor to realize that perhaps she should have stayed there. Yet her comfort did not override her worry, and so when they entered the tavern, Najla was quick to move up to the room the tavernkeep opened for them. The man looked somewhat curious, as a Servant with three Sawarim in tow was quite a strange sight to any, but Najla paid it no mind. She’d learned years ago that few would question a Servant. She moved past without a word, settling herself on the bed as Basim thanked the man, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him.

<“Why are we going north?”>

Her question was answered with a shrug she did not see, for Najla had already laid back on her bed. Basim seated himself at the edge of his own as he spoke, his tone somewhat apprehensive, thinking through the situation.

<“He never said. I don’t think we should go.”>

<“Is it our choice now?”>

<“We’re not without legs. We could leave now.”>

<“No, we couldn’t. You could. Ketill would not chase you, whatever anger he holds, it is for me only. I don’t want you to suffer for it.”>

<“You’re the last of my blood. I’m not abandoning you. If we leave, we leave together.”>

<“And go where? Even if we managed to slip away from Ketill, we’d travel south only to die. If we stay here, we die. The Broacienians do not like people like us, and the Sawarim are not our people any longer. Perhaps moving past the mountains would not be so foolish. Osman could not find us there.”>

<“Do you think Ketill’s taking us there to hide us? He nearly killed you in the castle, you think he changed his mind in a few days? I’m not going to be able to fight him off, I won’t be able to do anything if he tries to kill you again. Have you given up on your life already?”>

At this, Najla pushed herself to sit on the bed, turning her gaze towards Basim. There was something unreadable there, something even her brother did not understand. Perhaps he was right, perhaps they could flee now and hide away in Broacien until the end of their days, but that was a risk, for both of them. But she had seen how Basim’s presence had managed to stop Ketill from killing her, Najla knew that he did not blame her brother for her being. He was the best choice for Basim’s survival, and Najla had no qualms about giving over her life as a result. Whether or not it’d truly work, she did not know, but any other option was even more dismal. For a moment, there was silence, and now it was Basim’s turn to fling himself back onto the bed, letting out a sigh.

<“I should have been a warrior. Baba tried, but no one tried harder than Harith. He’d drag me out there every chance he got and shoved a sword in my hand. I never understood how getting knocked around was meant to teach me anything, but perhaps I should have tried harder. If Harith was here, he wouldn’t touch you.”>

<“If Harith was here, we’d be dead already.”> Najla’s reply earned her a glance from Basim, though it was clear he wasn’t looking for pity at the moment. She would not offer him any, only the truth. <“You’re the one who stopped Ketill in his tracks when he wished to kill me, not him. You know how rash he was, we never would have made it this far. He would have insisted upon staying, fighting for his title-“>

<“Perhaps we should have done the same.”>

<“You’re smarter than that.”> Silence. Basim did not respond, his eyes trained on the ceiling above him. Perhaps he did not want to believe it just yet, but Najla would continue to speak, making certain he knew she wouldn’t be running. <”Imagine if we found loyalists, plenty of them, enough to make a sufficient force. Armies aren’t free. We’ve got nothing to pay them with, nothing besides ourselves. I’d end up traded off to a warlord somewhere, and he’d slit your throat as soon as I had his son.”>

<“What’s the alternative? You know Ketill’s going to kill you.”>

<“I don’t know that. If he was going to kill me, he had plenty of chances. Why now?”>

There was silence again, and Najla did not need to look at Basim now to know that he was thinking through the situation. He knew more regarding Ketill than she did, he had not forgotten their conversations regarding Ketill’s gods. But it did not offer him an answer to his sister’s question, though it was quite clear she wasn’t looking for one. Death wasn’t an unimaginable fate, certainly not the worst of the possibilities she’d known. Besides, they had few other choices but to go with Ketill, it seemed. He was intent on bringing Najla with him, and she had seen few reasons to say no, realizing that she’d be chased far into the recesses of Broacien, if possible. She was the reason Sa’aqr had perished before his family, surely, the fact that she’d slipped through their fingers would be a thorn in their side for some time to come. But this far north, no one could find them.

<“I want to know something.”>

<“How odd.”>

Basim turned his head towards her now, opening his eyes. It was the first sign of humor Najla had shown in their time fleeing from the Sultanate, a piece of her old self that had buried itself too deep among grief. It caused a slight smile to flash across his face, but the question that came after would be quick to wipe that clean.

<“Did Osman ever give you any hints as to what happened? Anything that gave you cause for suspicion?”>

Whatever brief hint of humor had been there, it fled from Najla’s face instantly. Rather than answer, she pushed herself off the bed to stand. She had nowhere to go, but it seemed Najla could not stay seated any longer. If she thought she could have left the room, perhaps she would have, but she had not forgotten how people like her were treated in Broacien.

<“You don’t have to say-“>

Najla clicked her tongue, forcing herself to turn back and look at Basim. The words were there, lingering on the edge of her tongue, hoping to block the pain from her brother, but she could not bring herself to say them. Rather, Najla found herself spitting out anything, no longer lies, but it was certainly not the answer he sought. The words poured out of her mouth as if she could not help it, as if that wave of nausea had come over her again.

<“Not this. I could never have imagined this. If I thought he would hurt any of my blood, I would have sent him after his brother. I should have, I should have taken his tongue the first time he told me he loved me.”>

<“Najla, I’m sorry.”> Basim sat up on the bed now, worried eyes upon his sister. She’d seemed somewhat stronger in these few days of traveling, but the question had quickly unraveled her tongue, as well as her mind, it seemed. It was easy enough to hide her grief, to push it to the few hours of the night when Basim would be asleep. But she was still reeling from the incident, and it took far too little to break the façade. <“We don’t have to talk about it.”>

<“You’re sorry? Don’t ever apologize to me again. I took your world from you Basim, if it weren’t for me you’d be home now. You’d have mama and baba, I would have gladly rotted away in Broacien if I knew what my return would bring.”>

<“Your return? You think you brought this?”> Najla did not answer, blinking back tears as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking away from her brother. It was obvious the guilt weighed on her, but Basim was not willing to allow her to indulge it. <“How are you that arrogant, to believe you brought down a dynasty on your own?”>

Perhaps it should have sounded insulting, but Najla could take no offense from Basim, nor did he intend to give it. He was simply speaking the truth, the facts her sorrow had distorted for her, though it would do nothing to lessen her guilt.

<“The people drink water, the Sultan drinks wine. The people drink dust, the Sultan drinks water. The people drink blood, the Sultan, dust.”>

<“I remember the saying. Baba said some of the Sha’irs had been making songs of it in the capital, before uncle told him to round them up.”>

<“We’d all heard the saying before. Then we went back into the castle, lounged on golden chairs, and drank wine as we laughed about it. Abdul even told the Sha’ir’s to add a few more verses on before he recommended that Uncle cut their tongues out. Do you remember that? We thought God had placed us there, and as a result, we thought no one could take us down.”>

<“The Sawarim did place us there.”>

<“Well, men took us off. If Sa’aqr’s death had been the only reason they had, they never would have gathered enough men. Some of them did so because they drank dust in the summers, and we drank wine. Some, because they believed the scandals of the Sultan’s court proved the Sawarim no longer favored them. I’m certain there were even a few men who joined just because of that time Tahir told that fat Emir to send him over his daughter. It doesn’t matter. You’re never going to survive with that burden of guilt trapped on your shoulders.”>

His words had sobered her up rather quickly, and now, Najla was looking at him with something more unknown. The event had changed him drastically, as it had her, but in far different ways. Najla had contained her grief the best she could, otherwise, she had become a shell of her former being. Before, her entire life had revolved around her family, serving the Sultan and the Sawarim, and truthfully, nothing else. Now, all that she had left of that was Basim, and a faith that did not seem like it wished to repay her devotion to it. In contrast, Basim had become stronger. He’d had to, for it was his strength that had given Najla hers.

<“I see that grief hasn’t softened your tongue.”>

<“Nor should it. I’d soften it for Nura, perhaps, or Tabina. It’d be doing you a disservice.”>

It’d be doing both of them a disservice, truthfully. Basim had been quite careful about the way he’d spoken of this incident, but only in regards to the death of their family. The facts, the pure truth of what had happened and what had caused it, he had few qualms about trying to understand. Najla had been his best source for this, but the role she played in this disaster had not been a small one, and she had not forgotten that. She would never forget it. For as long as she breathed, Najla knew, she’d carry the burden of her choices with her, her hands forever stained by her family’s blood. Basim was smart enough to understand this too, though it was not for this reason that he tried to ease the burden of guilt. It seemed he had an inkling, one he didn’t wish to ask about, of just how Najla intended to ease that burden upon herself. So long as Basim lived, it did not matter what sacrifices she’d need to make, she had made that quite clear, but they both knew how little she had left to give now.

<“You should rest. I know you haven’t slept well.”>

<“Do you really want to know? About Osman?”>

Najla spoke these words as she moved back towards her bed, seating herself on the edge. Basim looked confused at first, though he only laid back down on his bed, resting his hands behind his head.

<“You really don’t have to say.”>

<“I sensed that something had changed about him after Sa’aqr’s death because he rarely put a hand on me afterwards.”>

Basim turned his head to look at Najla now. There was no surprise in his expression, which Najla had all but expected, for she had far too much faith in her brother’s intelligence to believe otherwise. Yet, speaking it outright felt far different. She was not looking for sympathy, though she could not meet her brother’s gaze to see if he was offering any. Rather, she moved to lay back down on the bed, closing her eyes as she finished speaking.

<“He was kinder, gentler, without any reason to be. I believed this was because I had granted him Ketill, or perhaps because our marriage would grant him more control. Truthfully, I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid of Osman. I thought enduring would bring some honor back to our family. If I had known what he hid, I would have killed him a long time ago.”> Silence, for a few long moments. <“Ya Sawarim, I hope I crippled him.”>

<“May God will it.”>

---

Their conversation the night before had put neither Basim nor Najla at ease, though, none of their conversations had so far. Still, there was nothing they could do, nerves or not, they’d push ahead. It was a strange sensation to Najla, who had intended to make this journey so many years ago. Then, she had not realized just what it had entailed. She had believed she’d been chosen to accompany Jalil on an incredible mission, for the glory of the Sultan, the Sultanate, and the Sawarim. She’d been enthralled with the thought of traveling to a foreign land, engaging with the people there, and perhaps, if she was skilled enough, convincing them the Broacienians were an enemy. Above all, it had been an honor to serve her uncle, as she believed he had seen her work and was prepared to place more trust in her.

It had taken long years to clear that notion from her mind, but Najla held few of those ideals now. She’d had some contacts in Broacien, it was true, but the more she thought regarding the matter, the more she wondered why her uncle had ever conceded to send her alongside Jalil. If he knew what her brother was meant to do, the thought that he’d send a Sultana up these dangerous mountains with only a few guards in tow was strange to her now. Perhaps he had never intended for her to return. Perhaps he simply didn’t care. Najla wanted to ask her brother, to separate her own paranoid thoughts using his more somber mind, but she could not bring herself to speak the words. To speak ill of the dead was a great sin, and so Najla kept these thoughts to herself as they traveled.

Still, it was a strange thought to believe that she was traveling north as she had always intended, just with another brother alongside her. Though Basim had not ceased to be a comforting presence to her, Najla found that his endless fascination with the lands around them was beginning to grow irritating to her.

<“This is snow?”>

He’d asked the question as soon astheir horses began to move out of the grass, into territory covered with that endless white coating. With wide eyes, Basim turned back to look at Najla, who only clutched the cloak tighter around her, bored eyes meeting his. She’d seen it before, never in such a thick quantity, but she’d survived a winter at Barren Flats. Not a difficult feat, when one lived inside the warmth of a castle, but her memories of snow had not been pleasant regardless. A shiver ran through her body before she responded to her brother, her body clearly unused to this sort of cold. She was already craving the desert sun again.

<“Terrible, isn’t it? You can hardly stand in it without freezing.”>

<“And you can barely walk in the sand without roasting. The Broacienians truly have it easy with their grass, don’t they?”>

<“That’s why they’re soft.”>

Basim grinned at that comment, only to turn back and revel in the sight before him. By doing this, he missed the fleeting hint of a smile his own words had brought before, though it faded rather quickly.

No smile would appear again as they moved further north, finally stopping at a camp. It was busy, far busier than she’d expected such an area to be, but she was not quite as enthralled by the sights as Basim seemed to be. It was a curious thing to watch the people stare at them, for though the three Sawarim were a novelty to these people, Najla had become somewhat familiar with the sort of people that lived north of her former home. And yet, even these people were a strange sight, for they looked far more like Ketill than even the Broacienians did. As soon as the three had left their horses, this distinction became far more apparent, for they seemed to tower over the three of them. Regardless, Najla continued to follow Ketill, her eyes on the attraction he’d brought them to.

As soon as Basim had asked, Najla turned to him, clearly more intent on getting the information from him, rather than Ketill. Her eyes moved over the crowd, though it settled on the courtroom before them, where the judges sat before the men, ready to decide their fates.

<“What did he say this was?”>

<“Court.”> His words were worried, though Najla did not quite seem to be, though she had plenty of reason to. Rather, her eyes followed the man that was lead into the room, desperately trying to understand just what was happening.

<“They have far too many judges for a court, don’t they?”>

The Sawarim only had one, a single authority meant to decipher the words of their God. Basim did not answer her, only watching as the men begin to speak, trying to understand what was going on. Najla did the same, though from the few words she could pick out here and there, there was little to garner. Still, it was an interesting sight, and she seemed surprised when the larger man turned in anger, shouting at him. This would never be permitted in her home, but this place was certainly not her home, there was no mistaking that.

Najla watched the court curiously as the two men walked off. Though she’d been able to understand a few words here and there, most of the message had been lost in their accents. It was harder to understand men when they were angry, their words came faster and their accents thicker, it seemed. While Basim’s knowledge Broacienian was far more formal, whatever advantage Najla had gained by her year in Broacien had long been tainted by the years she’d spent back in the Sultanate, only using her knowledge of the tongue to speak to Ketill. They’d both know the same as the other, most likely, and Najla seemed eager to piece these together. It did not even occur to her to ask Yasamin, she had far more faith in her brother’s limited knowledge than whatever the girl would tell her. She’d been loyal to her before, that was for certain, but Ketill was her protector now, not Najla.

<“What did you understand?”>

<“Some, but it doesn’t make any sense. How can-“>

His words were cut off abruptly as Najla felt a sudden pain in her arm, one that pulled her forwards. Though her hand reached up, trying to pry Ketill’s fingers off of her, it was to no avail. Still, it did not stop her from trying even as she tried to look back at her brother, but she would be unable to catch a glimpse of him before Ketill pulled her into the court, releasing her suddenly.

With wide eyes, Najla turned to look at the crowd around her, feeling the fear rise up in her stomach. This must have been Ketill’s plan all along, but she did not even know what this was. The crowd offered her no answers. She made eye contact with every person her eyes settled upon, for all their gazes were trained on her, wondering just what she was. The judges seated before them were all eyeing her carefully as well, but this frightened Najla more than anything. After all, Ketill’s eyes had convinced some of her people he was a Djinn, Najla included. She could only imagine what stories they’d conjure up about her.

Luckily or not, she was not given any time to ponder, remaining silent as the judge began to speak. Not out of fear, but because the few words she could pick up would be all that informed her of her fate. As Ketill spoke, Najla turned her gaze onto him, frowning slightly. She’d never heard his family name before. It was utterly impossible for her to pronounce, and so it might have been another word lost to her ears, but in the context, it could have been little else. Still, it was brushed aside as he continued to speak, informing the judges as to why he was here.

She would not need to understand their words, she found. They would exchange few before Ketill turned, raising his coat and tunic to show the horrible scars her husband had left him with. This should have incited fear, in any sane man it would have, but it seemed Najla had little of that sanity left. Her husband had taken it, just as he had ripped Ketill’s skin apart.

Instead, she felt only anger. Was that why she had been dragged all this way, brought up through the far recesses of Broacienian and into the north, just so she could continue to repay her sins, her husband’s sins, with her blood? It had been shed already, etched onto the walls of the palace, all their mistakes and sins paid for by the skin off their backs and the blood in their veins. What did this beast want from her, what was there left to take? The blood pounded in her ears as these thoughts flooded her mind, nearly drowning out the voices of the men deciding her fate. There was nothing left of her to take, nothing but her own flesh, her blood. Perhaps this was fear that surged in her chest now, so indecipherable from her anger towards Ketill at this point, but she stifled it as best as she could. She needed to hear the men deciding her fate.

She had heard few, much of it lost in the uncontrollable pulsing of her own thoughts, though she had gotten the ultimate gist. They would not decide now. Yet she had not missed that word, the one she'd heard from another's lips before, one that she assumed was little but a mistake. Gods. Even with their thick accents, she had been able to pick that out, to hear the plurality when it should not have been there. Yet it offered her little direction as to her fate, and worse, she realized it would be the final words. All her silence had been worthless, and her fate would be decided with it, it seemed.

Ketill took her arm again, once more forcing her out of the court. If she had not understood their words, the anger with which he gripped her might have told her that her time had come. Now, all she could do was turn her head back, trying desperately to have her voice heard.

“Is this how you will decide my fate? Will you tell them what you have taken from me? Tell them! How could you ask for more when your eyes have drained me of my blood, tell them! Tell them what I lost for you!”

Najla scrambled along as Ketill continued to drag her with him, though she was determined to make this as difficult a feat as possible. Her nails dug into the skin of his hand, trying to pry his grip off her arm, though this was to no avail. Just like her words, it seemed her attempts to free herself hardly registered, and she had little choice but to follow. Still, her words continued, quickly devolving into that which he would not understand, which was never intended for him to know. Involuntary, perhaps, but the anger pulsed through her, far more apparent when spoken in her own tongue.

<”Djinn! How dare you ask for more, you breathe only because I gave a kingdom for you!”>

They were strange words, clearly evidenced by the the confusion in Basim’s eyes, which managed to override even the worry within them. Perhaps if translated to Ketill, or even as understood by Yasamin, they might have explained her words by her arrogance, assuming Najla blamed Ketill for the horrors she’d endured. It was Basim who knew better, for he was the one she'd confessed her sense of guilt to. It seemed whatever belief she’d had that Ketill was a man had fled, dashed alongside her family's blood.

Her anger did not cease as Ketill collected Basim and Yasamin, but it was no longer yelled, nor spoken. A new sense of worry had entered her as she turned her head to look at her brother, trying her best to keep her gaze upon him as Ketill pulled them along towards the horses. She wanted to tell him to flee, perhaps even to confess the truth of what she had brought into their home, but these words were quickly halted as a man stopped them.

It was only now that Najla’s hand released Ketill’s flesh, likely realizing it's uselessness. Or perhaps her curiosity had been directed onto the man before her, the one who had stopped them. He looked just as large as the rest, though even in her strange mixture of panic and anger Najla noticed the gold rings around his fingers. She’d never wear such finery again, but among all that she had lost, the finery would be forgotten the fastest. She understood a few words, namely ‘food’, but it would not have been enough to entice her. He’d brought her into a land of Djinns, people just as strong and cursed as he was, she would rather starve than give herself over to another of these. Perhaps it was lucky that it was not her choice, for these irrational thoughts would be given no consideration as Ketill pulled her along after the man.

She stumbled slightly as Ketill pushed her into the tent, even though he had not meant to make her fall. Still, it was enough to cause her to look back at him with an angry glare, though her words had been silenced for now. Rather, she was quick to seat herself, soon joined by Basim and Yasamin.

The people in the tent drew some interest, but Najla could not focus on them for long. Rather, she turned to Basim and Yasamin quickly, trying to understand what had just happened, what her fate was.

<“I could hardly understand a word, will I be killed? Did they say how?”>

<“A few more days.”> Yasamin’s reply came with little worry, for she did not have quite a stake in Najla’s life. She had been loyal to her long before, but it counted for little here. <“They’ll say then, I think.”>

Najla turned to Basim then, hoping her brother had understood more, something more concrete than waiting. However, it seemed she was merely meant to wait to know her fate.

<“I do not know, I believe Yasamin is right. What is a thrall? They mentioned the word several times.”>

Whatever hint that word would give her was quickly interrupted as they offered her food, which she took without a word. Basim had the decency to thank them with a nod, though he did not begin to eat, not until he had seen Ketill tear off the piece of bread and throw it into the fire. The words he spoke had intrigued him, it seemed, but Najla did not seem to notice that he was not quite as confused by them as she was. He could not understand them either, but perhaps the gesture itself made more sense to him. It did not matter. He returned to eating the food quickly, not separately, as Ketill seemed to do, but dipped in bread in as the Sawarim were accustomed to do. Yasamin did the same, even as Najla pushed her plate to the side, her food untouched.

<“You need to eat.”> Basim’s voice was muffled by the food in his mouth, though she could still sense the worry within it. Najla did not reply, only taking a sip of the ale she’d been given. <“You’ve barely eaten or slept, aren’t you hungry?”>

<“What’s the use?”> Najla took another sip of that ale, though her eyes fell to the food before her. It was a far cry from what she’d become accustomed to over the years, but this was not why she’d left it untouched. She did not long for the spiced meats and rich fruits that she’d spent her life eating, Najla did not long for anything at all. <“Does it matter if I die on an empty stomach?”>

<“You’re not dying.”>

Najla fell into silence once more, her eyes training forward onto Ketill and the man as they began to speak. Basim’s words might have convinced her any other day, but she knew her brother was not speaking rationally now. He was smart enough to know that he couldn’t. She’d tried to remain present for Basim, tried to relegate her sorrow to the hours and recesses he could not see, but to no avail. Her brother would only watched as she slipped farther and farther away, until he watched her die.

No. He would not see it. He couldn’t. Even if Najla had wished to protect him from such atrocities, even after all he’d witnessed, she would not be able to, this she had learned. Yet there was a greater reason for her thoughts, one rooted in a belief Basim had seen only hints of, never confirmed. He’d never ask her to confirm it, though Harith had once before. Her eyes fell upon Ketill now as these thoughts pulsed through her mind, forcing an angry frown onto her brow.

Whatever demon she’d given over her life to, she would not allow it to be the one that killed her. Najla had survived her husband, his family, her own people, she would not give her final breath to a dog. Looking over at Basim, who was trying to listen to the two men as they spoke, she leaned in and lowered her voice, not allowing any to hear. It would not matter, given none but Yasamin could speak their language, but it seemed even Yasamin was not meant to hear.

<“Give me your dagger.”>

<“What? No.”>

For a moment, the sudden refusal had stunned her. Basim did not seem too confused by it, but Najla was not quite so used to her brother denying her so easily. He was not the type to decide so aprubtly, usually, he’d ask questions, try to understand her purpose. It was far more like him to try and understand everything before making a decision, even one such as this. Yet it should not have shocked her, given her behavior in the days since the massacre. Basim was no fool, to hand Najla a dagger when he’d seen how volatile she’d been recently, even how she’d yelled at Ketill fruitlessly while he held her life in his hands. Perhaps he thought she’d try to take Ketill’s life before he could take hers, which was certain to result in her own death before it did his. Regardless, Najla would not give up so soon.

<“My blood, you don’t trust me?”>

<“Not with a dagger.”>

She did not get a chance to push farther yet, for her eyes turned to Ketill as he rose to approach them. For a moment, she felt her heart in her throat, watching as he passed over her towards Basim, yanking him up quickly. Had she not heard the bits and pieces of their conversations before, even as she had been pressing Basim for his dagger, Najla might have assumed they were to be sold as slaves. It would certainly seem like it, the way he moved Basim’s coat up to show his arms, with little regard to the fact that he was a boy, not a goat. Her brother sat down as soon as Ketill moved on, and Najla watched as he spoke regarding Yasamin, before finally moving on to her.

His words were returned with a blank stare, not indicating anything regarding her thoughts on the matter. There was nothing behind her eyes anymore, but that would quickly change, if only for a moment, at the sound of a word that was all too familiar to her. It was not one she understood, and yet, one she’d never forget.

Suddenly, where there had been little fear of death waiting for her, Najla found it settle in the pit of her stomach, remembering Yazan’s screams. Was that how Ketill intended for her to die? Would he push her into the flames for that strange word, the one she held no meaning for? The thought of a blade being stabbed through her gut was no enjoyable death, but the thought of burning alive, to smell her own flesh burning as Yazan had, it nearly made her sick. It was lucky she had not touched the food, and the ale too, she pushed away, more determined than ever now.

<“Basim, please. I need to go out of the tent, and I don’t want to do that without protection. I don’t know what these people are capable of. At least offer me that peace of mind.”>

He’d never forgive her for this, Najla knew, and she pushed that thought away as best as she could. Najla knew Basim better than anyone alive, and unlike her brother, was entirely capable of using that knowledge for her own gain. She knew he was a rational boy, a clever one, but he was still her brother. The thought of allowing his sister to go off without any sense of security or protection would weigh on his conscious, especially when she was in such a state.

<“Why do you need to leave the tent? Will Ketill even let you?”>

<“I can’t piss in here, can I?”>

<“Right.”>

Najla watched with a strange sense of victory as Basim reached down to the dagger on his hip. She was prepared to tell him to do so without any seeing, a difficult task, seeing as they all had their eyes on them, but it seemed she did not need to remind her brother. Luckily, their attention was on Ketill briefly as he pulled out the ring, giving Basim just enough time to pass Najla the dagger discreetly, upon which she took it in her left hand, which she used to hold the cloak as if she were cold, effectively concealing it. If they had been farther south this would have been a more difficult feat, seeing as the Sawarimic penchant for thin layers of clothing offered little room to conceal anything in, but the thicker layers the northerners wore were far more conducive to this. Just as she had concealed the dagger, her attention was diverted by the ring that landed just in front of her feet.

She glanced up at Ketill, as if waiting to hear him chastise her for taking the dagger, but his instructions quickly stated otherwise. With her right hand, marked on one side by her tattoo and scarred on the other by that shard of mirror, she reached down, picking up the golden ring.

“Where did you get this?”

It was a question she did not expect an answer to, and she was certain Ketill would not offer her one. He would never have had time to take it from the palace as they escaped, and she had seen few other opportunities for him to steal something of value. Basim would likely assume it was from the house, though he did not know Ketill had taken it until now. Najla however, pushed the thought out of her mind, turning the ring over in her hand as she read the inscription aloud.

<“Sawarim 'innaa naj'aluka fee nuhoorihim wa na'oothu bika min shuroorihim.”>

She spoke the words aloud in Sawarimic, a smile crossing her lips as she did. It was not a smile born of humor or joy, but a bare one, indicating more regarding the inscription than it should have. She glanced up around the room then, noting that their eyes were all on her, most enthralled by the strange language she spoke, but her gaze settled on Ketill, returning that cold stare of his with her own.

“Ya Sawarim, we ask you to restrain them by their necks and seek refuge in you from their evil.”

That bare smile turned into a slight grin, and she turned the ring over in her hand. How fitting, that this was the inscription Ketill had kept with him. It was true then, her instincts had all been true. There could be no more hesitation on her part.

“It is a protection, against Djinns.”

Now, her eyes turned to the trader, boring into him as she continued. That smile did not die down, though she did not know what he would understand. Her accent was thick, and though she spoke her words slowly, as if dripping in honey, they were not meant for the northerners to hear. These words were for Ketill.

“Worthless, once you have invited one into your home. Once one has been fed by your generosity, they will never be sated. They’ll take your food, your home, your blood…” Her words trailed off, but only briefly, as they settled on the young girl seated behind the trader. “And finally, your daughters.”

The smile only died down off her face as she stood gracefully, only to slip the ring onto her own finger. The other hand pulled the cloak around her, the sensation of the dagger in her hand a comforting one, now that she was certain what it was meant for.

“Am I free to leave?” Her gaze turned onto Ketill now, only that contempt returning for him. “Or will you force me to relieve myself in this tent?”

She did not need her question answered, it seemed, for her gaze turned down to her brother then. Najla tousled his hair affectionately, feeling a sudden pit form in her stomach as she did. She hated lying to him.

<“I’ll be right back.”>

With those words, Najla moved to leave the tent, clearly expecting that none would try and stop her. As she did, she passed behind Ketill, stopping briefly behind him. Extending the hand that held the ring, she let it fall from her finger and over his shoulder lazily, offering him one final word before she moved to exit the tent.

“Thief.”

She exited the tent, abandoning the warmth behind her as she stepped forwards. It was a cruel place to die, she thought, she’d prefer her bones to be blown about by desert winds forever, rather than hidden among the snow. Still, it was better than whatever Ketill had planned for her, it had to be. She had barely made it a few steps before she heard the sound of someone following her, and turned, expecting to see Ketill, or even Basim. Rather, one of the man’s sons strode towards her, the spear still in his hand. Najla was not surprised, she had not assumed that she’d be allowed to leave without another chasing after her. Still, she hoped he’d have the decency to keep his distance in the woods.

He did not say a word, likely assuming that she would not be able to understand regardless. Instead, he pointed to her left, where the trees grew a little thicker, allowing her some privacy. She responded with a nod, and began to walk in that direction, whereupon he followed, his strides quickly allowing him to catch up with her. He was taller than her, despite being younger, and far stronger, little different from most of the men here. It might have been a comfort in any other circumstance as she walked beside him, seeing as how any she passed could only stare at her, eyeing her with wonder or caution, curious as to just what she was. This temporary guardian of hers was just as curious, and yet he provided a barrier that she could appreciate now. She didn’t want any of them to interfere.

“What do they call you?”

Najla glanced up at the boy with a frown as they kept walking, pulling the cloak around her tighter with the hand that still concealed the dagger. He had spoken too quickly for her liking, though Najla could have guessed at what he meant. Still, she’d allow him to clarify it once more.

“Name?” He pointed at her, as if that would help, upon which Najla would finally reply.

“Najla.” He turned the name over in his mouth, testing it, though he could not get close. The thick accent with which he spoke it nearly made her smile, though it quickly faded as they moved slightly deeper into the woods.

“You are not coming with me.”

Though she spoke slowly, it seemed her accent was still difficult for him to understand, or perhaps her words. As soon as she caught a glimpse of his frown, she lifted a hand, indicating for him to stop here. It seemed she would not need to explain why, and he was quick to point to an area where she might have some privacy, turning to lean against the tree lazily. Najla did not hesitate, moving behind the bushes he’d indicated.

There, she knelt. Though the ground was frozen and uncomfortable, she forced herself to ignore this discomfort, finally pulling her hand out of the cloak. The dagger, she rested on her lap, just before bending over to pray.

She did not speak the words aloud, for fear that the boy would overhear her, but whispered them shakily. There was no thought more unnerving than death, but knowing that Ketill would have no final control over her, that her last breath would always be hers, it was a greater comfort than she’d ever imagined. The words ceased quickly, suddenly worried that she would not have time, and finally, she ended her prayers with a substantial deviation from the formal words she’d spoken before.

<“Ya Sawarim, may I find my place beside my blood in heaven, and may my blood on earth forgive me.”>

With that, she reached down, finally pulling the dagger out of its sheath. Her hands shook as she did, both from the fear and cold, and she heard the slight sound of the metal scraping as she pulled it out, though she could not tell how loud it was, for the blood pounded in her ears and her eyes closed. Her hands shook as she moved to raise the dagger to her throat, forcing herself through the hesitation. It had to be like this. The dagger was nearly at her throat, her final breath visible in the cold air before her, though she could not see it. Suddenly, there was no more hesitation.

Just before the metal could meet her throat, a force knocked her to the side, a hand gripped at her wrist, keeping the dagger from her throat. It did not take much for the boy to rip the dagger from her hand, tossing it to the side as he tried to subdue her. It was more difficult than he’d find, for he did not have the threat of death to hold against her, rather, Najla turned onto her stomach, trying to push herself up to climb after the dagger. It was no use, for she suddenly found him pinning her down, causing a series of curses to escape her lips.

<“Dirty goat, get off of me, you filthy fucking-”>

Her words were muffled by the boy's hand, which suddenly found its way onto her mouth, making certain no one else would hear her. It was certain to draw attention, and it seemed he was smart enough to know that would only cause problems. Still, Najla would not allow her words to be stifled for long, and even as she kept trying to push him off of her, to get her face out of that freezing ground, her teeth found the flesh that kept her words silent. The boy let out a curse of his own as she dug her teeth into his hand, piercing the skin with little regard to the taste of coppery blood that entered her mouth now. He pulled his hand out and reached forward, grabbing the dagger before pulling her up, gripping her by the arm much as Ketill had. Much like she had with Ketill, she dug her nails into his hand, and though the boy was clearly more susceptible to the pain than Ketill had been, it was not enough to free her. He dragged her back through the path they’d come, ignoring the angry words that flowed from Najla’s lips unrestricted now. Still, he was quite good at ignoring them, and the endless stares that came now, as they found the tent again. He pushed her through the entrance before him, following just after.

Najla’s words ceased as they entered the tent, her gaze fixating on Ketill now. She’d been so close to escaping him, so close to keeping her breath for herself, and because of this boy, she’d been handed over to a Djinn again. Without a word, she merely moved to sit beside her brother again, who watched with wide eyes as the boy handed the dagger to Ketill.

“She tried to cut her throat.” As soon as Ketill took the dagger from him, he made his way back to where his brothers stood, no longer watching her with curiosity. Those few moments had been enough to create an animosity between them, it seemed, both with good reason.

“You’re bleeding.” One of his brothers remarked, at which the boy looked up at Najla, turning his hand over.

“The bitch bit me.”

Najla eyed this exchange with contempt, for though she could not quite know what they were saying, his motions left her with a good guess.

<“His blood tasted like cow’s shit.”>

It was a common Sawarimic insult, to indicate someone was of a lower class, though none of those who understood found the amusement in it. Rather, her attention was quickly drawn by her brother, who had remained silent just long enough to piece together what happened.

<“Najla!”>

Najla turned her gaze onto him, her eyes softening for a moment as they rested upon the familiar face. Still, there was no other emotion there. She was a shell of her former being, any anger, any sadness, they were only fleeting reminders of the person she’d been before. This, this empty being that eyed her brother with that bored stare she’d perfected so many years ago, this was what Osman had made her.

<“What did you do?!”>

He knew, but the horrified look in his eyes made it clear that he was waiting for an explanation. Najla did not offer him any, at least, not one that would make sense to him.

<“I’m sorry, my blood. I couldn’t let the Djinn take me. It’s the only way to release yourself, you know that-”>

<“The Djinn? He’s a man, Najla, have you lost your mind?! How could you do such a thing to yourself?”>

<“It’s better than what happened to Yazan. Besides, if I was gone, you would have no cause to remain in this wasteland.”>

Her words were cold, nearly emotionless, but Basim would not stop. His fears had been confirmed now, it seemed, for while Najla had held herself together for his sake, and his sake alone, the madness brought on by such beliefs was more than apparent now. He’d learned a great deal from his sister back in the Sultanate, had always believed her to be at least somewhat intelligent, but this was not the woman who’d indulged his curiosities about Broacien, despite her hatred of the place itself.

<“Is this what Osman has done to you? Have you lost yourself? Najla, did you think it’d be that easy? What if you died, do you think Ketill would have released me?”>

<“You’re not his prisoner. He’s always liked you, I think.”>

<“And if you died? Then I’d be a replacement!”> Here, Basim finally drew the first hint of emotion from her, and her eyes widened, as if suddenly realizing that fact. Truthfully, it had never crossed her mind, though it should have. They both knew it should have. The fact that she had lost even this sense of rationality was worrisome to Basim, though just as she’d known how to take the dagger from him, he knew how to keep it from her throat.

<“You promised not to abandon me.”>

<“I won’t.”>

Basim clicked his tongue then, turning away from his sister. The worry and fear were more than apparent in his eyes, though Najla felt none of that for herself. He buried his face in his hands with a groan, realizing that perhaps he was alone in this misery after all.

<“You already have.”>

Najla’s explanation did little for the men in the tent, as they had had no expectations regarding the inscription. However, the explanation as to the true meaning of the words and its purpose were far more enlightening. It brought a grin to Najla’s face, for she had flattered him more than she knew – in fact, she had probably anticipated to insult him, but it was more the opposite. He glanced at the merchant and his sons, speaking when Najla had offered her initial explanation. ‘’Djinn is what she – they – called me. And supposedly what they would call you, were you to travel here. So great is our prowess that they need their god to protect them from us.’’ When she requested to leave, Ketill waved his hand in a bored manner, completely inattentive to Najla’s needs. As far as he was concerned she was still a free person, just like Basim and Yasamin. She did not need his approval for anything – though, she was likely wise enough to know that she needed him to stay around. Just like when they had originally travelled through Broacien, he would not care if she tried to escape. He knew that she’d find her death that way.

But the title she gave him when she gave back the ring struck a nerve with him, and he would attempt to reach back before she left, grabbing at her clothing but missing by an inch. He grunted at this, but did not pursue her further. ‘’Thief’’ was a title far more dishonourable than anything, and most of all, it was untrue even. ‘’Didn’t ‘’steal’’ it. Killed a family for it.’’ He glanced at Basim then, who was there, outside the walls, when he had done so. ‘’I needed their water and cloaks. Where they are now, they won’t need it anymore. Fought for it – and earned it. I’m no thief.’’

He could not tell what Basim thought about it, but also knew that it mattered not what the boy thought. When Najla had left, one of the younger boys had gone with her, as was expected. No words were spilt on it either – the boy just did it on his own. A good boy, that, Ketill thought. The family must’ve been raised well as, even in their wealth, the sons had been made into warriors before anything else. Not that there were any other options – even a merchant was at risk here, and if it was not the winter that could kill you, it were the others. A bloodfeud was easily unchained and hard to settle before the occurrence of the althingi. The one difference was that many of the northern and central tribes moved around in their tents, but merchants like this one lived in the south and frequently lived in small wooden huts. They were more protected, but it was easier to find them as they never left their spots.

His eyes returned to the merchant then, who seemed eager to hear more about these lands. ‘’There are many houses like these, in those lands. The desert is harsh and you need a guide to get through it, much like the north for us. You can die if you don’t know what you are doing. Someone like…’’ He didn’t finish the sentence and merely gestured with his head towards Basim and Yasamin. It would almost seem like he was trying to create value in the two, something that they would desperately need to survive here, as men and women were counted according to merit and usefulness, not their blood. ‘’But even then, the road is too long from here, and you’d lose all your profits before you even returned. It’s worth it, however, for the wisdom.’’

Once again wisdom reared its head as a factor for doing things. The focus on wisdom seemed ever present and, in fact, any action could be motivated by it. ‘’There are many things that can be learned there, but you will find no wealth in them. An endeavour perhaps better suited to your sons, who are still young and can use the fame from such travel.’’

Ketill was about to continue when the man’s son returned, with Najla being pushed out in front of him into the tent. Ketill fell silent and his eyes fell upon Najla first, then the boy. When he was handed the dagger and given an explanation, Ketill took it and nodded at him, thankful for his service. He held the dagger up, eyeing it curiously before looking at Basim. There was a flash of anger in his eyes, something that he had not felt towards Basim before, before he glanced at the young boy, who had rejoined his brothers. ‘’Should’ve let her do it,’’ he answered him finally, in retort to his claim that she’d tried to cut herself. It earned a grin from the other sons, but this was quickly replaced when jealousy when Ketill pushed out his arm quickly and threw the dagger towards the boy. What was originally Basim’s was now his, and the gold-inlaid ceremonial dagger was a prize of prestige to be sure. ‘’Consider it a payment for your service, though I did not ask you to. I suppose that in return you can serve as a witness for the althingi. There’s no greater admission of guilt than trying to kill yourself.’’

The merchant nodded at this, and although it wasn’t exactly a ‘’rule’’ that someone who tried to kill themselves admitted guilt, it was not hard to see why her act could be seen as such. But, this would indicate there were ‘’rules’’ to begin with and although there most certainly were, they were not written anywhere and most commoners, like the merchant and like Ketill, were not aware of the rules at all. In fact, the only ones who knew the rules and laws of court and society were the judges, who spent years in hermitage to study them, learn them by memory and recite them. No scriptures, no lawbooks. Just memory.

And despite that, the judges were the most trustworthy people to exist in society, and the only people who you could trust to be up front and honest. Perhaps because they did not have to fear for winter or thieves – none would dare touch them because that’d be inciting the wrath of the gods themselves.

‘’I will be your witness then,’’ the boy answered, seemingly eager to take a place in front of the judges. It would be a good way to show his face and make his name known. ‘’Thank you for the dagger.’’

Ketill waved that last remark away too, but with less disinterest than he’d waved Najla away. ‘’Just don’t use it for anything other than cutting bread or looking good. It’s weak, made for ceremonies, not fighting.’’

‘’Ceremonies? Like the blood sacrifices?’’

‘’No,’’ Ketill laughed, ‘’feasts the size of Broacien, with gold and splendour.’’

‘’Gold?’’

‘’The yellow stuff on the dagger. A weak but rare metal. They have plenty of it, and we have none.’’

‘’Well,’’ the boy then answered, holding up the dagger for all to see. ‘’We have some now.’’

Ketill grinned at this, and the two brothers that did not receive a gift looked on, even more jealous than before. ‘’I should take my leave now, but I thank you for your hospitality. I need to find a place to slee-’’

‘’Nonsense, the tent is big enough, so you and them will stay here. For the next three days, you will tell us stories, and they will tell us of their lands, and in return you can stay here. That sounds fair to me.’’ The merchant seemed determined to attach Ketill’s name to his own, and although Ketill was wary to become connected to anyone at this point, he also felt reluctant to sleep in the snow. So, Ketill nodded, and smiled politely.

‘’Very well.’’

Over the course of the next three days, Ketill, Basim, Najla and Yasamin were fed and taken care of, even given extra furs when the nights were too cold. Ketill had denied, as he was quickly becoming accustomed to his homeland climate, and the fire that was kept going constantly helped with that too. Their hospitality seemed to know no bounds and, despite their exotic status, as well as being seen as ‘servants’ or outsiders, Najla, Basim and Yasamin were treated as equals. It must have been strange for them, as it was almost customary among the Sawarim to treat the slaves like dirt under your feet, yet here they were seemingly not better or worse than even the merchant himself. A rule they would come to understand later in time, perhaps.

It was three days later, also, that the althingi reconvened. Ketill and Najla were brought forwards. It was not uncommon for the althingi to last this long, although it was uncommon for it to take this long for a singular case as simple as this one. The eldest among the judges would speak first, standing up as Ketill and Najla were both in their respective stands. ‘’After careful deliberation we have decided to continue the hearing, as there is no precedent for settling the disputes of outsiders and those who have been away for so long. We would be ready to pass judgement, lest you wish to call on witnesses to strengthen your case?’’

Ketill nodded at this and gestured to the left, where the young boy was stood, the ceremonial dagger that was originally Basim’s hanging from his belt. People watched in awe as the young boy walked up, being no older than eighteen and yet already having such an expensive weapon. It was very rare that you would see northerner with iron weapons, let alone such a fancy dagger made of gold and weak steel, the imposing nature of which was only strengthened by the jewel inlaid on the pommel. It was undecidedly useless in combat, but that mattered little since the people here had never seen such a thing, much less would they know of the properties.

‘’This boy here was witness to her as she tried to kill herself,’’ Ketill announced it, which caused a gasp of shock to rouse around the althingi. Suicide was seen as the lowest of deaths and, in their faith, was doomed to an eternity spent lingering in Hel itself, on the worst of places.

‘’Yes, ‘tis true. She had this blade at her neck,’’ he said while holding up the dagger, before letting it fall against his leg again, held up by a leather strap. ‘’She said something in her strange language, and I was just in time to stop her. She fought back, and even bit me, but I managed to restrain her.’’

The judges nodded, and one of them stood up and asked further. ‘’Do you think the words she spoke were seidr, magic?’’

Another stood up then, and joined him. ‘’Did it strike you as something a Völva does?’’

The boy looked at Najla then, and despite his anger at her for biting him, he shook his head. ‘’No. She’s no völva. There were no runes or anything.’’

It seemed that despite what Najla or Basim would’ve thought, the hearing would be quite fair, as Ketill himself had little leverage here. Although the stories of his trip would be interesting to many, he also had little in the shape of connections or fame, which would be a problem when it came to trusting his word over hers.

‘’Any further witnesses?’’ the leader of the judges asked, and Ketill shook his head, to which he looked at Najla. It seemed now that she would also be given the chance to call on witnesses – though those would likely be limited to Basim and Yasamin, and Yasamin’s usefulness was something Ketill himself doubted too.

It was unbearable for Najla to wait out those next few days, despite how comfortable their hosts had tried to make them. For one, the cold was even worse than her nights in the castle, and she’d spent much of her time huddled under those thick furs, which seemed slightly amusing to those who were used to it. For another, it seemed as if she were always being watched, trapped under the curious eyes of those who hosted her. It was a strange sensation, and it ripped away any chance she had to give in to grief, being entirely unwilling to do so in front of these strange people. Her relationship with Basim had been soured, and worse of all, she’d been unable to take her own life. Now she was made to wait, until they gave Ketill hers.

It came as no surprise then, that her hosts had found Basim to be a far more pleasant subject than either her or Yasamin. The girl still had not gotten over the loss of her eye, or perhaps more importantly, her beauty. Najla did not blame her, though she found that she could conjure no pity for the girl. And Najla’s attempt clearly had not sat entirely well with the northerners, especially the boy she’d bit. For her part, Najla was unreceptive when any but Basim spoke to her, mostly responding with a vague frown as if she could not understand what they were saying. Perhaps true, but her brother seemed to manage with some effort, and his curiosity as to their ways made him easier to engage.

It left Najla in silence for a the next few days, something that was preferable for her and likely, the others in the tent. Basim was the only one who she’d truly engage with when speaking, and their relationship had turned strange, for he had not forgotten her attempt. He was not angry with her, not entirely, though perhaps if she had not been waiting to die, he would have been. Najla believed he had every right to be. Yet, he said nothing of it, and it seemed more like the gravity of the situation had put a distance between them. He would make efforts to bridge it, just as Najla did, knowing any day could be her last here, but any talks of the future were usually soured. They only spoke in memories now.

She’d clutched her hand around another horn of ale her hosts had given her, as she had refused food once more. Najla had tried not to, since her first night here, but only to ease her brother. Now, she drank the ale slowly, her eyes resting on the golden dagger the boy had snatched from her hand, now hanging on his hip.

<“Take a bite of my bread, at least.”>

<“I won’t eat it.”>

<“What will you eat then?”>

Najla was silent for a mere moment, glancing back at her brother with a slight smile.

<“Pomegranates. Don’t you miss them? Mama always yelled at me when I’d stain my dress with them, but it was worth it.”>

<“They’ve been generous hosts, but I don’t think they’d be able to find us that.”>

They had been generous, something that had sat oddly with Najla at first. It was a common teaching of her people to be generous to those under their care, but she had never shown that, nor had she seen need to. Basim had, he seemed incapable of doing anything but, yet their wealth and power had a substantial effect on what they had considered generous. It had been a generosity to give Yasamin to Ketill, though perhaps Ketill had never noticed. It had been a generosity not to cut Ketill’s tongue out. Najla had rarely sought to treat others as her equal, for few could come close to a Sultana, but it did not seem quite so odd to her brother, who had merely been pleasantly surprised. Najla however, treated it almost with wariness, waiting for what they’d ask of her. Still, it was a strange thought that these people followed the teachings of her God more closely than she did.

<“Pity.”> Her eyes fell upon that dagger again, so intently that she did not notice the merchant’s young daughter approaching. <“Everything else tastes like ash now.”>

Najla was suddenly startled, feeling a presence just before she looked up to see the girl standing just beside her. Her surprise did not last long, and the frown quickly returned to her face, as if she could not understand the girl's words, though she had not spoken any yet. Rather, she simply held out a piece of bread towards Najla, probably not realizing that she had already been offered food. She had been about to refuse, but a glance back at Basim was enough to convince her not to, though she had not been eager to eat before. The added guilt of refusing her host seemed to convince her well enough, and Najla reached up with her free hand, taking the bread with a grateful nod. She had meant to turn away once more, but the girl reached toward her hand as if to grab it, causing Najla to pull her hand towards her with a sudden jerk before she could touch it.

“Can I see?”

The frown returned to Najla’s face, angrier than before, though it would not last long. The girl had not meant to insult or frighten her. Rather, Najla’s glance moved onto the three sons at the other end of the tent, feeling as if they were eyeing the interaction curiously. She had not been receptive to anything they’d said, but perhaps they were wondering if it’d be the same with their sister. It seemed not, for Najla hesitated only a moment before moving the bread to her left hand, raising her right up for the girl to inspect as she pleased. The girl took her hand softly, and Najla eyed her warily as she looked over it.

“What is it?”

She pointed at the tattoo on her hand, though Najla would not have needed the clarification. There was little else that could have drawn her attention, perhaps other than the color of her skin.

“An olive tree.”

“Olive?”

Najla smiled as the girl repeated the word back to her, drawing her hand out of hers, though with no harshness this time. “A fruit.” She held up her hand, using her fingers to illustrate the size of an olive to her. “They are purple or green, and the tree has many.”

“What do they taste like?”

“Taste? Hm..”

Najla turned her head then, looking back at her brother. Basim was watching the interaction closely, perhaps surprised that his sister was speaking so openly about her homeland when she had been somewhat unwilling to do so with the other strangers. Especially because she was talking about the famed olive trees, the symbol she’d always associate with Osman now.

<“How would you describe the taste?”>

“You cannot eat it off the tree. Too bitter. It is soaked in salt, to give flavor.”

Basim’s explanation seemed to satisfy the girl, who took Najla’s hand again softly once more, her eyes tracing over the tree. It must have been a curious sight to the girl, and Najla braced for another question, but it seemed her decision was quickly changed. Najla felt the girl’s fingers trace against the scar that cut across her fingers, accidentally at first, but then, she turned her hand over. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked over the scar, an odd sight on the body of someone who had never worked.

“Did he do that?”

The girl looked over at Ketill, but before she could even return her gaze to Najla, she had ripped her hand away. The bread in her left hand, she dropped into Basim’s plate of food as she stood, walking away from the two without another word. She did not have anywhere to go but out into the snow, if only for the barest of moments. If anything, at least the cold cleared her mind faster. None would try to stop her, but the girl watched her as she walked away, clearly wondering what she’d done to offend her.

“It was not Ketill” Basim was quick to explain, reaching down to pick up the bread Najla had dropped for him. At least he wouldn’t let it go to waste. “Her husband did that.”

“She is married?”

That gave him reason to pause. He didn’t know. It was a question Basim had not thought about, for good reason. It simply didn’t matter. None this far north cared if she was married or not, and none of those south cared either, they’d gut her either way. Legally, however, it was an interesting question. The Sultan had died before he could finish the vows, but their names had been inked in agreement long ago. After a brief moment of thought, weighing out various thoughts, he glanced back up at the girl.

“By our laws, yes. By yours, I do not know.”

---

The night before the day of her trial, Najla had been unable to sleep. Rather, she’d spent her night huddled under the furs, trying to ignore the cold, her tongue mindlessly repeating prayers as if they’d bring some comfort. Prayers that she’d join her family, that Basim would be kept safe, that Osman would never have children, prayers that kept her mind racing through the night. She did not know if they were good for anything else but to keep her busy, for the more she spoke, the less she believed her God was listening anymore.

Still, it gave her some comfort as she was brought before that mass of people again. Larger this time, she noticed, the story of the southern warrior and his former slaver must have drawn quite a great deal of attention. Najla did not seem to care, none of them would help her. Her fate was in the hands of a land she’d never set foot in before, and she could do little but await their judgement. Thus, Najla was ready to hear her fate, but was surprised when Ketill stalled, calling forward a witness.

The boy strode forwards, and Najla’s eyes traced him as they had in the tent. There was little question as to what he’d say about her, she was not surprised to hear the words come from his mouth. She had not expected the shock of the crowd in response however, though her eyes snapped up to the judges, knowing their reaction mattered far more. It was not quite a sin among her people, and in many cases, better than life itself. Still, it was not her attempt itself that brought a reaction from the judges, but they had stood when he relayed that she’d spoken in her own tongue. Najla tried to understand what they were saying, but these were unfamiliar words to her now. She’d never heard of a volva, what even was it that they were accusing her of? She looked back at Basim, as if his expression would provide some explanation, but it seemed she did not need to. The boy shook his head, denying whatever accusations they’d put forth. A relief, but a miniscule one.

Then, it seemed it was her turn. Witnesses? Witnesses to what? She’d done all that Ketill accused of, there was no denying it. She’d done plenty more, crimes far worse than those she’d committed against Ketill, though that was not to be judged now. Perhaps those would be left to her God, at least. Her eyes moved over the crowd, resting on the only two faces who’d bear any tie to her story. Yasamin would not help her. Najla knew this even as her eyes rested on the girl, supporting Najla meant taking a side against Ketill, which was hardly wise in her current position. Najla would not have spoken if she was her. Rather, she lifted her hand, gesturing the one person she knew would vouch for her, regardless of her crimes.

“My blood, will you speak for me?”

She spoke in Broacienian, a conscious choice after she’d noted their apparent wariness regarding her own tongue. Besides, doing so would keep out any notion that she’d speak to Basim, to tell him what to say. It was not as if she’d be able to do so anyways. Still, he did not even answer her words, only walking towards her without a second thought. He stood by her, looking up at the judges, before down to his sister once more.

“What would you have me tell them of?”

“Tell them of the scars he brandishes. Who ordered them?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and Basim looked down at her, confused. Najla nodded at him, as if urging him to continue. It was not the question he’d wanted to answer, but it seemed Najla would leave no room for any to claim she’d brought her brother to lie for her.

“You did.”

“Why?”

“Ketill punched your husband.” He looked up at the judges then, speaking slowly so they would understand. “In our land, for a slave to strike a free man is… not forgivable. For any reason.”

“And then, when he killed free men after that? Why did I stay my hand?”

Again, Basim looked down at her with some confusion. To him, the reasons were obvious, and to Ketill, they would likely be as well. It had been upon her orders that both Sa’aqr and Yazan died, it would have been unfair to kill Ketill for a service to her. They had been fair duels, after all, there should have been no reason for punishment. But her brother was a clever boy, and Najla watched as he fit the pieces in his mind. There were many reasons she shouldn’t have hurt him, but the reason Ketill bore no lashes from these deaths was not because she have been persuaded by morals. More than that, Basim knew Najla had little care for her own life now, with few opportunities to denounce her own guilt. There was only one she cared for.

“I told her not to. Osman called for it, both times, but I told her it was not fair.”

“Who is Osman?”

The question came from one of the judges on the stand, and Basim glanced up, as if suddenly realizing the audience to his story. He’d been speaking slowly, cautiously, making certain they understood, and yet, had simultaneously lost himself in those old memories.

“Her husband. If I had known what she bore to refuse him…”

He had meant to continue it seemed, likely to begin speaking about Najla in a way that might have shed some of her guilt, though she did not seem intent on doing so herself. Still, Najla would not allow him, her harsh words cutting her brother off swiftly.

“Tell them what I bore to refuse him.”

Basim would not have a choice to answer, for Najla would quickly continue, her words rising in volume as she spoke, the slow, careful pace in which they’d said their words before, to make certain as much of them as possible could be understood, it too, would slowly fade as her emotions heightened. As she spoke, it was clear she was no longer worried about making certain Basim could not be responsible for her crimes, nor her own guilt. Her eyes would turn to Ketill as she spoke, her words directed at them the more she continued speaking.

“Tell them! How many of my blood had to die because Ketill breathes? How many? How dare you ask for my blood, any crime I have committed has been repaid a hundredfold! Beast! If only if I could have slit my throat, if only I would have been able to join them in death, how could you keep me here to suffer? What more could I owe you?”

The crowd had begun to react as she spoke, for while such shows of anger were seemingly not uncommon in their courts, Najla was clearly losing control of herself. It was Basim that silenced her, reaching out and taking his sister in his arms much as he had the night of her wedding. Now, no sobs escaped her, and her mind felt even clearer than before as she heard the judge speak, clearly directed at Basim, not her.

“Is this true? How many of your family did he kill?”

“Ketill? By his hands, none.”

“So she is lying?”

“No.” Basim replied again, releasing his sister. She seemed to have calmed herself somewhat, though her eyes still rested angrily on Ketill. “Hundreds did die. We are the last of our blood.”

“My brother is innocent of any crime, and yet, he suffers. Whatever imaginary crimes I have committed, I have repaid them a hundredfold. If I must die, let me do so by my hand. I owe no more to this beast.”

Her final words had not sat entirely well with the crowd, who did not seem enthralled by Najla’s death wish. Still, the bits and pieces of their story they’d been fed had been fascinating to the crowd, though Najla would allow Basim to give no more. Rather, she turned around, grasping his cheek tightly before she reached up to kiss the other.

<“Leave me to my fate. Whether I live or die, go. Don’t stop to bury me.”>

She turned now, making it clear to the judges by her silence that she had nothing left to say. Her witness testimony had done little but to clarify her own guilt in the matter, that she’d complied to her husband’s demands. At best, there could be no doubt that Basim was not involved in her crimes, and for that, Najla was grateful. More than that, she could not know just how much of their words they had truly understood, likely the easier words had been decipherable, but their accents were thicker than she'd even realized. She could only wait for her fate now.

<“I mean it, my blood. Don’t bury me. I want to be with Jalil.”>

Ketill listened intently to Basim as he appeared to bear witness to the facts Najla had wanted to bring forwards. He could feel the fumes of anger within him, rising up to his throat as they had so often done in the past years, and for once he no longer felt the need to control it. They released when Basim had finished, and Najla and Basim spoke together in Sawarimic. With a roar he smacked his fist into the wooden stand in front of him, an eerie crack signalling the power in his strike. ‘’And in what world does a man pay tribute for that which he did not accept or agree to? I never asked this bitch to safe my life, she did that on her own accord.’’ He was breezing now, and when he finished his eyes shot from the judges to Najla and Basim both, with something in them having shifted. But… it was not the same as it usually was – he’d looked angrily at her before, but never like this.

The crowd itself was content to sit by and, truthfully, it would have been a lie to say that they did not wish for Ketill to deal with the situation right now. But regardless of how Najla saw him, Ketill was a man of honour still, and his debt to the gods would be repaid either through court or other means. ‘’Yes, I struck her husband. But she forgot to mention that I was called into her room that night purely so he could insult me. It was my good right as thrall to defend myself. But it seems that in this backwards country of theirs, a thrall has no right, not even the right to live!’’

Again he sent his fist into the stand, this time breaking one of the wooden panels that was meant to hold payment in the case wergild was demanded. ‘’Any man would have done the same if he was worth his name!’’ For a moment it was silent, until sounds of agreement came from the crowd.

They were forbidden from speaking into the althingi lest they be called forwards as witnesses, but it would be a fools errant to stop everyone from talking altogether. So, it was that knowledge that the crowd used to voice their agreement with the statement that any man should defend themselves from insults, lest their honour be harmed. Some men just nodded, hummed agreeingly, others clattered their spears against their wooden shields.

When all turned silent again, Ketill continued, his temper tamed, but the anger still within him. ‘’Her family are all dead – but not because I live, it is because she married a man who saw gold and power within her, not love. I have no burden to bear in that regard and the only burden I would bear for her now is the weight of her body on my back after I kill her. I killed on her orders, I slayed Osman’s brother for her on her command, and her repayment is what, to tell me I am responsible for that too? The weight of her families death should fall on HER shoulders, not mine!’’

Fearing a conflict, the prime judge stood up and raised his hands, and in an instant everything fell even more silent. The sounds of the forest around them were eerily noticeable now, from the squawk of a crow to the sounds of a squirrel running up a nearby tree. Momentarily the judge held his breath and glanced around, with weary eyes that were tired of the conflict. ‘’I should remind you all that the judges speak law from memory. We memorized the tales of the Gods, we are keepers of the runes, and we know all the laws passed down to us from the Gods themselves. This issue is one that has never been brought to us before, and one that there is no law for. Were we to apply the laws of our own people, it would be evident that the woman is guilty of her crimes in the eyes of the Gods.’’

While the crowd seemed to think that this meant that Najla was guilty, it was not the case, and Ketill knew it. This had been a foiled attempt from the start. But he had to try it, didn’t he?

‘’BUT! These crimes were not committed in our lands, and not by our people. And most certainly not under the eyes of our gods, and therefore not under our laws. To punish this woman for something she was unaware of would be unjust. But… it is also not our place to tell you, Ketill, son of Grimhildr, that your grievances are to be forgotten.’’

The other judges stood up now and seemed ready to pass judgement, though it seemed already that there would be none. ‘’It is our judgement that we cannot pass judgement, as we cannot understand the laws of this foreign land, and we cannot know the details of the conflict. We cannot say whether the woman is guilty or innocent, and we cannot say whether Ketill would be within his right to take revenge on her.’’

The crowd seemed conflicted about this sentence, though it was unclear whether that was because they had hoped for a death sentence, or an agreement to make her his thrall. Rather, they received nothing short of a neutral answer that did not swing either way in terms of guilt. It was not as exciting as they might have hoped, despite the exotic nature of the case. ‘’We can only hope that this is resolved in a way the gods would resolve it.’’

Ketill nodded to that, as they were right. The best way to do this was to do as the gods would do – and to know that, he would need to travel to the world tree. The judges were about to turn and leave, as the althingi was coming to an end. But Ketill asked his question quick enough to stop them. ‘’The gathering at the world tree. When is it?’’

‘’In four days,’’ the reply came, again from the head judge. They then took their leave, and were not stopped. Now the festivities of the althingi would commence for the next days, though some would leave to go to the world tree. It was not too far – a conscious choice to hold the althingi close to such a holy place – and so they could easily have stayed, but Ketill did not wish to waste time.

He left the stands, leaving Basim and Najla each to follow him on their own accords. They’d be headed back to the merchants tents, but not to stay for longer, but instead to thank them for their hospitality. When they arrived, the merchant and his sons were already packing. Ketill approached the merchant himself and extended his hand, which the man took and shook with great power. It was typical of the northerners to do everything with force and power, and this was no exception, so Ketill returned the favour, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘’Thank you for your generosity,’’ he added, to which the merchant merely shook his head as if it was nothing.

‘’There is one thing you can do for me now,’’ the man answered him then, and looked towards his sons, who were packing a variety of furs. ‘’My oldest is dedicating himself to Audrun.’’ This was somewhat surprising, so Ketill glanced at the boys and saw that the oldest was wearing an amulet with the rune that signalled dedication to Audrun, so it was true. ‘’Take him with you to the gathering, if you would. I don’t think me or my wife can bear to watch it, no matter the honour it may bring us.’’

There was, in that moment, very little Ketill could have said or done, except to agree to the request. It was not like it would take a lot of effort, or any at all, as they would just have to accompany the boy. So, when it was clear that Ketill agreed, the man would finally have let go of Ketill’s hand and returned to his duties, seemingly not wanting to get into the details of the event. Ketill understood – in fact, he preferred not to talk about it himself. Dedicating yourself to Audrun was something that required strength and bravery, and it was not something that even Ketill himself could see himself doing.

Ketill then turned to Yasamin, instructing her to get the horses. ‘’We are one of the few who have horses in this land, and we are the only ones that have horses that can ride fast, so see to it that nobody hassles you for them.’’ Yasamin did not wait to reply, and stepped out immediately to get the horses. The warning to avoid anyone hassling her was likely not useful – it was not like she could do anything to protect herself at this point. ‘’As for you two,’’ Ketill then said, turning to Najla and Basim. ‘’Get ready to leave. We are heading to the world tree. A holy site. The gods are at their strongest there. I need to… I need to see what they have to tell me.’’ He completely ignored the outcome of the court ruling, seemingly not wanting to talk about it. He also failed to mention that another reason for visiting the world tree was that he’d stopped receiving visions, and had gotten worried that the gods had forsaken him for failing to kill Najla, like he had promised them. Perhaps at the world tree, he could set that right.

After the merchant’s family had said their goodbyes, to the son and brother that was dedicating himself, and to Ketill and his companions, the group would set out to reach the world tree. The landscape changed drastically during this trip, changing from a frozen underground with dustings of snow here and there in the areas that were located higher up. As the land rolled downwards from the mountains near the border with Broacien, the air became less thin, the temperature rose only slightly, and green life returned to the area. The ground was no longer frozen, though it was still hard, and was unsuitable for good farming, only allowing a few crops here and there in lucky places that were fertile enough to sustain life.

Trees started cropping up and, unlike in Broacien, there were no real roads, just slight trails here and there that would the next closest thing to a road. In places, the land sagged and bogged, and turned muddy. These were places that slowed down the group the most of all, as only the son of the merchant’s horse, which was shorter and stouter than the horses Ketill and his group rode on, was capable of trudging through it without problems.

This trip, which would have taken little under a day in an open, easily traversable landscape like the Broacienien forests or the Sawarim deserts, would now take them over three days. They arrived a day before the event would begin, which was lucky, for they would have time to visit the blót-hus, which would be recognized as the holy place of worship stood near the tree, where the gódi lived.

Their arrival was, in truth, quite a sight to behold, even for Ketill. He’d seen the tree before, but it was so long ago that he had nearly forgotten. But it all came back to him – that giant tree that seemed to span into the heavens themselves. It was a giant oak, much larger than your average tree, and it was stood on a slight hill, elevating it above the trees around it even more – which were tiny oaks, firs and pines in comparison to this giant of wood.

Hidden in the trees around it would be the blót-hus, a magnificent wooden house that seemed to blend in almost perfectly. The woodworking on it was incredible, of a quality that you could not find elsewhere. For their lack of technology, the Northerners were expert woodcrafters, and you would find no other people that were as crafty with the supplies they were given as the Northerners. It was seen in everything they did – in society, where surviving the winter was never a certainty, every part of everything was used, from the bones of a dead animal to the wood shavings of a finished wooden stake. Everything had it’s purpose.

The blót-hus of the world tree.

The group would leave their horses nearby, tied up to a wooden post, and then approach the blót-hus. As they entered, another group was just leaving, a family of five as it seemed, whose faces had curious symbols drawn in blood on them. ‘’Heil og sæl, bróðir,’’ the oldest man said, who seemed to recognize Ketill instantly as a Northerner. Ketill returned the favour, repeating the phrase to the man and nodding his head as a sign of acknowledgement.

Almost instantly Basim piped up, unable to contain his curiosity despite the fact that Ketill had his sister trialled. He awkwardly repeated the phrase to Ketill, who did not even recognize it at first. ‘’What he said, what does it mean?’’ the boy asked, as the group was awkwardly stood halfway into the doorway. ‘’It’s a greeting, right?’’

‘’Not so much,’’ Ketill replied, placing his hand on the ring that hung from the door, pulling it open and revealing the interior of the blót-hus. ‘’It means healthy and happy. It’s the same as… when the Sawarim use his name as a manner of greeting. It’s courtesy to wish people good health, and that is done through the gods.’’

It seemed like common sense to Ketill but, perhaps, it was not quite as sensical as he thought. But he remembered the Sawarim did things much the same way, so perhaps the boy would understand. He then entered the blót-hus, where they were greeted by an old man who wore a cloak and a hood over his head. In his hand was a bowl filled with the blood – of what the blood came, it wasn’t quite as clear. Without words having to be spoken, Ketill leaned slightly forward to allow the man to draw the runes. He remembered this much from his first time at the world tree, when he had visited here with his father. It was a long time ago, but the movements themselves seemed almost instinctual. The gódi dipped a finger into the blood and began, carefully, drawing the Ægishjálmr rune onto Ketill’s forehead with the blood. It was made with quick strokes, like a practiced artisan would do it, and the end result was good enough. Ketill then gestured towards the three Sawarim companions with him, before instructing the godi, ‘’Not them. They don’t follow our gods.’’ The godi nodded understandingly, and glanced over the three with a smile.

Ægishjálmr, the Helm of Awe, which offers strength and power

‘’Welcome to the blót-hus,’’ he told them, before turning to the merchants son and repeating the process. Ketill himself stepped further into the hall, which was a long hall with six pillars, three on the left and three on the right, down the length of it. It was equally well crafted – the woodwork was even more impressive on the inside than the outside. Perhaps most strikingly were the various statues made of wood that resembled the gods. At the far end, facing towards the door, was the largest of them all. He was a man seated in a throne, the entirety of it seemingly carved out of a single large piece of wood. One of his eyes was covered by a patch, and in his hands was a crooked staff.

At the base of every statue were a variety of offerings, as they were far from the first visitors of the gathering. Ketill didn’t think to explain it to them, and approached the statue of the man seated in the throne, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the Sawarimic ring made of gold, with the inscription that offered protection against Djinn’s. He placed it on the edge of the statue, as an offering to Audrun himself, before saying something in a cryptic, strange language that did not resemble either Broacienien or the Norse dialect. It was not even a full sentence, it seemed, though it was over before he had even started speaking it, offering no time for Basim or Najla to decrypt it. They were, however, most likely occupied with looking around the spacious room.

Normally, the offering of a small ring would not be seen as much, but this one had been won over by murder and earned by right of fighting for it, so perhaps it would be worth more to Audrun. At least, that was what Ketill had thought, though there was no way to know for sure. He stood in front of the statue momentarily, waiting for a sign, but he received none. It frustrated him slightly, for he had expected something from the gods, but had received absolutely nothing. He felt anger again, but looked up at the statue into Audrun’s one eye, and felt something. It was entirely indescribable, but it felt like a click inside of him, something that suddenly fell into place, as if he’d found his place among his people again. Somehow, he felt like just a ring wouldn’t be enough. ‘’Thank you,’’ he said to the statue, although perhaps to the others it might have seemed like he was talking to himself.

His mind was clear now, and he would have to find a way to thank Audrun for this. One glance at the merchant’s son was enough to tell him how precisely. ‘’I will dedicate you,’’ he said then, to Najla. It came abruptly out of nowhere, and she would not know the meaning of this phrase in this context. He did not let go of any more information, not even when pressed for it, and left the blót-hus, thanking the godi for his service to the gods before leaving to visit the grounds where people were staying. The area was in a green enough area to sleep on the ground, which was what the four of them would have to do with the absence of a tent, although it was far from strange given that most others were also sleeping on the ground.

It was a merry time, it seemed, for there were men and women sitting around fires everywhere, as there must have been a crowd of at least fifty to a hundred people there. Primitive music came from all corners, made with drums and strange metal and bone instruments that were placed in the mouth and then played with the fingers to produce a ‘ploink’ sound. The gaps were filled by the voices of men and women alike, producing a strange sensation for Ketill, who had been away for so long yet felt an instant connection to these sounds – not just the music, but everything around it. The forest, the people, it was just an amalgamation of home. In the distance, women were dancing around a fire, in a spectacle that would’ve reminded any Broacienien or Sawarim of something that they had imagined witches would do. To the side, the men were clapping alongside the beat of the drums, singing a song that spoke of Audrun’s journey over the mountains, where he found a group of ice giants, and how he beat them at their own games and won the prize, namely the knowledge of how the world would end. It would be a sad story otherwise, but for the Northerners, the end of the world was simply a fact of life – in fact, it was something they strove for, in Sjeahalle.

As Ketill and his group, namely Najla, Basim and Yasamin approached the grounds, they were immediately hailed by a nearby group consisting primarily of women and a few men scattered around. Among them he recognized the family they had ran into near the entrance of the blót-hus, who were laying around a fire. The scene seemed, upon closer inspection, perhaps not wildly different from the lifestyle that the Sultana’s lived in the palace of the golden city – constantly laying around on pillows in secluded and shaded areas of the palace to avoid the heat, all the while eating, drinking and taking whatever manner of smoking ware they could get their hands on. Except, in this case, there were no pillows, and the group was eating from a selection of mushrooms and drinking ale from horns. It almost seemed like a more primitive version of Sawarim royalty – well, that, and everyone was partaking, not just the nobility. Although, that would be a far stretch, considering that the only form of nobility in the North were the men who had the strength to take what they wanted.

And that, indeed, was a far stretch from real nobility.

‘’Come, join us!’’ one of the approaching woman told them, and without waiting for much of an answer, took Ketill by the arm and dragged him with her. Ketill followed without struggling, and Basim followed a similar fate, being taken by the arm by a woman that was, in all honesty, taller than the boy himself. ‘’Sit by the fire and feast with us!’’ they continued, forcing the two to sit down, before turning to Najla and Yasamin and likewise forcing them to sit with them. Something seemed different, however, as the men and women were all acting strange. Perhaps it was the fact that the gathering would be happening soon, but it was making everyone happy and uncaring, it seemed. Without missing a beat the women took a wooden basket filled with mushrooms and passed it around, offering them to Ketill and Basim first, then Najla and Yasamin. It would be the only food available momentarily, so there was little use in refusing it, and the cheerful nature of the gathering meant that there was little reason to doubt the mushrooms.

This part, however, was unfamiliar to Ketill, who had never partaken in this section of the gathering. His father had deemed him too young perhaps. Regardless, he took a handful of the mushrooms and pushed them into his mouth. It was certainly not a welcome taste, but it did not taste awful at least. Soon enough even the normally stoic Ketill was laughing at the stories being told, and the otherwise depressed Yasamin had found a shred of enjoyment.

Although the effects did not take hold instantaneously, it quickly became obvious that the mushrooms were inducing various effects onto the crowd, and things began getting blurrier. The effects similarly seemed to be quite different per person, with Ketill sitting back and lazying around, watching the fire and the women as they danced in front of it, listening to the beats of the drum and the lazy story being told to the right of him. Basim was dragged out of his spot and forced to dance with one of the girls, who was more his own height and had long blonde hair, that swayed hypnotically with her movements. She was more or less just pulling the boy along in her dance, but it seemed that under the effects of these mushrooms, Basim was content to follow along.

As the day continued and it got darker, the scenes changed from a gathering in the forest to an almost magical scene, with fires lit up everywhere, men and women dancing around them and the unified beats of drums that followed patterns that were wildly different yet intermingled at times. Ketill was laid on his back now, his hands under his head as he stared at the foliage above, though his mind was somewhere else at the time.

‘’Ketill,’’ a voice said. It was… a man? No, it was a woman. ‘’Ketill!’’ it said again, this time louder, and slowly the darkness lifted as he opened his eyes. In front of him was Najla, standing closely to him yet… far at the same time. They were still in the forest. Was this real? Suddenly, the space around them began warping, and transporting them through the path they had travelled. Past the Hoffburgt, past Coedwin, past the desert homestead where Ketill had taken the rings and cloaks, through the rolling desert dunes and to the Golden city. Najla was now standing there, on a balcony, overlooking the vast desert landscape. ‘’I can take you there,’’ she said to him, though it was cryptic, not sure where ‘there’ was.

But it seemed that in this drug-induced vision, there were no limits to what could be shown. The very fabric of space was being torn as the desert began to disappear and, in the distance, what looked like a city was becoming larger and larger. At the center of it was a large, tall square building that looked like a tower of sorts, something akin to the keep on the Sawarim golden city, a crown jewel but… more impressive, almost. If the Sawarim capital was ‘’the golden city’’ then what was this city? It shone brighter than the Sawarim capital, and was surrounded by more green. The rivers meandered across the city, the trees were alive, and not the liveless husks that were so prevalent in the desert.

‘’It could be yours,’’ Najla suddenly said, and with a loud bang and a white flash, he was standing on top of the tower. The breeze of wind rustled his hair, and he could see the majesty of the city clearer now. In the distance was a shrine of sorts, a giant pedestal with a gigantic statue of what seemed to be the sun. People were there, clad in white cloaks of cloth, walking circles around this gigantic sun. Some of them were laying on the ground, collapsed from the heat, and the others just walked past them. Priests walked around, and handed out food, and everyone that received this food walked up to the giant statue and touched it, then touched their forehead and touched the statue again. Despite the incredibly far distance, and the drop of several hundred meters Ketill would have to survive to come close, he could hear what was said almost as if he was standing there.

‘’Oh Zun!’’ the voice boomed, hurting his ears with its’ incredible ferocity. ‘’We thank you for your boon!’’ Almost instinctively his hands went to his ears to cover them, and he stepped back from the edge of the tower. ‘’Zun! ZUN! ZUN!’’ it echoed, and then it cut out. The people disappeared, and Najla stood there, at the edge of the tower.

‘’Come,’’ she’d say, and Ketill would do it, for there was no other option. ‘’Look closer.’’ He stared at the statue and then noticed what she meant – the sun itself, it was pure gold. If it was solid, it would’ve cost massive amounts of gold. These people must truly be rich. ‘’I can bring you there.’’ Then… he felt a push in his back, sending him over the edge tumbling towards the ground.

With a sharp inhale, gasping for air, Ketill came back to the forest. He grasped around for solid ground, and found himself staring at the fire that still blazed. It seemed he had fallen asleep, just like the others, although the mushrooms had continued working and sent him into a drug fuelled vision. Or, perhaps, it was the Gods, who were showing him what to do. Najla… she had been there too. Perhaps the boy had been wrong, and Najla was a Völva after all. A magician, she could’ve placed a curse on him, to curse him with terrible visions that steered him from the gods and into her open arms, waiting to plunge a dagger into his back.

He glanced around and, in the light of the flames, that flickered with every lick of fire that shot up before being pulled down again, he saw Najla laying there. She was asleep, and Ketill had the thought cross his mind to push her into the fire, to get rid of her now, to end the madness. But it wouldn’t work. What if the gods wanted him to visit these lands. The vision would be the truth then, and he’d need Najla. That also meant he could not dedicate her. But the gods needed a dedication, Audrun needed a dedication. His eyes shot to Najla’s right, where Yasamin was, a few meters between them.

---

The next day most people would awake early in the afternoon, when the sun had already passed its highest point and was moving down again, being chased by the wolf that was doomed to forever chase the sun. The mushrooms had run their course, and now the height of the event would come to bearing, with several gódi’s coming out to a ritual stone in a flat area in front of the giant tree. On it were carved runes, which had been prepared the day before with red ochre pressed onto them, ‘painted’ again to more clearly define the runes. In the stone was a deep groove cut, leading from the middle to the sides, then to a corner where the stone had been punctured entirely. Underneath the hole was a bucket, ready to catch whatever was there.

There was little time to waste that day as it was quite a big celebration, for northern standards. Ketill had woken Basim and Najla both, then taken them to the gathering, where people were stood in a big crowd around the stone. ‘’What’s this?’’ Basim curiously asked, looking upon the stone as if it were some artefact from long ago. Perhaps not entirely untrue. ‘’Those pictures look like nothing I’ve ever seen,’’ he added, his reference to pictures being the runes.

‘’Not pictures,’’ Ketill hissed. ‘’Runes given to us by Audrun. Just watch.’’

It started with animals – a bull was led out alongside a cow, placed side by side with buckets underneath their heads. The crowd began talking then, seemingly excited, as the gódi raised a ritualistic knife in the air and showed it to all those around them. Then, with a vigorous and fast movement he slit the throat of the bull, who reared heavily and had to be restrained by the rope around it’s neck. Whoever had ‘donated’ these animals was surely a wealthy man that was trying to earn the favour of the gods, or perhaps to enhance the prestige of his name. It was the only option there was as further north, the traveling tribespeople did not have cows or other animals, and among those south near the mountains in the regions they were in now, there was simply not enough wealth to have many animals.

The crowd erupted in cheers and even Ketill himself raised a fist into the sky as the bull was killed, and as they cheered the gódi moved to the cow, and slit her throat too, catching the majority of the blood in the two buckets. When most of it had been drained, the blood in the buckets were combined and set aside for future use – although, to Najla and Basim, the purpose was much unknown.

It was only then that the merchants’ son made a reappearance, dressed in a fine white tunic that had clearly been washed a few times over, as it seemed to be as white as the snow in the mountains. He had his hands held out sideways, representing a cross, as two gódi’s flanked him and held on to him by his wrists, although it seemed that the man was not going to run regardless. He had a look of stern dedication in his eyes, and the moment of his appearance everyone else had gone silent. It was very clear that what was going to happen now was, by far, the most important thing.

The gódi’s brought him to the ritual stone with the runes, and now Najla and Basim would see its’ true purpose. ‘’Is he a priest?’’ Basim asked then, subconsciously pushing against the man standing in front of him in an effort to see better. ‘’Then why was he with us? Isn’t he too young to be a priest?’’

His question was soon answered, as the son laid down on the ritual stone. His eyes were teary but he had a smile on his face, and when the gódi’s helped him out of his tunic there was a rune drawn onto his chest, the same one Audrun had drawn on himself, with ochre. It was a sign of dedication to the gos, and Audrun in specific. Again, the nearby gódi held up the ritual knife, but instead of cheering, people bowed their heads or looked at the dedicated man with a level of sternness. Ketill, too, looked at the man with a stoic gaze. Dedicating yourself to the gods required a lot – sacrifice, bravery, strength. These were all traits that were respected in the Northern societies, no matter what tribe or homestead you visited. All of them were equally fond of these traits. It was therefore no surprise that a dedicated man held a lot of respect, which was worth a lot in the eyes of the gods. It was certain that the son would go to Sjeahalle – no doubt. ‘’Not a priest,’’ Ketill finally answered, ‘’a sacrifice.’’

The flash of the blade was the only warning they received, as the cut was made quick to prevent the man from changing his mind – once dedicated there was no way back – cutting open his neck from one side to the other. As the man gurgled in his own blood, drowning in it as it filled his lungs through desperate attempts to breathe which only caused him to inhale more and more blood, his fingers clenched around the stone he was laying on, grasping at the edges. His knuckles and joints in his fingers turned white from the strength he was exerting in his final death throes, and his leg tried to rise up to gain footing to move, but it was futile.

Rather than cheer, it was deadly silent, making the last gurgles the man made even more audible. For a moment time stood still – as it usually did to Ketill when important events occurred – but he was brought back by a splatter of liquid in his face. He flinched, raised a hand and smeared it away, only to look at his fingers and see blood. He looked up again and saw that a gódi was going around with the buckets of cow and bull’s blood, and used a bushel of twigs to dip it into the blood, and then splatter the blood onto the crowd. Basim and Najla would, of course, follow a similar fate – to deny it would have been a mistake, as the blood had been blessed by the speaking of ancient words of power. So when Basim raised his hand to wipe it away, Ketill quickly grabbed the boys wrist and forced him to leave it on.

‘’It gives you strength,’’ Ketill remarked, looking at Najla first before his eyes turned to Basim again. While the one gódi went around splattering the people in this blood, the other gódi took the bucket under the hole in the stone and began carefully rubbing the blood onto the runes, mixing it with the ochre. People began talking again, as if it were second nature to them that someone had just been sacrificed to the gods. Ketill took one last look at the, now dead, man on the stone before a cry in the background forced him to turn around.

Behind them a woman with dark hair was being led to the tree, also dressed in a white gown. She was struggling slightly, but seemed malnourished or just weak. Even then, the two men leading her there were obviously strong men and thus they had no problem holding her down when another gódi fastened a noose around her neck. ‘’Ketill,’’ Basim silently started, looking as the noose was fastened and the woman stopped resisting. ‘’What are they doing?’’

Instead of an answer, the sound of drums beating rhythmically erupted from around the tree. The men beating the drums began chanting in a strange language, presumably the same in which the Northerners said their prayers. The gódi standing next to the woman spoke some words to her, and she finally calmed down completely, and the two men who had constrained her earlier were now moving alongside the tree, and threw the long end of the noose around a branch, then prepared to haul it up. She was clearly being hung – but before that, once more, the gódi flashed the knife again and with a razor sharp cut slit her throat. Instantly the woman was yanked into the air, the blood spilling down onto the pure white gown, running down her clothing along her neck until drops of blood started dripping from her feet onto the ground.

At the same time, other bodies were raised into the air too, hung from the world tree. The crowd began moving in the shimmering light of the moon that was starting to appear, exchanging itself with the sun that had started to settle and dip below the horizon. There were torches spread around the world tree, illuminating the area and shedding an eerie, flickering light on the dead bodies that were dripping blood, all clothed in white gowns.

The group approached the world tree, where the gódi who had cut the womans’ neck held the bucket of human blood from the dedicated man. ‘’With this blood!’’ he began, his voice echoing through the entire area, the people listening on in awe. ‘’And with these sacrifices!’’ A wide gesture followed, gesturing towards the bodies that were hanging from the trees. There were a good amount of them, and they swung eerily in the wind, the flickering light from the fires only adding to the eeriness. ‘’We feed the tree and ask for its’ blessing and that of the Aldafadr and his daughters and sons!’’ Then the gódi splashed the blood onto the ground next to the trees roots, and the people cheered again, before everything devolved into the same manner of festivities as the night before. Immediately mushrooms were handed around and ale was consumed, and people retreated back to the other areas to avoid having to sit amidst the corpses of those who had been sacrificed.

Ketill himself, however, did not leave yet. Instead he remained there, staring at the bodies that were hanging there, watching carefully how the blood seeped down their gowns and dripped down their feet to the ground. This place felt so powerful, with the echoes of hundreds of years worth of history thumping in his head. He wasn’t sure if the others felt the same history but everyone could tell there was something in this place, something that held a power. Whether it was real or not was another matter – it could’ve just been the combination of the cold that didn’t seem to bother the northerners, the eerie wind, the flickering lights, and the mist in the distance that covered the forest, seemingly rolling in from the nearby bogs and swamps.

‘’Aldafadr,’’ Ketill muttered under his breath, looking up at the woman that had been hung. ‘’I have rejoined you. The offering will please you – in return, grant me the strength I need.’’ As if on queue, the wind picked up and the body of the dark haired woman swung side to side, twirling slowly. When it had come around fully, both Ketill, Najla and Basim could see the face – one eye was missing, and the features of the face left little to the imagination about who it was. Yasamin.

Basim almost reared over and had to work hard to control his stomach to keep the contents inside – the combination of mushrooms, alcohol, blood and dead bodies left him with very little control. All that went out the window the moment Ketill spoke up again, without even turning his head to face Najla. ‘’That was meant to be you. I don’t know who or why, but the Gods favour you. It seems there is more to your story than an untimely death. It’s a shame your fate is tied to mine.’’ It seemed that the thought of the noose being intended for Najla was too much for Basim, and now he completely let himself go, splashing the contents of his stomach all over the ground.

Ketill turned around and faced towards the area where the rest of the groups had gathered and, instead of gathering in a multitude of smaller groups, had now formed one big group. In the center there was a giant pile of logs and, the moment Ketill turned towards it, it was lit up – as if on command, it almost seemed magic how it lit up specifically when he turned round. With the light of the fire on his face, reflecting off of the rings in his beard, it almost looked like he was a whole different person from when Najla had first met him. The only remembrance of that time were the three red dots on his forehead that would, allegedly, never fade. ‘’We’ll leave tomorrow. Enjoy this night, because it’ll be the last time you get to enjoy your time here. In the north, everyone earns their share of the meal, so you two had better learn to pull your weight, and fast.’’

Perhaps it had sounded like a threat, but a singular glance around the environment made it clear that there was no joking around. The area was cruel and unforgiving and they had yet to even get prepared for the winter, which would be even more cruel and unforgiving. If Audrun did not grant Ketill’s request for his strength, then the winter would be the end of their tale.

As they rejoined the group, Ketill leading a bit ahead as he’d left Basim and Najla behind while Basim recovered from his sickness, they were immediately handed more mushrooms and ale to wash it down. Ketill was not going to deny them now, and shoved a hand of mushrooms down his mouth before taking a big gulp from a horn of ale that he was handed. The rest of Ketill’s evening and most of the night was filled with more mushrooms and ale. It was, to him, a welcome release from the years spent under Sawarim rule as nothing more than an object. But, even after escaping their tyranny, he was unable to feel truly at ease, at least until now, when he felt like the all-father, Audrun, had accepted him into his fold again.

The rest of that night was a blur, occurring so fast that there was little time to remember or even recognize what was happening. All Ketill could remember the next morning was an innate, new feeling of being at home. It was like a missing part inside of him had returned to it’s place and fit in without a problem.

The rest of the morning was slow, as it was for most people, who struggled to gather their items after the festivities. For Ketill, it was as simple as retrieving Najla and Basim for where ever the had wandered off to, and forcing them to the horses. Although Ketill normally held his alcohol rather well, the continuous drinking throughout the night had given him a splitting headache, and as a result, he wasn’t really in the mood to argue with Najla or Basim. In the event that they refused to cooperate, he’d simply force them by grabbing them and pushing them, although for their own sake as well as his, he’d hoped they would cooperate on their own accord.

After mounting up on their horses, they would make way to the east, towards the coast of the Crashing Gulfs, the ocean that laid to the North of Broacien, and slightly east of the North before it transferred into the Frozen Wastes. To travel all the way to the coast would have taken them many days, up to even a week, due to the terrain being unforgiving. Perhaps unluckily for them they did indeed go all the way to the coast – or close, at least. It was a calculated effort by Ketill, who understood the intricacies of the Northern land better. Although he was not aware of the recent politics and so forth, he knew the best areas to farm, or live all together. Living near the coast was one of those places, with good land, access to the sea, and forests to hunt in. The problem was, however, that the winters grew colder here too as the frozen wastes crept into the bay and, similarly, the land froze over and heavy snowfall stopped any and all activities for most of the winter.

It was more or less suicide to head there now without a place to call home, but never the less Ketill seemed intent to go there – despite not having any food to even make the journey. This meant that they were confined to foraging for food along the way – something Ketill was decent enough at, and Basim picked up on quick. But it certainly wasn’t a princely meal, and there were many days where they went to bed hungry.

It was notable that the forests got thicker and thicker the further along they trekked, which was something that Ketill had only hoped for. They would finally stop upon reaching an open lake, in the middle of the forest. It was quite a large lake, but not large enough to the point where you’d not be able to see the other side, which was a large benefit to Ketill. It was evident that they were further north, as they had left the original mountain ranges behind and these instead had made place for a new, smaller mountain range, that was however still impressive in it’s own right.

The mountain range, with the forest in the foreground

This, as would soon be shown, was to be their encampment for the winter. It didn’t seem like much – there was little shelter… yet. Ketill dismounted his horse, and tied it to a nearby, smaller tree, then turned around and walked a short circle in the area, inspecting it for a good place to build their ‘shelter.’ ‘’What are you looking for?’’ Basim asked, tying his horse up too while curiously glancing at Ketill, who seemed to just be staring at… nothing.

‘’Home,’’ was the only answer he received.

‘’Home? Here?’’ Basim asked again. ‘’This is no home. This is wilderness. And it’s.. cold.’’

‘’You’ve never worked a day in your life, have you? Any home starts from nothing. A good home will keep out the cold.’’

‘’Isn’t there some city here where we can go, and stay there?’’

‘’You’d be lucky to find a single home. The people here don’t usually stay in one place – there are few merchants and farmers that do, but they try to stay close to the mountains, where it gets less cold and the crops have less change of dying. We are… on the border area, here. You could farm here, but you need to have good luck.’’ He looked up at the sky momentarily, and decided against telling Basim that even luck would be dependant on the gods. Farming here would require many sacrifices.

‘’That’s… no cities…?’’

‘’Yes, no cities. Go out and find something to eat. And look for animal tracks, because we’ll need to eat something other than stale roots and berries soon.’’

It was a fools errant to send Basim off to forage, and look for tracks, but it’d probably have been even worse if Basim was left to build a fire and shelter. Basim hurried off to do as he was told, walking at his own pace and taking in the area around them. Curiosity still seemed to drive him, as opposed to his sister, whose driving forces were more hidden than those of Basim. ‘’Najla,’’ Ketill started, as he worked on chopping down some smaller trees that were still growing. ‘’Go collect firewood.’’ No longer did he ask her to, no, it was an order. ‘’And make sure to collect the dry wood. Not the wet ones. Unless you want to freeze to death.’’

Once she too had wandered off, no doubt with every intention to not do as she was told, Ketill continued constructing the shelter. It was small, too small in fact, for three people, but it would have to do as the cold was beginning to set in. Things were moving slowly – but steadily, at least – up until Ketill was alarmed by the sounds of approaching footsteps. It didn’t sound like Najla or Basim – over the course of the trek up to this location, as well as the previous years, Ketill had gotten used to the sound of the both of them, but this sound was.. different. Heavier.

He turned around and, to his surprise, was met with the sight of an unknown man, holding an axe in one hand. It was a primitive, stone axe, but it looked lethal none the less. Out of instinct, Ketill’s own hand reached to the axe on his belt, forgoing his sword in favour of something a bit more wieldy in this area. For a moment the two men were silent, staring at each other waiting for movement.

‘’Who are you?’’ the man finally asked, his glare spelling out distrust. Ketill could not blame him, as he himself would likely distrust strangers in the area too.

‘’Ketill Grimhildrson.’’

‘’I don’t know a Ketill. Or a Grimhildr. What are you doing on this land?’’

‘’Whose land is this?’’ Ketill replied, taking out his axe and moving it around in his hand to get a comfortable grip on it. Just in case.

‘’Mine.’’

‘’How did you get this land?’’

‘’I inherited it from my father.’’

‘’And he?’’

‘’Inherited it from his father.’’

‘’And he?’’

‘’He killed for it.’’

‘’I’ll kill you for it.’’

These were the laws of the lands – that was, there was no law, except that of the gods. Ketill would be within his right to kill the man for his lands, if he had wanted to. The man glared at him, looking him up and down while adjusting his position to prepare if it came to blows. In the distance, Ketill could see Basim and Najla both returning, and he silently prayed that they would spot the man before he spotted them. The one way to mess this up was to add more people and more confusion to the situation.

‘’No need,’’ the man finally said, ‘’I’ve no quarrel with you. You can stay here for the winter, if that is what you intend.’’

To this Ketill only nodded. It was his intention to stay here for longer than that, but he had no intention to tell this man that. ‘’And your name?’’

‘’Björn Styreson.’’

‘’I am sure we will meet again, Björn.’’

‘’As am I.’’

Without wasting more words, the man took his leave, pushing past some bushes. He headed back to what Ketill supposed was the mans’ homestead – though not many people lived in this area, as it was particularly rough for both hunters and farmers. For the hunters, there were not enough animals during winter to survive, and for the farmers, the ground was too unfertile and they were forced to add fish to their diet, adding the burden of fishing to their already full plate of duties. This made Ketill’s decision to live here all the more strange, but none would question a man that was stranger to them.

Whatever Ketill’s reasons for dragging them even further north after the trial, he would never seek to explain it to Najla or Basim. It was not as if she could demand an explanation now, or refuse to go, though she had wished to refuse numerous times. The thoughts crossed her mind often as they traveled, to wake Basim in the middle of the night, to take off on their horses long before Ketill could chase after them. There were few things that could catch a skilled Sawarim rider, after all, something that Najla found herself repeating in these desires quite often. They’d be long gone before Ketill could enact whatever fate he was pushing them towards, and he’d be left behind to fume about it in the snow, with only Yasamin to take it out on. Even in her imagination, Najla had no desire to take the girl with her, it seemed. Still, every blast of wind, every shiver up her spine, it all served to remind her that these were dreams, nothing more. They’d be dead before they were even far enough to flee, the cold or hunger would take them within days if Ketill was not there to stop it.

Still, the question remained, why? Why would he bother to feed them, why was he bothering to keep her alive when he could have cut her throat at any time? Who would stop him? She knew he was capable of it, the only thing that had kept him from doing so in the palace was Basim, who had somehow managed to stop an axe from falling towards her. Yet Najla could not believe that Basim was the sole reason she was being kept alive now, though the more she thought on it, the more Najla realized how far away Ketill’s motives had always been from her grasp. Men had never been so difficult to understand. Most wanted gold, many wanted power, lust, the blessings of the Sawarim or Monarch, all the lovely dreams she could have dangled before them when she had them in her hands. All she knew for certain was that Ketill wanted her dead, and for some desire, some purpose greater than that, she was breathing. It was near enough to give her a headache, though she could think on little else as they travelled, watching the land slowly collect more and more greenery along their path.

Najla never asked where they were going. Ketill’s answers had never made sense to her regardless, and his mention of the ‘world tree’ was only more confusing. She’d been among the Monarchists for some time, and had always felt she knew a great deal about their faith, though it did not make her any more partial to it. Yet, she had never heard of a shrine called the ‘world tree’, nor could she guess at what it was. Monarchists had never mentioned such a thing to her, but these were a different people, it seemed. Perhaps a shrine, of sorts, one hidden deep in the mountains. Perhaps she was to see the end of the world. Regardless, Najla had no choice but to follow, and no more words would be spoken about the outcome of the trial. It did not seem that Ketill was willing to talk about it, and all Najla found was from the bits and pieces Basim and Yasamin had understood. Therefore, they continued north after their goodbyes, and despite the rough travels, the sight itself felt worth it.

Despite all her imaginings of the world tree, of this strange, mystical site Ketill seemed so intent on bringing them to, she felt her breath catch in her throat at the first sight. The tree was larger than any she’d ever seen before, nothing like the small, bare trees that struggled to survive in her home. This one was immense, its tendrils curling to the heavens themselves, and the first sight left no doubt that this was where Ketill had meant to bring them to. Whatever his purpose, she could still not fathom, but the splendor of the tree left no doubt that this was their destination.

It was only when they moved closer to that strange wooden house that Najla even noticed it, for her focus had been centered upon the tree itself. From afar, she could tell little but the fact that it was a curiously carved house, of a craftsmanship she could not understand, but admired. The wooden carvings grew even more magnificent as they walked closer, and had it not been for the family that exited, Najla might have studied those forever. Rather, she found herself distracted by the symbols that were drawn onto the people’s foreheads, in a red liquid she could only guess was blood. From where, she didn’t wish to think about. As if she did not know what Ketill’s tattoo looked like, Najla’s eyes moved towards his forehead, as if judging the difference. These people were not Servants, of course not, and so those symbols did little but confuse her farther, despite the faint similarity. It was not as if their strange words helped either, and so Najla was silent as Basim questioned Ketill regarding them. While knowledge in itself was a prize to her brother, Najla was far more concerned with just what it would do for her, and in this case, that meant what it would tell her of her fate. Since she’d been in the north, most of what she’d learned regarding that had been of little use.

When she entered the house, just behind her brother, Najla’s eyes first went to the man that sat there, seemingly waiting for them. A bowl of that deep red liquid was held in his hands, and for a moment, Najla wondered if that was why she had been brought here, to be added to that mixture. It seemed not, for Ketill was quick to lean forwards, accepting the man to draw that strange symbol upon his forehead, just as he had with the family before, it seemed. She only watched this strange process for a moment, but her attention was quickly drawn by the hall.

She stepped into it carefully, her movements as gentle as they were when she entered a Sawarim temple. Perhaps some aura of holiness had lent that gentleness to return to her movements, or perhaps it was simply awe as to what lay before. In truth, she had never seen a sight like this. Najla walked down the line of statues slowly, taking in every exquisite detail. She’d never seen people like these. She’d never seen anything like this. Najla was unable to help herself as she eyed the statues, reaching her hand out to graze the wood lightly. There were so many of them, were they people? Characters from their legends, perhaps? She might have assumed as much, but the bowls before them, filled with various items, suggested something stranger than a tale. No people would have reason to offer a hero of legend such items, but they’d give them to kings, Gods, someone who could open their own hand in return. But these could not be either, they were far too many to be king or God. Rather than allow herself to question it further, Najla merely watched as Ketill approached, waiting to see what he’d do. When he dug the ring out of his pocket, offering it to the man in the throne, Najla watched as he simply stared at the man, wondering what he was getting out of this. A ring, but for what?

Whatever he had wanted, he received. Najla’s frown deepened when she heard him thank...the man? Himself? It was an odd thing, she imagined, to thank someone who had only taken, but his next words would quickly force her to forget this strange behavior.

“What? What do you mean?”

Nothing. She was given no response, and yet the words lingered in her mind. She was to be dedicated. What could he mean by that? What the hell was a dedication? Najla had forgotten the statues in the room within moments, and now her eyes were firmly on Ketill, trying to demand that he clarify himself.

“Ketill!”

She did not press farther, watching as he walked away. The panic had started to settle in her stomach, and she felt the worry seep through her veins now, wondering just what he intended for her. Seeing that she would get no answers from Ketill, Najla turned back to the statue, only to see the merchant’s son standing in Ketill’s place. He was looking at the statute with a far different look than Ketill had, one that spelled something akin to fear, but with a fierce strength behind it, trying to allow that strength to override the fear completely. She recognized that look in a man’s eyes. They always tried to slit their throats after.

“Who is that?”

Najla pointed at the statue behind her, at which the merchant’s son finally turned his gaze onto her. He’d been staring intently at it, lost in thought, but the sound of her voice would quickly draw him out, even if he had missed her words themselves. His frown was enough to show her that, and Najla said the words again, slower, leaving no doubt he’d be able to hear it. Her finger was still pointed at the statute, and the son took a step closer before answering, gazing into the statute’s eyes as if it could look back at him.

“Audrun.”

Suddenly, Najla felt the heat of the desert on her back. There was that sickening feeling in her throat, the dangerous turning of her stomach, her ears filled with the sound of a man’s roar. The smell of burnt flesh returned to her senses, briefly, before it was chased out by a new panic in her stomach.

“What is he?”

The boy looked at her once more, still confused, it seemed. It was not that he did not know, but her question was oddly worded, especially for one who could not fathom she would think it was a mere man, perhaps, nothing more. Instead, he merely repeated his word, slower, as if she had not heard.

“Aud-run.”

There was nothing more to be gained from that. Najla abandoned the boy to his strange thoughts, knowing he would not be far behind. Instead, she was quick to catch up with Ketill, Basim, and Yasamin. She did not press Ketill any longer, for his silence had made it clear that he would not entertain her questions. Assuming that her brother would not know, Najla instead aimed her question at Yasamin, who seemed somewhat surprised at them. Still, it only made sense, for of the three of them Yasamin must have been the closest.

<“What do you know of those statues? What were they?”>

<” I know as much as you do.”>

Even in her panic, Najla had to suppress the urge to snap at the girl. She had not expected her to continue bowing and offering titles, but Yasamin had not hesitated to start speaking to Najla as an equal. An annoying notion, but not one worth dying for.

<“He never spoke of Audrun to you?”>

<“Of who?”>

<“Fuck.”> Najla turned around, having given up on the girl. Rather, she looked up ahead, moving faster so as to catch up with her brother. It did not occur Najla to ask him, nor would she have an opportunity to, for her attention was on the gathering they were quickly approaching. She had simply assumed that Basim would not know, that if he had, he would had told her long ago. It was a dangerous assumption, simply foolish for someone who’d been through what she had, but she would never be able to think such a thing of Basim. Rather, she simply looked up at him with a worried gaze, wondering what would become of him when she was to be ‘dedicated’, whatever that would mean.

As strange as the setting was, the gathering almost felt like a familiar sight. It was a far easier atmosphere than the harsh travels they’d known so far, much more similar to the easy lifestyle she had once known. Then, they’d been so carefree because they had nearly every reason to be, there was no worries as to when their next meal had come from, or where they’d lay their heads that night. That certainly wasn’t the case here, and yet, the people had no qualms about inviting them to join. She would not recognize the people that pulled Ketill and her brother forward, not until she was already seated in their midst. Regardless, they were quick to open their hands to them, and Najla looked into the basket Basim handed to her curiously.

<“What are these?”>

Basim shrugged, chewing through the handful he’d grabbed. Perhaps Najla might have refused, but the nature of the gathering gave her no reason to doubt the food. It was a strange deviation from life in the palace, where they’d never pass food around so freely, at the risk of being poisoned by people much like her. Still, seeing as how Ketill had eaten them, Najla held none of these fears now, and took a handful before passing it to Yasamin, who spoke up quickly.

<“What do you think they are?”>

<“I know as much as you do.”>

Whatever satisfaction Najla had gotten from repeating the girl’s words to her, it would not last. The taste of the mushrooms was odd, certainly not enjoyable, though she chewed through it regardless. There was nothing else to do. She would not be able to leave, not so long as Ketill held whatever strange intention he held for her. She would not tell Basim, more to protect him from such knowledge than anything. All she could do was wait.

The longer she waited, the less difficult it got. The effects were not entirely obvious at first, though she had seen how oddly the people around her were acting. Yet as the night went on, Najla found herself far less worried about what was to come for her. Her mind simply could not linger on those thoughts. Rather, she felt far more like her time in the palace, and she’d found that the mushrooms had made her feel somewhat lighter. She could not understand most of the words the northerners were speaking around her, though this did not seem to bother her. Her gaze was focused on the fascinating sight around her, broken only by laughter when she caught sight of her brother being pulled up to dance. He’d hated being forced to do so in their home, but the mushrooms had made him far more content now, and the smile returned to her face every time her gaze moved back onto the pair.

Otherwise however, Najla was somewhat silent, though she was certainly enjoying herself. Speaking to any of the northerners had been made into a difficult feat, and a rather unnecessary one. The scene itself was fascinating to her, and Najla seemed to be able to focus on little else but the sights around her, the fires lit up as the night grew darker, the immense trees that surrounded them, nature she’d never seen the likes of before. While it had seemed a forbidding territory before, it was quite beautiful now, and she had laid back onto the ground, her eyes on the stars above. She felt almost as if she could see the lines that traced them together, the path her God took as he moved above his people.

“Your people, do they dance?”

It took a moment for Najla to realize the voice was speaking to her, and when she turned her head to see the source, she nearly startled. It was a man, one she did not recognize as part of the family who had invited them, though it did not seem to matter. He was built much like many of the northerners around them, tall and strong, so that even when Najla pushed herself to sit up, she still felt quite small beside him. In this strange mood however, she greeted him with a smile, upon which he repeated his question, realizing she hadn’t heard.

“All people dance.”

Her answer brought a smile to the man’s face in turn, at which he simply turned his gaze back to those dancing before them. Whether it was the effects of the alcohol or mushrooms that had induced such curiosity to come speak to the foreign ‘guest’, it did not seem to matter to either of them.

“What song are they singing?”

Najla spoke her words slowly, though the man seemed to understand easily, for she gestured towards the men singing by the fire. She had not understood a word of their songs, but the man would be eager to explain, happy to indulge the foreigner’s curiosity.

“They sing of the Gods.”

Najla frowned then, turning her gaze onto the man. She’d heard that phrase many times before, often from Ketill, though she had often simply brushed it aside, believing he was speaking nonsense. He was a madman, after all. Still, she pushed further, for despite the effects of the mushrooms, the sinking feeling in her stomach had not left.

“What Gods?”

“Audrun, and his daughters and sons.”

That sinking feeling turned into a chasm, and Najla felt as if her blood had spilled out of her already, leaving her weak and unable to reply. Were those the statutes she had seen? Was Audrun the God Ketill had mentioned, the one he’d screamed when he had dragged Yazan out of the flames? She’d never heard of such a God from any besides these people. She had spent years among the Monarchists, learning from them, but this Audrun had never been mentioned, he could not have been part of their faith. Above all, the Monarchists had a God, no more, and certainly not one with sons and daughters. The thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to process this, her thoughts dulled by the mushrooms and ale, when the man spoke again, oblivious to her newfound panic.

“You will not dance?”

Najla turned her gaze onto him, suddenly angry. He had not brought upon himself, though Najla would not try to soften her actions or gaze. Rather, she stood up without another word, leaving him on his own so that she could walk towards the edge of the gathering on her own.

There were too many questions, ones she would not be able to fully think through, not in such a haze. The only one that came now was whether she could run. Whether it would be better to find death in the snow, or to remain long enough to understand the information that had been put before her. She’d find her death either way, it seemed. It was only when she recalled Basim’s words, that he might have been a substitution, that Najla made her decision. Or rather, she’d let her exhaustion make it for her. She rejoined the gathering, unwilling to sleep anywhere that wasn’t near a fire, and rested her head. Perhaps the question would be answered in her dreams, but that night was a blissful one. Though she had grown tired of laying her head on the ground, that night brought no dream but darkness.

It was quite a harsh awakening to be brought back to reality by Ketill, though she had slept well into the day, only to be woken in the afternoon. Still, Najla could not help but yawn as she forced herself up, following Basim and Ketill to the gathering. The conversation the night before had not been entirely forgotten, though Najla did not recall enough of it to worry. She only remembered bits and pieces of the night before, and the way the stars had shined was a more vivid memory of the sudden fear she’d felt. It would not take long however, for that to return to her.

As they rejoined the crowd, Najla strained against the crowd slightly, trying to see over the heads of those that were far taller than her. It was easier to let Ketill do that, and then to move beside her brother, where she stood and watched as the animals were led out.

It was not a strange sight to the Sawarim, to see an animal’s throat slit. Even Basim had grown accustomed to that sort of violence, for it was how they were meant to kill the meat they ate, to drain it of its blood first. Yet this was...different. Far different. The way the strange man lifted the knife in the air, the way the people cheered as the animals died, the way the men collected the blood in the buckets, none of it was the same. That chasm in her stomach felt as if it was returning, though Najla could not understand why. The sight of the merchant’s son would be enough to explain it, shortly.

The crowd fell silent, and Najla watched, unable to look away, as the boy was led to the stone and laid down upon it. There was that familiar look in his eyes, the one she’d seen when he had been facing the statute, but this was again, different. As the man raised his knife into the air, Najla willed herself to look away, realizing just before it happened that he’d follow the same fate as the animals before him. Her will was not enough. Najla could only look into the boys eyes, and felt as if he could see the statue of that strange man before him once more. Audrun.

Her breath caught in her throat as the man brought the knife down, cutting the boy's throat. Her eyes were wide in horror as she watched him drown in his own blood, trying to use that last bit of strength as if it would stop his fate. Yet she did not look away. Najla merely watched, her mouth slightly open in shock, as the boy took his final breaths before finally, his body stopped moving. That name remained in her mind, and with it, the chasm in her stomach deepened, as if the memory of her conversation before would be pulled back with it.

Before it could, Najla was startled by the sudden feeling of some liquid falling onto her face. She would not be given the luxury of believing it was water, not even for a moment, for she was quick to spit out the blood that had fallen in her mouth. She raised a hand to wipe the rest off her face, only to hesitate when Ketill grabbed Basim’s hand, telling him it gave him strength. While Basim was quick to lower his hand, Najla’s hesitation did not last. Her gaze remained on Ketill, as if she could hear him scream that name even now, and she smeared the droplets of blood on her cheek as she tried to wipe it off, only to be distracted by a cry behind her.

Najla turned along with the crowd, watching as the woman was dragged by the men in front of her. She was frozen in horror, though her mind was still trying to piece together all that she’d learned before, all that she was seeing now, all while wondering what was going to happen. More death, more blood? It seemed to be all these people knew. Was this to be her fate, which one of these had been the dedication that Ketill had promised? It seemed it would not happen now, and yet Najla could only watch as they threw the rope up over the tree branch. She prepared herself, ready to watch this woman being hung, but it seemed even that was not enough. A gasp slipped past her lips as the knife flashed and suddenly, the woman was yanked up, blood running down her clothing.

She was not alone. Najla felt her blood run cold as more bodies were raised into the air, blood seeping down their pure white gowns. It was a horrible sight, splendid, in the light of the fire, but horrible all the same. The blood was splashed onto the ground, the man shouting words that seemed familiar, that would have sparked that light of recognition if she could hear them. It felt as if the memory of the night before, of the answers she’d received, were waiting on the edge of her tongue, and yet, she could not bring them to light. The horror was first and foremost in her mind, she could focus on little else.

Her eyes traced the swinging body as the winds seemed merely to toy with it. The body swung from side to side, the blood dripping down from the feet, and Najla watched with a horror that bordered on fascination. She could hear Ketill muttering under his breath, but did not strive to hear his words, for all of her attention was on the body before her. She did not know why, it should have been unremarkable among the multitude of others that hung from the tree, but for some reason, she could not look away. Though none were keeping her here, it felt almost as if she was forced to watch, held by something unknown. Najla pulled the cloak around her tighter as the winds picked up, swinging it side to side, and finally, all the way around.

The realization seemed to knock the breath out of her. While she could vaguely hear the sounds of her brother trying to control his sickness, Najla did not seem to notice. Her eyes were frozen in horror upon the girls features, and Ketill’s words rang in her ears now, chilling her in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. That was meant to be her. That was meant to be her throat cut, her blood trickling onto the ground, her body left to hang like an ornament. Whatever reason that had kept her from such a fate, it did not comfort her. As Ketill spoke, she could only look upon the girl with an entirely wordless horror, unable to move, think, or act. It was only when he had quieted that she finally spoke, her voice so soft that she was not certain he would hear.

“You have to bury her.”

Finally, she tore her gaze off the corpse swinging in the wind. Her eyes shot up to Ketill’s face now, staring intently at the man she no longer recognized. They had known each other for years, both suffered and committed awful acts for the other, but she still felt as if she did not recognize him. Still, her words only halted briefly as he instructed them to enjoy their final night here. It was impossible now. The words moved up from her throat quickly, though her voice was only slightly louder, barely audible, the horror would carry in every word.

“Did she not serve you well? Did she commit a crime, did she hurt or insult you? Ketill! What was this meant to answer for?!”

She received no answer, only watching as Ketill moved off to rejoin the others, away from the swinging corpses. Najla did not move to rejoin, not yet. Her gaze turned back onto Yasamin, then onto the bodies behind her, around her. The Gods had favored her. Gods, more than one, more than the Monarch or the Sawarim, but many. Audrun, and his daughters and sons. The thought fled back to her in a voice that was unfamiliar, a conversation she could barely recall but for the sinking feeling in her stomach. She’d spent years believing Ketill was still a Monarchist, that all his words had been the ramblings of a madman, and now she was faced with the truth, swinging from the branches above her. He was no longer a Monarchist, and if his false Gods had not found this tenacious ‘favor’ in her, that would have been her fate.

While her brother tried to recover from his sickness, Najla abandoned him to it, walking forward in a daze. She could feel the revulsion, the fear, and yet, it did not rise in her throat as it had when they’d left the Sultanate. The violence still sickened her, but there was no grief to aid in pulling her nausea from her throat as it did her brothers. Despite her words, she did not grieve for Yasamin.

She took another step forwards, her eyes moving onto the girl’s corpse again. What pitiful luck she’d had, in being given to Ketill at all. No doubt, she’d been chosen at random among the other Broacienian women in the harem. Yasamin must have thought otherwise that day, Najla could have imagined the looks of jealousy on the other girls faces when Yasamin was called forwards. Then Najla had sunk her teeth into the poor girl in an effort to do the same to Ketill. Had this been why? It had not occurred to Najla that she truly had been a stand-in for her own death, for she could never have imagined that a sacrifice was truly necessary at all. For someone who could not understand the complexities of a religion she’d only just seen, this death seemed far more personal, just as her own had meant to be.

<“Najla!”>

She turned around to see the source of her name, only to see her brother slowly straightening up, having collected himself some. She did not reply, only watching as he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, glancing back at the crowd. He did not look at the corpses that hung above her, and seemed revolted at the notion that Najla had stepped deeper into the branches of the tree, deeper among the swinging bodies. For her part, Najla had not seemed to notice. Her thoughts had preoccupied her enough, so that a part of her might have assumed she was simply in the gardens of home, the bodies above her little different from the candles they’d placed in colored glass, to swing from the greenery there. The horror on her face proved otherwise, but there were few hints beside it.

<“Where are you going?”>

Najla did not reply, her eyes moving to fixate on her brother. He looked so much like Jalil, sometimes. Their faces were so similar, though she realized that Basim might have forgotten his brother long ago. He was younger when Jalil had vanished with her, though he’d held plenty of memories with his brother, she could not have guessed how many had lasted the test of time. She was certain he did not remember that Jalil had shared that thick black head of hair. While the curls had softened Jalil’s face, they only ever served to make Basim look younger than he was. Even their voices were similar. Jalil had only ever spoken to her the way Basim did, with little of the teasing inflections Harith had taunted her with. Only their eyes were different. Had it not been for the dark black of Basim’s eyes, watching her worriedly, Najla might have guessed that it was Jalil standing before her now, a ghost that had come back to her side once more.

Suddenly, a slight splatter on her forehead pulled Najla out of her thoughts. In her daze, Najla did not quite realize what it was yet, despite where she stood now. She could have imagined it was rain, a sensation she had not known for some years, but when she reached a hand up to wipe it off, this hope was quickly drawn from her. Some part of her that still held control forced Najla to keep from looking up, knowing she would lose her stomach the way her brother had, even if the corpse would not have been familiar. Najla forced herself to step forwards, away from the corpses, and towards her brother once more.

<“Aren’t you going to answer?”>

<“Hm?”> Najla was careful to walk around his sickness, suddenly realizing that he’d spoken to her after the first question. <“What did you ask?”>

<“I asked if you were alright.”>

Najla nearly glanced back at Yasamin once more, but forced herself to look forwards, to keep her gaze on her brother. It seemed Basim was worried that she grieved for Yasamin, as her words would have suggested. Najla’s answer would clarify that all too quickly, for while she pitied the girl immensely, there were greater fears to deal with.

<“I don’t… I cannot understand. I heard of his Gods so often, all his strange words, and I did not...I ignored all of it. How could I have been so foolish, how did I-”> Suddenly, a shiver ran up her spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. <“What favor could his Gods have found in me?.”>

Basim was silent for a brief moment, worried eyes glancing towards where Ketill had rejoined the group, before looking at Najla. Ketill had said his gods favored her, for a reason it seemed none of them could imagine, but this was little comfort when they had seen just what he was capable of. After a few moments of thought, he opened his mouth again, to speak or comfort Najla, but she did not allow him to. Rather, she stood up on her tiptoes, kissing Basim’s cheek swiftly.

<I do not mean for you to worry, my blood. It seems I am to live, for now.”>

<“Should we bury her?”>

Najla glanced back, though it would not stop her pace for long. Rather, she began to walk back to the group, and Basim would be quick to join her, walking alongside her in an effort to leave the corpses swinging behind them.

<“I could not even bury Jalil. I fear I’ll have less luck with her.”>

They would not be able to enjoy that night. Najla tried, desperately. She took the mushrooms that were offered to her, any ale that was handed over, but it was not enough to make her look away from the swinging corpses. Rather than participate in the festivities, she would find that these only made the realizations worse, and so she laid down, praying that sleep would come before she had to think on these Gods any longer.

---

Najla awoke as the others began to stir around her, well into the morning. She might have slept for longer, but it was not of her own accord that she awoke, for Basim roused her gently as Ketill came to collect them, taking them to whatever corner of the earth he’d imagined for them now. While her brother had a clearer head than she did, Najla was clearly unwilling to come along with Ketill now. It was not as if they had a choice, there was no one else that would grant them protection, and they would not survive in this unforgiving territory on their own. Still, she had not forgotten what he did to Yasamin. Whatever his intentions for her were, Najla did not want to see them.

“I’m not going. Leave me here.”

It was Basim that tried to urge her forwards, but he did not need to, it seemed. Ketill was quick to grab her and push her forward rather forcefully, with little care as to her complaints. It was futile to resist, but it did not mean she would not try, though her protests had long quieted by the time they reached the horses. Not because she had become accustomed to the idea of leaving to wherever Ketill was so intent on dragging them to, but because the night before had left her with no ability to refuse. The drink and drugs had left her head pounding and the nights of sleeping on the ground had left a toll on her body, which was far more used to sleeping in comfortable beds. If Basim had been prideful enough to fight the way Najla was, she might have continued, but her brother seemed to realize their situation far better than she did.

So she fell silent as they traveled, reluctantly so, but it didn’t seem to matter to either of the men she traveled with. They were far more concerned about their survival, and Najla often found herself wondering how Ketill truly intended to last in the wilderness like this for long. Perhaps he didn’t. Rather than imagine all the ways they might freeze in this unforgiving landscape, Najla tried to preoccupy herself with merely taking it in. These were sights no other Sawarim had ever seen before, and perhaps would never see again. The thick, dense forests that crawled up the sides of the mountains were a stunning sight, and she could only guess at what it would take to climb up to the top of one of those mountains, whether man would ever be able to accomplish such a thing. Perhaps not, for they’d see to the ends of the earth from so high, a power that was perhaps better left in the hands of God. Upon reaching the lake, Najla resisted the urge to move closer to the water, to feel it with her own hands. The desert oases she had seen were nothing compared to this. Had she seen the ocean itself, Najla might have been unable to resist the urge to touch it, but even though she could see the end here, it was a difficult feat to resist. The biting cold of the wind would be enough to convince her however, and she dismounted as Basim and Ketill did, remaining silent as they spoke.

Basim was right. This was no home. She glanced around the land, wondering exactly where Ketill intended to shelter them. They could not sleep on the ground here, one more night spent clutching her cloak around herself would be enough to cause her to freeze, Najla knew. Had he brought them this far to die? Was he so foolish that he believed they’d survive here? Whatever the reason, Najla spoke none of these concerns when Basim was sent off to find food. The mention of stale roots was near enough to make her stomach turn, as she had found herself dreaming of the spiced meats and sweet fruits of home often on their trip. It was better than nothing, perhaps, but barely.

She was snapped out of these thoughts by the sound of her name, which caused a frown to appear on her face. Najla glanced over at Ketill as he continued to chop down trees, wondering just what he intended to do with them. Construct some shelter, no doubt, but what good it would do them, she could not know. Still, the command was enough to cause her frown to deepen. It was a strange sensation, to be ordered around like this, as she had long forgotten what a command had sounded like from anybody, especially Ketill. It was far more reminiscent of the first time they’d met, when she had been given as a slave, but they were entirely different people now. Somehow, even the sound of a command did not make him sound like the Servant he’d been before.

“If you didn’t want to freeze, we should have gone south. I don’t know what good a fire will do here.”

Despite her words, Najla was not entirely intent on freezing to death here. She gave Ketill no time to answer, though she doubted he would even have granted her a reply if she had lingered. Rather, Najla began to follow the path her brother had taken, looking for firewood. Finding dry branches was a more difficult task than she’d imagined, but Najla quickly found that the easiest method was to look for the dead branches still hanging from trees, and snap them off if she could. Many of them, she could not reach, but she had managed to gather a few in her arms by the time she had reached Basim. He had been turning back, only a few of those roots she despised so badly in his hands. It seemed like a meager meal, but he did not seem entirely upset by the find, though this pride was quickly stifled by the surprise when he saw his sister with a small armful of branches.

<“For the fire?”>

Najla merely nodded as she adjusted the branches in her arms, looking down to the roots in Basim’s hand.

<“Is that all you found?”>

<“No. I found shit.”>

Najla frowned, looking up at her brother with a confused expression. Basim caught her gaze quickly, and grinned at the sight. It was an expression she’d not seen on his face for some time, though it was certainly a welcome one, even if her confusion had induced it.

<“I’m not joking, I found actual shit. At least I think so, I didn’t get close enough to touch it. Something must have left it. I just hope it’s an animal.”>

His words caused Najla’s confused frown to turn into a smile, one that did not fade even as they walked forwards. It was strangely amusing to hear her brother talk in such a manner, though perhaps it was the thought that she wouldn’t be forced to eat berries that brought her some happiness. There would be much more to deal with, in order to jump that hurdle, for first they’d have to find the animal, if it was still near, and then deal with the task of killing it. Neither of those were skills she or her brother held. Even collecting the firewood had been difficult, and some of those branches she held were still green within, the dry ones not enough to start a fire with. Perhaps she’d tried, but effort would not keep them warm for the night. Likely, Basim would be sent after her to collect more, but for now, they walked back towards the makeshift shelter Ketill was building.

<“What do you think we’re doing here?”>

<“He said this is home now. I think he intends for us to live here.”>

<“Yes, but for how long? He won’t keep us alive here forever. I don’t know if he could, or why he’d want to. I don’t even know why I’m alive now.”>

<“You heard him. His Gods want you alive. He’s not the sort of man to take that lightly.”>

<“That’s what I thought, back when he only had one God. Then he abandoned that God for these. How long until he abandons these Gods for me?”> Basim did not answer, nor did Najla expect him too. She adjusted the sticks in her hand, sighing slightly before she spoke. Her voice was softer now, filled with regret. <“I should have known. At the Al-Uba’yd, I should have known, I never forgot how he screamed Audrun’s name. If only I had sought that answer further…”>

Her voice trailed off, but Basim’s was quick to pick up. The way he looked at her was odd now, though Najla did not quite notice anything until he began to speak, and even then, it was hardly suspicious. His voice was tentative, questioning lightly, a tone he’d perfected years ago, when he’d learned how to get information out of his far less level-headed siblings.

<“What would you have done, if you had known?”>

<“I don’t know.”> Another sigh, and she tried to contemplate the question, though it would only take a moment before she spoke again. <“Most of his value came as a Monarchist, it’s true. But if he’d converted, he’d only be a stranger beast to the people. I don’t know what I would have done with him in the Sultanate. But I certainly would not have followed him here.”>

<“You would have stayed in Broacien?”>

<“Fuck, Basim, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter what I would have done. Even if my choices had been the same, they would have been better simply because of what they were informed by. There’s power in the knowledge itself. ”>

There was a few moments of silence again, where the only sound was their footsteps in the frozen ground. They’d gone somewhat deep into the forest in order to fulfill whatever tasks Ketill had given them, though Najla had made certain not to lose track of where he’d remained. She had evaded death one too many times in the north already.

<“It’s my fault. I should have known. I should have pressed for it, asked for it. Even at the gathering, I’d heard that Audrun was his God. I’m sure someone told me, but that ale...maybe I just wasn’t meant to know. Or maybe I was drunk. But someone told me, I am sure of it.”>

<“Perhaps it was me.”>

Najla frowned slightly now, though she could not imagine Basim was being serious. She continued to walk, adjusting the sticks in her arms as she did, her tone nonchalant at first.

<“No, not you. What would you have known to tell me?”>

<“I knew.”>

It was not his words, but his tone, that stopped her in her tracks. Najla’s frown deepened now as she looked up at him, trying to understand just what he meant.

<“Knew what, Basim?”> He did not reply, and Najla did not let the silence last. <“Basim!”>

<“All of it! I knew Ketill wasn’t a Monarchist, or a madman. He told me, that night at the Al-Uba’yd. I tried to give him the cross, and he refused it.”>

<“You’ve known since then?! How could you not tell me?”>

<“There were many reasons, but you said it yourself. His value to you was because he was a Monarchist-”>

<“I’m your blood, Basim, you held loyalty to the dog before me?!”>

<“It wasn’t about loyalty, it wasn’t about any of that!”>

<“Go fill your mouth with goat shit if it will stop you from lying to me.”>

The anger had peaked now, and Najla thrust the bundle of sticks at his feet, ready to storm off. She had never been so angry with Basim before, and it seemed she had nearly forgotten he was the last of her blood, all she had left. She was ready to start yelling again, to storm off, seemingly with no intention to pick up the sticks once more. It was Basim’s hand that reached out, pulling her back.

<“Someone else is here.”>

At that, Najla looked over to where Ketill was engaged with another man, in a conversation she could not hear. It looked tense, even from this distance, a fact Basim had no doubt perceived when he tried to pull his sister back. The anger towards her brother had not faded, and she wrenched her hand out of his, though she did not try to move forward. So they merely waited, in silence, until the man turned and left. Najla was quick to walk towards Ketill as soon as she saw that she was able, empty-handed, and with no intention of explaining that to Ketill. She merely watched as Basim followed, having picked up the sticks she’d dropped. It was Basim that asked of the man, for Najla’s anger had left her uncaring about little else, watching her brother with a frown as he approached, though he would speak to Ketill first. He knew his sister would forgive him, eventually. She had no other choice.

“Who was that man? I did not think any one else lived here.”

---

As the night fell upon them, Najla and Basim had made their way under the makeshift shelter Ketill had built. It was too small for the three of them, but it blocked out the cold some, though not enough for Najla’s liking. She clutched the cloak around her tightly as night fell, though it seemed she had no intention to try and fall asleep. Nor had her anger with Basim subsided, it seemed, though she had not spoken on it much further beyond a few comments here and there, always muttered in Sawarimic. She would not speak to Ketill, though her eyes rested on him often, with an anger in them that barely faded when she’d turn her gaze to her brother. Still, despite her anger, it seemed that Basim knew she’d forgive him. Even though she wanted nothing more than to yell at him, to curse him for not revealing his secret sooner, Najla motioned to him when she saw him about to lay his head down to rest, telling him silently not to rest it on the ground. It had been a common gesture of affection when they lived in the palace, stretching out in the heat of the garden, but now, it would be little more than a small comfort to Basim, who was no doubt tired of resting his head on the ground. Or perhaps it’d be a greater comfort than she realized, for her brother to realize that she still cared for him deeply, though her gaze had made it clear she had not forgiven him.

<“You’re not still mad at me?”>

<“I’m livid.”>

<“Aren’t you going to sleep soon?”>

<“I’m not tired.”>

It was a lie, that much was all too obvious by her eyes. Oddly enough, it seemed as if she was intentionally trying to keep sleep away, despite the exhaustion travel had brought. Her tone left little room for argument, and as Basim laid his head in her lap and closed his eyes, Najla stifled a yawn so that he would not feel guilty. She rested a hand in his hair gently, stroking it absent-mindedly as she tried to keep herself awake for longer. There was little to keep her awake now, and so her gaze rested on Ketill as Basim began to fall asleep. No doubt, he would grow annoyed at her gaze quickly, especially since she would not seek to explain the thoughts that rested behind them, not even if prompted. Rather, she waited until she could feel Basim’s breathing steady, indicating that he’d given in to sleep. Then, and only then, she’d speak up softly, so as not to wake him.

“I underestimated you.”

The words were spoken with little emotion, nowhere near how she’d spoken to Basim before. It was merely a fact, a realization that had come years too late. She pulled the cloak around her more tightly, as if that would help block out the cold, careful not to disturb her brother.

“You were smart, to keep your conversion from me. If I had known, I believe I would have left you to wander in the desert years ago. I do not know how you convinced my brother to keep it from me. I may have underestimated both of you.”

She moved her hand off of Basim’s hair for a moment, gesturing to her forehead. It was almost as if her movements were all that were left of a Sultana, practiced and precise. Even though she was certain her hands would grow gnarled and bony in this strange land, she still moved as if gold weighed down her wrists and fingers.

“I would never have guessed that a man who bore...those, would be able to hide his faith. Though you did not truly hide it, I suppose. I can smell Yazan’s flesh burning every time I hear this name, Audrun. I do not know why I was surprised. These Gods suit you better. They’re bloodier.”

At that, Najla let out a soft sigh, returning to toy with her brothers hair softly. He shivered under the cold, a sight that sent a flash of worry across her face, one that would fade before she looked up at Ketill once more.

“I always knew you were waiting to kill me. All those years in the desert, you endured so much, committed such horrible acts, and yet, I breathe. What could you want from me? I could have offered you a kingdom, years ago. You did not want anything from me then. Now, I have nothing to offer you, nothing I will give without cutting my throat after, and nothing you would want to take. So tell me, Servant, why am I alive?”

Her questions ceased now, abruptly, as she glanced down at Basim once more. Before, her blood had been all that she lived for. It had been her driving force to return when she was trapped as a slave in Broacien, and it had been the push that had made her ride alongside Jalil to the north in the first place. Then, being among her blood had meant an easy life, surrounded by those she loved, a comfortable position in an endless game. Now, all she had left of that was Basim. Even the Sultana she had been seemed to have been left behind, to wander in the desert forever.

That much was apparent in her figure, at least. She’d grown thinner in their travels, both due to a lack of food and her own refusal of it, a fact which she regretted often now. Even the color of her skin, which had so fascinated the northerners, had dulled in this travel, without the tender touch of the sun. Her cheeks had been sunken in, the bags under her eyes all too prominent now, both grief and hardship had taken more of a toll in this short travel than in her year as a slave. More than anything however, the change was apparent in her eyes. They were red now, exhausted, though she barely blinked for fear that it would bring her sleep. Whatever awaited her in her dreams were only memories, of that which she had lost, that which she had been. Even when they were pleasant, nothing pained her worse than to wake up from them.

Before she moved to speak again, to respond to whatever answer Ketill gave her, if he’d offer her one at all, Najla was just in time to raise her hand, blocking the noise of a sneeze so that it did not wake her brother. The weakness this travel had brought suddenly seemed more apparent now, and Najla wondered if she would fall sick as a result. In the palace, when they were surrounded by healers, it would not have brought her too much worry. Now, it would be a death sentence. For a bare moment, she seemed to weigh her thoughts, realizing that perhaps it would be better to lose herself to whatever horrors her dreams held for her rather than force herself to stay awake and fall sick as a result. Ever so gently, she moved Basim’s head off of her lap, resting it on the ground so that he would not find himself waking with a headache. There was little room in the shelter, but she rested her head regardless, though Najla continued speaking even after she’d closed her eyes.

“If your Gods are the ones that leave me breathing, ask them to do me one final kindness. My family will be dumped in a single grave. The Al-Suwaidi would not even bury them, if they would not be condemned by our people otherwise. But they will be buried, at least. If Basim dies, bury him as well. He should be allowed to rejoin them.”

Najla turned slightly now, trying to make herself more comfortable, though it was impossible. Still, her words were spoken with little emotion, little despair, for they were merely the truth now. She could not beg or plead for Basim’s burial, if she lived, she would have done so by her own hands. However, the shiver that seized her now told her that it was a slim possibility she would remain.

“I don’t care what you do with my body. I will never be allowed to rejoin them regardless of how much soil is used to cover my face. So long as you bury him, you may throw me to the wolves.”

---

It was not entirely surprising that she rose the next day, but it was still a slight relief, when she knew it was not entirely guaranteed that she would do so. Nothing was guaranteed here, it seemed, a fact which Najla had learned all too quickly, though there was little she could do about it. Her ability to help came mostly in gathering firewood, and though she was able to help her brother forage for food from time to time, it seemed she was more than willing to leave that task to him. To come from a life of being served food on golden trays to snatching roots out of the ground at any chance was no small change, and one that she was perhaps not able to adjust to.

Still, it did not mean she would remain entirely useless, though her skills were few and easily replaced by another’s hands. This was only aided by the fact that she seemed reluctant to be near Ketill, if he remained at their ‘camp’, she’d have no issue with leaving the bare warmth of the shelter for any reason. Otherwise, Basim was responsible for much of which would have fallen to her.

Her anger with him faded bit by bit, but it still remained. Worse than that, there was a growing distrust building in her thoughts, one that was only fueled any time Basim and Ketill spoke to one another. Despite Ketill’s repeated attempts to take her life, Basim held little reluctance to speak to him, often piping up to ask questions about the land they were in and the people that populated it, though there were few nearby. When her thoughts were logical, she could understand these interactions for what they truly were. They needed Ketill to survive out here, nothing had been made clearer than that. Her brother’s curiosity didn’t harm their chances, if anything, it was certainly beneficial to learn about the land they hid in now. Yet, Najla would often find herself eyeing them suspiciously, as if waiting for the day Basim would choose to side with Ketill over her. For someone who valued their blood as highly as Najla, it was utterly irrational thinking, but the boredom of her new existence left her with little else to think on.

It was Basim that helped fill this boredom, and it was with him that she’d gone off into the woods again. He’d picked up on foraging somewhat quickly, and was eager to pass his newfound knowledge to his sister, who did not quite care to hear it. It was not as if they had much else to do, however, and so she had followed him into the forest, where there were slightly more options than the barren nothingness they’d built their shelter in.

<“It’d be harder to be lost in the desert, I think. At least there is no need to worry about water here, and there is some food, at least.”>

<“Food makes you thirstier.”> Came Najla’s response, spoken almost absent-mindedly as she inspected some of the mushrooms growing at the base of a tree, wondering if these were fit to eat or if they’d induce the same effects she’d seen at the world tree. It would not matter, they had nothing else to eat. <“Even if you have it, eating it without water present is little different than beckoning to death itself.”>

<“That only proves my point.”>

<“So it does.”> Najla stood up then, passing a handful of those mushrooms to Basim before she wiped her hands of them. The Sawarim obsession with cleanliness had not left her, and even in the midst of such aimless conversations, she often found herself craving the luxury of a bath.

<“But the cold and snow do quite the opposite, I believe. I’d rather die with my head buried in sand than snow.”>

<“May God will it so.”>

Basim’s remark was clearly teasing, and earned a grin from Najla as she turned to walk back towards the shelter, eager to be near the fire again. They continued to speak on this, a conversation that went nowhere, but was simply to warm the mind for the time being. Najla had grown quite bored already by the simplicity of their lifestyle here, survival left little room for the more enjoyable pursuits. Basim had adjusted more easily, curious even regarding such mere survival techniques, but the fact that he pressed with such conversations such as these indicated that he was feeling similarly. Still, Najla indulged him, despite the fact that she had not quite forgiven him, and they’d continue to speak on their path until noises forced her to halt in her tracks.

The sounds were familiar to Najla, even if the situation was not. The grunting of men, the clashing of weapons, sounds she’d heard often when she had gone to watch Harith or Ketill train. This was no training session however, that was entirely clear. They moved just close enough to see, only to halt. There was Ketill, she would have recognized him anywhere, but others as well. Men she did not recognize, men that were trying to kill him. Before she could do much of anything, Basim tried to step forwards, and Najla’s hand wrapped around his forearm now, pulling him back harshly with all the strength she could muster.

<“Don’t go! We should go-”>

<“He needs help!”>

<“What’re you going to do? Come on-”>

Her pleas were ignored as Basim ripped his arm out of her hand, running towards the scene quickly. Najla remained frozen, though luckily, she did not call after her brother. Perhaps it was the fear that froze her, but whatever the reason, the effect remained the same. The men struggling against each other would not know of his presence until it was too late. She could see a body laid out beside two struggling men, one she recognized on the ground, one she didn’t on top of him, ready to end it all.

Basim did not hesitate, though Najla wanted nothing more than for him to do so. He ran towards the pair, snatching an axe from the ground that had likely been dropped in the fight. Bridging the gap between him and the men fighting, Basim raised the axe, bringing it down into the man’s neck from behind.

He was not strong enough to drive it in too deeply, and yet, he did not quite have the strength to pull it out either. And so Basim simply released the axe, allowing the man to fall onto the ground, gurgling as blood pooled out of the wound on his neck. He did not even glance down to see if Ketill was okay, not until Najla’s voice sounded again. She had not hesitated now, and ran towards her brother, grasping his hands quickly.

<“Basim, my blood, what possessed you to do that?”>

Silence. Najla glanced down at the man, still in the throes of death, before up at her brother again.

<“That was the first man you killed, hm?”>

A nod answered her, at which he drew his hands from hers, though gently, clearly not intending to hurt her. Whatever he felt at the first death he’d enacted, it was not entirely apparent on his face. Still, Najla knew he was shaken. She had known her brother long enough, she could see that much in his eyes. Rather than push him, she turned her attention to Ketill, looking around at whatever remnants of the carnage he’d left.

“What happened?! Who were those men?”

They were huddled together like pigs in a pen, except perhaps this time it was even tighter. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and the warmth of the fire was minimal. At least Ketill had separated them from the cold floor using some leaves, but the entire experience was none the less not one he’d care to revisit over and over. He had just about fallen asleep when Najla’s voice came from behind him, where she’d been huddled with her brother. They both had kept their distance from each other as well as they could – neither of them seemed interested in being close to the other. A feat not so easily achieved as they’d hoped perhaps. She spoke of the assumptions she’d made along the way, the decision Basim had made not to tell her of his conversion, and his past as a Servant. None of those things interested or mattered at this point, yet she dwelled on them all the same. He snorted with a sound of disinterest, but kept his eyes open; if she’d thought he was asleep while she was speaking, perhaps she would similarly have convinced herself he made such a sound in his sleep.

He’d found that she was living in the past while he himself and Basim would manage to adapt. She, herself, would always continue living in the past, wondering why? Why did things turn out the way they did? It was a pitiful existence even if Ketill could move himself to understand it. Her line of questioning, similarly, he could understand. But it did little to calm his annoyance at her ignorance. He turned over, looking her directly in her eyes – his own were ice blue, as if the grey and bleak environment was making them extra blue. His eyes were wide open, staring directly into her like he’d done so many times before, with a different message this time. His voice came from the back of his throat, a slight hint of anger in them. ‘’I do not want your kingdom. I do not want things handed to me like some Sawarim prince or princess. That is not the way,’’ he told her, making sure she understood by speaking slowly, although that could just as easily be attributed to anger. ‘’If I wanted your kingdom I would take it, not beg for it.’’

He went silent then, pondering her question momentarily for himself. In the end, he shrugged. He did not care for her life, not any longer. He was satisfied in his thirst for justice. He knew that if she stayed with him, she was a prize that he could use to get what he wanted. If she left, she’d die in some corner of the world, under a tree starving or freezing to death. Both outcomes would satisfy him equally.

‘’The reason you live is yours, just as it was mine in the Sultanate. I did not survive all those years because you let me live. I survived because I set out to do so. Stop looking to me for guidance as if I have any interest in whether you live or die. I simply sought justice. That is no longer in my hand, but the Gods’ hands.’’

He rolled over and closed his eyes, not wanting to discuss her life with her any longer. He did not know her like that and – though it would be foolish to ignore what they’d been through together – they had always been on opposite ends, fighting against each other. Whether she was his slave, or he hers, they had never been on the same side. Even now there was an uneasy tension, wariness of the other. Basim stood in the middle. Perhaps a foolish man would’ve said he kept them together, but that was false. He just kept them from murdering one another. For him to care for her life now would be out of place and untruthful.

Her mentioning of Basim and burial caused Ketill to snort again, this time from a stifled laugh. ‘’You speak as if Basim is already dead. He will survive. He has his use yet, since he is smart and learns quickly. With proper guidance he can become a hunter. Not because he can draw a bow far back, but because he can learn the tracks of animals and lure them into a trap.’’ Momentarily his mind wondered, envisioning Basim standing in the bushes pulling back a bowstring, then moments later the thack and twang of an arrow hitting a deer in the neck. It seemed fitting. Then his mind wandered to Najla… nothing came to mind. ‘’When Basim dies I will be long dead myself,’’ he concluded, moving to pull the cloak further up over himself, covering his entire body then.

---

The following day, Ketill had sent Najla and Basim both off to their chores again, something that Basim seemed eager to do for the purpose of learning, and Najla for the purpose of escaping Ketill. He’d noticed how she looked at him, but could not bring himself to care. She knew how things were – it was stay and live, or leave and die. Despite her hatred for him, she seemed all too happy to use his strength and knowledge of the land to survive. Admittedly, it had been long since Ketill had lived here, and even then he had been but a child. There was very little he could remembered by instinct, and he re-learned the processes through trial and error.

But something that always stayed with him was the thrill of combat. As he was working on carving sharp spikes to set a trap with, he heard a twig break in the treeline behind their camp. Slowly his hand would reach for the axe, and pull it out to ready it. It couldn’t have been Najla or Basim, since they’d barely left camp. Adding to that, they went the other way, he was sure of that. Just as he was making ready to turn and swing, he heard quick footsteps, a yell, and then felt a sharp pain on the back of his head. He stumbled forwards and turned around raising a hand to the back of his head. When he pulled it back, he found himself lucky to not be bleeding. As he glanced up at the attacker, he saw a foursome of men, one of which had just swung at him with his fists from behind.

‘’You sad you’d kill me for this land?’’ one of the men said, and Ketill instantly recognized him as the man he’d spoken to a few days prior. ‘’I changed my mind! I don’t want you living on my land, or better yet, living at all!’’ he bellowed. Strong words for someone that needed to bring friends to kill someone, Ketill thought, but he wasn’t allowed to speak it, as the man that had hit him ran forwards swinging his arm forward wildly. The immense power that Ketill had shown in Broacien and the Sultanate were now meeting their match, for each man seemed to possess a strength similar to his own. Perhaps Najla would learn soon enough that these lands were full of Djinn’s.

Ketill reacted instinctively by stepping to the side, and swinging the axe in a circle behind him upwards, over his head and bringing it down on the man’s arm. It hit right on the bend of the elbow, cutting deep. It cut even deeper when Ketill pulled on the axe, forcing the metal of the axe to bite even deeper into the arm and cutting up to the bone. There was not much chance for the man to do anything other than drop to the ground and hold his arm as it dangled there, almost completely severed. It’d been a mistake for him to come here unarmed – but before Ketill could finish him, he was hit again, this time in the waist. One of the men had run forwards to help their friend, and tackled Ketill. They pummelled over the floor together and somehow the man ended up on top of Ketill, whose axe had fallen out of reach and whose sword was not really in a position to be draw from its sheath. ‘’That’s my brother!’’ the man bellowed as he started smashing his fists into Ketills’ face, who struggled desperately to reach for a weapon of sorts with one hand while the other tried to stop the barrage of fists.

As usual, time slowed down with every fist he received in his face, and for a moment Ketill was sure he’d die here. The two other men were dragging the wounded man away, in an attempt to save him, while this man on top of Ketill was busy pounding him into the dirt. Then suddenly a spray of blood splashed into Ketill’s face, whose eyes opened wide at the smell and feeling of blood dripping onto his face. His own? Couldn’t be. Slowly the man lost power and fell to the side, revealing Basim standing there. Ketill breathed in deep as his eyes flashed from left to right before he veered up right, expecting the other two men to still be there and attack them. But they were gone – the way they’d gone was visibly marked by their tracks and the pools of blood the wounded man was leaving behind.

Slowly Ketill would force himself up again, kicking the dying man in the side when he stabilized himself. To Najla’s question, he could not aswer, because he didn’t quite know the answer. ‘’One of them lives here, on these lands. Suppose he sees us as outlaws and fears us. The best way to solve that problem is to just get rid of us.’’ he stated though that might’ve been only half the story. He paused, looking at Basim for a moment, before continuing, ‘’might’ve just succeeded in that if you hadn’t done what you did.’’ Though he didn’t explicitly state his thanks, the tone in his voice brought it across none the less, and Basim nodded at him, still dazed somewhat by the events that had just transpired.

‘’So now what?’’ the boy slowly asked, not entirely sure what to do next. The gurgles of the dying man were coming to a close, indicating he was about to pass to the other world. Nobody seemed to pay him any mind.

Ketill snorted, and reached for the axe, pulling it out of the man’s neck letting the rest of the blood flow freely. There was a deep maroon red spot under his face now. ‘’I spoke to him before, and he knows where we stay. Nothing prevents him from coming back and finishing it while we sleep. A cowards’ way, but it solves his problem.’’ He looked around for a moment, half-expecting the men to return and kill them, but it was quiet. The distant chirp of a bird made the scene seem almost idyllic. By now, Ketill’s face was turning slightly black and purple from the heavy hits he’d received, and his nose had gone slightly crooked. It hurt like crazy, but Ketill’s body was filled with adrenaline and there was no way he’d feel it at that point. He gestured to the ground with the axe, pointing it at the trail of blood left behind when the men had dragged their friend off. ‘’Luckily they invited us to their home.’’ The message was clear – they’d have to get rid of the threat before the threat got rid of them. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that Ketill followed the trail of blood, on his own, though he left the two of them free to follow. The path through the forest was relatively easy to follow, even for an amateur tracker like Basim had become.

The end of the path was a clearing, a fair distance away from the camp they’d constructed, where smoke bellowed through the hole in the top of the roof. Ketill did not waste much of his time observing, and trudged through the half-frozen mud into the field of grass, where normally heath would grow. The left-overs of the purple bushes had slowly shrunk and were not a shell of their former beauty. It was a stark contrast to Ketill, who was marching towards the house, stumbling every now and then when he lost his footing in the heath, with an axe in hand.

The door slammed open, and immediately, Ketill was set upon, and forced to swing his axe. His assailant was one of the men from earlier, charging around with an axe of his own, though he lacked he professionalism that Ketill seemed to possess. Ketill grabbed his tunic and swung him through the door, causing the man to stumble around to the outside. The door slammed shut again then immediately opened when the man outside tried to get back in. He was met with the door slamming shut in his face again as Ketill brutally forced it into his face, not once, not twice, but three times. The sickening crunch of his skull collapsing under the weight of the door was enough to let Ketill know he was done. When he let go of the door, the man’s head was stuck between the wall and the door, and slowly slid down.

Behind him, the man that had been wounded before was laying on some furs, with the other man nearby, getting up quickly to defend himself. However, he was out of luck – there were no weapons nearby. Ketill approached quickly and with a ferocious kick hit the man straight in the chest, kicking him backwards into the nearby fire. The man began screaming loudly, his blood-chortling screams being rather… disturbing to anyone that hadn’t experienced such cries of death before. Najla, Basim and Ketill however would recognize some sort of similarity between this man, and the man he had burned in the Sawarim desert during Najla’s use of Ketill as her champion-slave.

Then was left the wounded man, who had gone unconscious from the pain it seemed. Ketill did not offer him a warriors death much the same as he had not offered Ketill a holmgang – a fair fight, one on one. So, Ketill raised his axe, and chopped the man’s chest open, creating a messy display of his remnant aggression. By the time he was done, it was hard to recognize the mans’ chest as ‘a man’s chest’. By then the screams of the man in the fire had stopped, and the smell of burnt flesh was becoming too much, so Ketill walked over and grabbed the man’s arm, which was still out of the flames. He dragged him out, and began hauling him to the door. Soon after, the other man followed. They were thrown in a shallow pit not far from the house, after which Ketill filled the pit with some of the left over wood from the houses’ wood storage. Soon after, a fire marked the grave of these men.

Benefit of the events that unfolded – they now had a shelter. The house was in a terrible state, admittedly, but would be easier to warm than some shelter. The house left much to be desired – it was small, poorly maintained, and offered barely enough space for a family. But, Ketill, Najla and Basim were not a family. There were enough corners to even offer Najla her own private space, though… ‘private’ meant little more than a wicker woven wall between her sleeping spot and the rest of the house. Any semblance of privacy it could not offer.

‘’Saves us the trouble of digging graves,’’ Ketill snorted as he watched over the fire, with Basim standing next to him. ‘’They did not deserve a bonfire. But with the ground this frozen already, it would make little sense to waste our energy digging deeper.’’ It was the most pragmatic approach – though admittedly, for a Sawarim it would be disgraceful no matter what the circumstances were given their attitudes to fire.

Ketill then turned around, looking towards the new home they’d claimed. It turned out Ketill would kill the man for his land in the end anyway. ‘’We should see what items they left that we can use,’’ he shortly stated, before the sound of the frozen ground crunching under his boots marked his departure. It was getting noticeably colder, and the ground only defrosted during the afternoons now, marking the beginning of the period where Ketill would have to start worrying about the warmth and food they’d need during the winter.

Inside, he was glad to find at least some basic cooking appliances. Pots, some mediocre pans, and the spit he could put them on over the fire. The interior of the house was simple – in the center was a large pit covered with stones, where wood could be put to light a fire. It was a large pit simply because the house would need a lot of warmth. On the sides of the fire would be some seating areas – mostly, furs laid on the ground, as apparently the former inhabitants didn’t care much for furniture. On the foremost quarter of the house, where the door to the entryway was, there would be some storage spots. A single large wooden bookcase styled shelf, and a small unlocked chest. From the wall hung a quiver made of pigskin, with several arrows in them, alongside a shortbow. Nothing overly expensive, nor was it well maintained, but when Ketill took it off and tested the bow a few times, it seemed to perform decent enough.

At the far end there would be place to sleep – it seemed to have been used for that before, as there were stacks of furs placed around there. To appease Najla and Basim, he’d create a wicker woven wall later – it was a labour intensive job during winter, when there wouldn’t be enough good wood around to make it anyway. For now they’d have to do with sleeping in the open with little privacy at all. When he’d found Najla, he’d simply order her to work again – almost as if nothing had happened. ‘’Go search the house and see what you find, then get started on cooking. Now that we’ve a pot, you can create something worthwhile and stop complaining about the food we got you.’’ He headed to the door, and grabbed the quiver, slung it over his shoulder and then took the shortbow. His sword sheath came off, and he hung his sword from the wall where the bow had hung before. He already seemed to have made himself the master of this humble abode. ‘’Finally you can make yourself useful and add some worth to this home,’’ he grumbled afterwards, within earshot of Najla. Obviously he didn’t care if she heard. He raised his voice again to ensure that she got the next part, however. ‘’If you see Basim, tell him to take my axe and to refill the stack of wood next to the fire. Unless you’d like to freeze to death!’’

And with that, he left. He’d disappear for several hours on end, almost causing Basim to think Ketill had just left the area all together and left them to die. But, ultimately, Ketill did return. In place of his sword, he had now hung several dead rabbits from his leather belt, as well as a dead duck, which was a worthy bounty at least. He put the bow and quiver back where they belonged, then untied the rabbits and duck from his belt. He held them up in the air by the strings he’d used to tie them, then spoke up to Basim. ‘’Come, I’ll show you how to skin them.’’ Najla was left on her own, as Basim was more than eager to learn how to do such tasks, which would’ve normally been far below a prince like him, but were now a key to survival.

Using a very sharp rock he’d found, Ketill would open the carcass and strip the bodies of their fur carefully – any mistakes he made could harm the quality of the fur. Once he was confident that Basim had understood, he handed off the stone and let him do it to the other rabbit while Ketill preoccupied himself with plucking the duck. Althoug Basim made some mistakes, it wasn’t anything too bad. Soon enough Ketill could take the boy hunting, and ensure that he’d provide even more of an addition to their mutual survival. Najla, on the other hand, she had yet to prove her value in even the smallest amount.

When they were done, Ketill took all the items, including the bones, and took them inside. Without much subtleness he dropped the meat next to Najla, and took the rest to the far end of the house. He’d seat himself upon his furs – his throne so to say, and began preparing the furs. They’d need to be cleaned before they could be used, which was not going to take too long given their size. The bones, similarly, would be used for that process, by making a few of them into needles. It was an arduous task that took a large amount of time, given Ketill lacked the finesse and sleight of hand to work with his hands on such small bones. Normally, it was something left to the women, with their slender hands and good eye for detail. Now, it was left to Ketill, some brute whose hands were used to cleaving men in half and burning faces off. It would’ve been humorous hadn’t their survival depended on it.

By the time he was finished, it would be late in the evening. With a sigh he placed the items down besides him, looking over to the fire where Najla presumably would still be. ‘’Is the food ready yet?’’ he grumbled, evidently not satisfied by her performance as of yet.

With the furs he’d prepare, he intended to create some mitts for the winter, so he could at least go out and do things while they waited for the winter to pass – not for too long, but perhaps to go out and check some animal traps. But for that they’d need to actually reach the winter alive, which would become a problem if Najla didn’t do as she was told.

---

A week later, the first snow plummeted from the sky. From one day to the other, the landscape was suddenly white, a thin layer for now. It was a good thing, too, since Ketill had found tracks of a large stag, and Basim had told him that he’d found tracks while looking for extra food. For the most part Ketill had let Basim do his own thing – he seemed preoccupied by learning, which was good, but also by being useful. The boy didn’t seem to be capable of sitting still in an environment like this, where there was always something to do. With his slender and agile fingers, he’d even prepared more needles out of the left over bones, and even spun some wire from plant fibres. Najla on the other hand seemed content to follow her old work flow – which meant to say, barely any at all. She’d mucked around, grumbled whenever she was told to do something, and Ketill was convinced at some point she was doing the jobs she did do so poorly in hopes that Ketill wouldn’t ask her to do those jobs again. It was bound to come to a heated discussion at least some times in the future.

However, with the snow, Ketill almost seemed happy to go out – it must’ve been strange, and Basim questioned him momentarily. Ketill had woken early, and woken up Basim soon after, when the sun had barely reached the horizon yet. When Ketill had told him to prepare his cloak to go out, Basim retorted. ‘’It is much too cold for that, in the snow,’’ he’d replied to which Ketill only snorted.

‘’Yes, but those tracks will be easier to follow in the snow.’’

Basim’s eyes had widened and suddenly he understood why Ketill had been so excited. Basim hurried to Najla, who he also woke. ‘’Najla, get ready, we’re going out,’’ he said to her in a hushed tone. Although Ketill wasn’t too excited about her coming along, he didn’t object, since it was better than having her lay around here all day waiting for him and Basim to come back so she could complain to them about the cold some more.

Within a few minutes Basim and Ketill were ready, and waited for Najla only momentarily before trekking out. The snow was a hindrance, but only slightly so. You had to lift your feet a bit more to move as quickly as you would without snow, so Basim trudged along rather amateurishly. Najla, most likely, would suffer a similar fate.

The cold was biting, but not as bad as it would be in a months’ time. Ketill didn’t seem to mind – had adapted fast, it seemed – Basim however was struggling, and it didn’t take long before his teeth began to clatter. The cloak was enough to keep his body warm, but everything else was cold.

It didn’t take long for the trio to find the tracks. Ketill would squat down and look at them more closely, before informing Basim. ‘’Three deer and a large stag – see the prints, three sets of smaller ones, so those must be deer. Then, a larger ones that reach deeper and are larger in size – a stag.’’ Basim nodded, understanding his reasoning quickly, and before they knew it they were trailing the tracks.

When the animals crossed a small stream of water, they nearly lost the tracks, but after some light searching found it again. It didn’t take long before they heard the groans of the stag in the distance, which caused Ketill to gesture for the two of his companions to squat down low. Off in the distance, in a smaller clearing, the stag was bent over with his head, eating some shrubbery now that it had the chance. They were lucky – the wind was coming towards them, so the stag wouldn’t be alerted to them. The three, smaller deer were standing around as well, counting on the stag to alert them if there was danger nearby.

The process of hunting, however, was much more refined than running up and stabbing or shooting the animal to death. Especially with the low quality arrows Ketill had found in the quiver – which were hand made with stones, instead of metal tips.

Ketill pulled off his mitts of rabbit fur and handed them off to Najla, who was besides him. He didn’t speak to her, but rather shoved it into her hands while preparing his bow.

Slowly Ketill veered upwards and nocked an arrow, breathing deeply as he pulled the string. The white fog coming out of his mouth slowed down and became stronger, letting Najla and Basim know how focused he was, to the point where he kept his breath under control while aiming. Then, suddenly, the thwang of the string of the bow alerted them to the arrow flying off. It struck the stag – perfectly in it’s chest. He wasn’t sure how accurate he had hit, but the stag kicked it’s legs up in surprise, it’s heart pumping faster from the sudden attack only shortening the time it would have before it’d fall over and die. The deer promptly raised their heads and made efforts to run away, and Ketill was quick to nock another arrow and let fly, though the lack of time to aim was visible in the results. As the deer rushed into the nearby bushes, the arrow flew towards those same bushes. He’d have to see whether he’d hit or not when they went to get the stag. The stag reared wildly, bucking as if it were a horse – perhaps a familiar sight for Najla and Basim – flailing it’s body seemingly not understanding what had happened or why its’ body wasn’t cooperating. ‘’Thank you, Audrun,’’ Ketill whispered to himself, putting the bow over his shoulders and running to the stag, that had fallen over and was kicking wildly.

Normally, he’d have finished it with a dagger, but he did not possess the luxury of having one. He was forced to let it die on its’ own. ‘’Wait here, and stay away from it. It can still kick hard, even on the ground, like a horse,’’ he urged Najla and Basim, while he ran off into the distance to check whether the other arrow had hit. Unluckily, he found the arrow he’d shot not far behind the bushes, next to a large rock. The arrow was broken in half, unusable now. Ketill presumed it must’ve hit the rock, and was unable to take the force. A shame – getting a stag and deer would’ve fed them for most of the winter, he presumed.

As he came back, the stag would’ve lost its’ life, the blood gushing from its wound in its chest. It seemed to have been a perfect shot – perhaps guided by the god of hunt himself – and had hit the stag right in the heart, causing it to bleed out faster and faster the more it’s heart pumped, which was a given with the adrenaline of being attacked rushing through it.

Rather than skin it on the spot, they’d have to carry it back. Before they did so, Ketill took a stick and drew a rune in the ground, then cupped his hands near the wound and took some of the stags’ blood, dripping it over the rune as a sign of thanks to the god. ‘’We’ll sacrifice some of the meat when we get back home,’’ he informed them, seemingly for no reason. He got up, took the stag by its’ front legs and waited for Basim to pick up the hind legs. The trek home took even longer than the trek to the position they’d found the stag in – the creature was big and fat, and heavy as a result, though this temporary pain was relieved at the thought of the amount of meat they’d be able to get off of it. At least, Ketill thought so, Basim seemed mostly amused by the spectacle of hunt, which was so different from the ‘hunt’ at home.

When they got back, the same events unfolded – Najla was left alone, since Ketill presumed she didn’t have an interest in learning to skin and butcher animals. Basim was left to help Ketill skin the stag, which was a massive tag given its’ size, and Ketill had every intent to keep the animals fur, either to make leather or craft other clothing. Basim and Najla were still dressed in whatever had remained from their ‘royal’ clothing, which was more fit for a desert than a winter in the north. The cloaks offered them help, but not much beyond that. Ketill himself was dressed in the rags of a slave, but his body was far more resistant to the cold due to the sheer amount of weight he possessed paired with his muscle. So, new clothing was a must. They’d have to make a decision – use some of the furs they slept on to make clothing, or use them for cover at night.

An obvious choice to Ketill. But Najla and Basim were likely not used to making such decisions.

When Ketill and Basim were done with butchering the animal, they had a store for the winter – or something at least. They’d need to supplement it still, but with some preparation and smoke they could use this meat throughout the winter. The bones were set aside for now, as there was no direct need for them, while the fur was cleaned by Ketill himself. A medium piece of meat was left out on a stone somewhere as a sacrifice to the gods. Hopefully, that meant they’d be lucky again next time.

---

The confrontation between Ketill and Najla had been expected for a few days now, but it wasn’t until Ketill ordered her to stop laying on her ‘bed’ and start cooking did he catch a word she’d probably not intended for him to hear. In Sawarimic, he recognized the word as ‘dog.’ Rather than let it slip, like he’d done before, the fury in him rose and he found himself standing before her in an instant, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her halfway upright, forcing her to sit on her knees. ‘’I feed you and this is how you thank me?’’ he said to her, shaking her head lightly by the hairs. Basim had gone out to collect wood and more roots, to supplement the food storage, which was perhaps unlucky for Najla, though they both knew Basim wouldn’t have managed to deal with Ketill.

‘’If you are so eager to do nothing, contribute nothing, and then insult me, perhaps you’d be better off alone, outside,’’ he continued, pausing momentarily. Before she could react he’d spat her in her face, and pulled her towards him further. ‘’I should just take you, force myself upon you and then slit your throat, but you are even below that now.’’

With those words said, he’d begin dragging her towards the doorway, his fingers tangling themselves into her hair. If she was fast enough, she’d manage to grab her cloak as a last resort, but that’d require her to know what he was going to do. He moved fast enough to where she would be left dragging behind him, attempting to keep walking alongside him yet failing to do so. With a wide gesture he opened the door and forced her outside, continuing to drag her outside towards the edge of the forest. Once there, he’d thrust her forwards, into the forest edge. ‘’Go then!’’ he yelled, giving her a heavy shove, forcing her to fall flat out into the snow – a cold wake up to the reality of the situation. ‘’If you want to die so bad, then go ahead. But you won’t drag me or your brother with you.’’

And then he returned to the house – it was quite evident she wasn’t welcome back, at least not tonight. Ketill was a changed person, in large part due to her, and it was now that she was reaping the fruits of that. She was left outside, in the cold on her own. And to make matters worse, when the door fell shut, the snow picked up again.

Whatever answer she’d been hoping to hear from Ketill, that had not been it. She’d wanted to ask him why he hadn’t told her the men had approached before, but that was a question answered before it left her lips. His next words however, would bring many more, though she would not speak those either. Rather, she watched Ketill walk off after the trail of blood, following some ways behind him. It seemed neither Najla nor Basim were eager to be close to Ketill when the next events occurred, that gruesome trail of blood was enough of a clue as to what happened.

It was for this reason that she paused at the edge of the clearing, standing between the trees as she watched Ketill move forwards through the mud and grass. There was no need to edge closer, nor did she hold a desire to see firsthand what would happen. Violence no longer turned her stomach, and Basim seemed to have grown accustomed to it, or at least more so than before, but she did not want to see what would happen if he lost. They’d have to flee into the forest then, or risk being captured by the very men that killed him. Whatever the outcome, it was better to watch and know now, than to have to guess at it for fear the answer would turn her stomach.

It seemed Ketill would find a way to turn their stomachs regardless. She watched in horror as the man was thrust through the door, eyes wide as it slammed into his face, again and again, until he slumped down into a bloody heap. Then, the door shut, and they were left to guess once more. Not for more than a moment however, for a familiar sound sent goosebumps over her skin. She’d heard those screams before. Najla prayed they weren’t Ketills.

She should have known. She should have known he wouldn’t lose, that it would end with corpse after corpse being dragged out of the house, into a pit that Ketill then piled with wood. A distasteful burial, there was no doubt about that. Yet, neither Najla nor Basim complained. Basim perhaps realized the reality of the situation, that taking the time to crack through the snow and ice in order to bury such men was a waste of time. Najla simply didn’t care, nor would she pretend to. As distasteful as it was, she had no part to play in it, and thus, the blame would not be on her. Besides, she would not stick around long enough to think on it, for the smell of burning flesh quickly grew to be too much for her senses. The familiarity was disturbing to her senses, though she’d find their new shelter to be well worth it. Basim stayed out a little longer, but Najla went into the house quite quickly, eager to get out of the cold and away from that horrid smell.

The house wasn’t much, but Najla seemed to take comfort in it nonetheless, quickly stripping herself of the cloak for what felt like the first time in ages. She would never find a home that quite compared to that which she had grown used to, but after being made to sleep in that small shelter, with only branches to block out the cold and leaves to block out the discomfort, it seemed this was plenty. Najla took a seat upon the stack of furs, but was barely given time to enjoy this new comfort before Ketill’s voice cut through the newfound peace, as ill-gotten as it was.

The sound of his command immensely irritating, and yet, she said nothing, replying only with a frown. He’d ordered her to start cooking, assuming that she’d have any clue as to how to do it. Or more likely, expecting that she would at least try, knowing she’d likely fail regardless. Ketill knew quite well that she held no skill or knowledge of cooking, and so she would not seek to inform him of this as he left, but remained seated. She would not move, not until Basim finally entered the house, looking around as he too, stripped off his cloak.

<“Where did Ketill go?”>

Najla’s shrug answered him, though she finally pushed herself to stand, walking around the small house. There was not much to find, nor would she know what to do with what she found, but she would occupy herself by searching regardless.

<“He told me to tell you to get firewood, so I assume he didn’t go to do that.”>

<“Then where?”>

<“Ya Sawarim, how would I know? Probably hoping he’ll find another one to finish off.”> She seemed distracted as she tossed out the words, looking around the shelter for anything to throw into that pot. She was not quite sure how she’d manage, but it seemed that if she did not do it, it would not be done, and Najla was not quite eager to feast on roots again. <“I don’t know why he left this to me, he knows full well I don’t know how to do it.”>

Basim’s grin answered her, and he moved to pick up Ketill’s axe, barely having given himself time to look around the house before he put his cloak back on, ready to go outside once more.

<“I’ll trade if you want to chop firewood.”>

<“We’d be cold and hungry then. Hurry, please, I’d love a fire now.”>

By the time Ketill had returned, Najla seemed quite excited at the prospect of eating meat, anything other than the stale roots they’d been eating on their travels here, but far less so when it was unceremoniously dumped beside her. Clearly, she had little idea on what to do with it, but she did not need to tell him that. It was a process made simple by her lack of experience, throw everything that seemed edible together and hope that she’d cooked it. It was boring, and the smell entirely unappetizing, a task that was made no better when Ketill spoke up late in the evening.

“Perhaps.” It was an unsatisfactory answer to an unsatisfactory performance, but she did not seem to care in the slightest. “I would not know.”

---

It seemed that attitude would continue as the days continued. Najla did not seem to care how well she completed her tasks, regardless of how they affected her. It didn’t seem to matter that she would go hungry for longer if she didn’t get up and get cooking, nor did she care that Ketill and Basim would have to wait as well. It didn’t seem like much of anything mattered to her, not here. While Basim had been able to adjust to the new living conditions, finding some sort of relief in occupying himself, Najla had been quite the opposite. Rather, she was willing to live within her memories, as if she found more comfort in dealing with her grief than adjusting to the new life ahead of her.

Beyond that, in her mind, she was still a sultana. Basim had always been less comfortable with the airs of royalty than she had been, even as a prince, she’d often have to remind him to hold himself higher, above those he was meant to rule. On the other hand, Najla had groomed herself into those attitudes easily, and found them difficult to release now, especially when the orders were given by a man who had once been her slave. It was easier to follow the patterns she was used to, and so when Basim shook her awake early one morning, Najla barely opened her eyes, speaking even as she shoved his hand away.

<“Leave me alone, I don’t want to.”>

<“Don’t be lazy, come on.”>

It didn’t take much more urging from Basim, for Najla seemed more annoyed at his words than at the fact that he’d woken her up. She finally pushed herself out of the bed, retrieving her cloak and joining the waiting men before they took off. Not a word was spoken to Ketill, and he wouldn’t talk to her either, precisely how both of them seemed to want it. Truthfully, Najla would have preferred to have been left at home, where he wouldn’t be at all, but refusing her brother was far more difficult than ignoring Ketill’s orders.

Despite her reluctance, some of the details of the hunt were interesting. It was no joy to force herself through the snow, something she held no skill in, and the cold was something she would never adapt to. Najla missed sweating under the desert sun, would kill to feel a warm breeze on her skin again, but there was no chance for such daydreams out here. Rather, she’d try to keep her attention on the information Ketill was giving Basim, as if that would distract her from the cold.

It was not the sort of hunting she was used to, not that that had ever been a hobby allowed to her before. She’d heard stories of it quite frequently from her brothers and cousins, boasts about the animals they’d set free and chase, squabbles about whose arrow it had been that caught them, but that was all it was. Boasts, stories, games they’d play to pass the time and then forget about until they were bored again. This upped the stakes, a wrong move meant they’d have to feed off of roots and rabbits throughout the cold winter, a ‘win’ meant they’d keep their bellies full until the next one. It made it more enjoyable, in some way, though only as a spectator. It would not be quite as fun if she had been the one with a bow in her hand, forced to learn what she was doing in the hopes of a meal. But in the hands of someone more capable, it felt more like the sport she was used to hearing about.

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t object when Ketill shoved the gloves into her hands, though it was far more likely she simply didn’t want to scare off a chance for a decent meal. She did take her eyes off the stag to glare at him, but there was nothing to gain from that, for his attention was on the bow. It was an almost artistic process, enjoyable to watch, though her attention was quickly diverted to the stag as the arrow pierced its chest. The death was a far more familiar process than the act of the killing itself, and so it did not keep Najla’s attention for long. What was far more interesting was the process Ketill followed after, the rune he drew, the way he dripped the blood over it and the instruction he gave as to sacrificing the meat. She knew little of his life, and it was interesting to consider where he might have picked up such habits, for she had seen no one teach him since they’d arrived here. She said nothing of it as Basim and Ketill dragged the stag back, while Najla merely walked behind them, perfectly happy to help. However, once Ketill had left out a piece of meat for his Gods, Basim finally commented on it, prompting her first response as to the whole situation.

<“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? They thank their gods the same way we do, but not as if they were blessings. He told me that they don’t have blessings-”>

<“It’s a waste. What sort of God needs a mans hand to feed him?”>

---

The days and nights had passed in an agonizingly slow manner, and Najla found that there was no relief whether it was light or dark outside, for she was rarely free of Ketill’s presence. Those moments he left, to do whatever tasks needed to be done outside the house, those were brief moments of peace, but also cut with boredom. Perhaps, if she had been as eager as her brother to learn, it would not have been so achingly dull, but her pride kept her from most of it. Perhaps not consciously, but it felt beneath her, even now, to cook for a man she’d use to own. Even when she managed to pull herself up and do so, her skill seemed to match her motivation, and the process of trial and error was far less enjoyable to her. She’d never had to complete such tasks before, not even when she was a slave in Broacien, for then, her life had namely consisted of scrubbing castle floors and enduring heated stares. Cooking was a skill she’d largely ignored before, and so they were made to suffer through many overcooked meats before she slowly began to get the hang of it. Still, it did not make it any more enjoyable.

Thus, it was particularly aggravating to hear Ketill order her out of her bed to begin cooking. Najla had grown sick of his tone already, little different than how he’d spoken to her in the Sultanate, but it felt different when they were not merely empty words.

<“Stupid dog.”>

It had not been intended for Ketill’s ears, a muttered complaint born out of frustration. She would not have even realized that he’d heard it, if it hadn’t been for the sounds of the footsteps coming towards her, and suddenly, the feeling of a hand wrapping in her hair. A sensation she remembered from long before this day, and one she’d hoped never to feel again. The force yanked her to her knees, and Najla barely stifled a whimper as she found herself forced to look up at Ketill, his hand gripped tightly in her hair. She reached a hand up to his wrist, as if that would help ease his grip, though it was just as fruitless as she would have imagined.

Suddenly, she felt him spit in her face, a sensation that would have been humiliating enough in itself, though he would not allow it to be so. Rather, he yanked her even closer to him, and Najla was forced to stare into his eyes as he told her what he should do with her, a threat that sent her stomach sinking to her feet. She was given no time to dwell on the likelihood of its occurrence, for he was quick to yank her up to her feet, dragging her after him.

Najla was forced to follow, dragged behind him by his tight grip in her hair. It would have been painful, but the fear of what was coming next was overwhelming. She did not reach for her cloak, perhaps she would have, if she could have guessed what Ketill meant to do with her, but she found no such luck. Rather, she scurried behind him, forced to follow as he swung the door open, the cold suddenly blasting into the house.

“Ketill, stop-“

Whether her words would have turned into a plea or an insult, there was no chance for her to speak them, for soon, Ketill had pulled her along to the edge of the forest. Her words were cut off with a heavy shove, and she fell harshly into the snow, unable to catch herself from the sheer force behind his push. His words rang in her ears cruelly, as she pushed herself to sit up in the snow, spitting out a mouthful of it.

“I did not ask to die here! You dragged me here to sacrifice, you-“ The slam of a door answered her, and her words quickly shifted to her mother tongue, a newfound bravery in them now that Ketill was no longer dragging her behind him. <“Fucking brute! Son of a thousand whores!”>

Only the wind answered her. Najla reached up and touched the back of her head gently, feeling at where he’d gripped her hair to drag her along. It ached, but that was a small concern now, an irrelevant matter against the rising snow. She pushed herself to stand now, not because she was eager to move about after the incident, but because sitting in the cold in such rags would be unbearable for any longer. She’d truly been thrown out to die. Without a cloak, food, or the barest knowledge of the land, Najla had little choice but to wander about in search of a corner to die in. The realization hit her harder than Ketill ever could, and she turned away from the house now, trying to consider her options.

She could try and return now, but Ketill would never allow her back in. Even if he would, even if she could have spit out an apology and tried to make herself of use, she could not forget his words. She was even beneath being forced upon, only to be killed after. Perhaps this, to die out in the wilderness was a kinder fate than to return, to give him the chance to do what he threatened. Najla began to walk deeper into the woods then, wondering just what came next. What would Basim do, when he returned to find her gone? She prayed that he’d stay, that he wouldn’t try to brave the snow for her. For now, all she could do was keep walking, in the hopes that she would stay somewhat warm that way.

It didn’t work. Najla hadn’t expected it to. Rather, she trudged through the snow as best as she could, her teeth clattering, especially now that she had little to cover herself with. She’d die out here, that much was quite clear, a death worse than being sold back to the Sultanate and the clutches of her husband. Had she escaped all that just to die like a dog kicked out in the wilderness? If she had not been so cold, perhaps the humiliation of that knowledge would have sunk in farther, but for now, Najla could think only of how to grow warmer. She’d been able to collect firewood before, one of the few tasks she’d actually taken upon herself from time to time, and even if she failed, it would be better to die like that than sitting under a tree, waiting for the frost to catch up to her.

She would try, for some time, but starting a fire quickly proved to be a fruitless endeavor, despite how badly Najla craved the warmth. She could find few dry branches in the heavy snow, and knew that even if she had managed to collect enough, she would have to figure out how to start the fire itself. With a resigned sigh, Najla sat at the base of a tree, shivering as she watched the snow fall. How low could one sink? Najla had believed she knew the answer to that question, that she had faced it and risen once more, but nothing could match this humiliation now. She’d felt cruel hands upon her before, but to be left out in the snow like an abandoned child was pitiful. The only thing worse would be to stand and return now, to face the man who’d tossed her out and ask for a place in the home again. His home. He’d made that quite clear now.

Suddenly, the sound of a call startled her. It was somewhat distant, but she could still hear who they were calling for, the voice itself was still recognizable. Without hesitation, she pushed her freezing fingers into the cold snow, only to push herself up towards the voice. It called again, but this time, she responded, weaving her way through the trees, until she came face to face with her brother.

<“Basim, what are you doing here, you shouldn’t-“>

He did not let her finish speaking, but was quick to bridge the distance between them, pulling her in tightly. Whether out of relief or because he could see that she was freezing, Najla did not know, but he was quick to release her, passing her the cloak he’d brought her as he spoke.

<“You didn’t honestly believe I would leave you to freeze out here on your own, did you?”>

<“Is it better to freeze together?”>

<“We don’t have to. I’ve picked up some skills, maybe there’s a chance.”>

<“Ya Sawarim, my blood, you know that’s not true. Go back-“>

<“No.”>

Najla looked up at him with a startled expression, as if she was seeing a new man in her brother’s eyes. He’d proven a new sort of strength to her in these travels, one she had never known he could possess. It had rarely been enough to silence her before, but she could sense now that her words wouldn’t ever be enough to change his mind. It was an attitude she’d likened to Harith before, or even her father, but she could see neither of them in his gaze now. His determination was his own.

<“Come on. I’ll need to find a better shelter than this. Ketill’s not going to let you back in there, and I’m not going without you.”>

There was a silence again, and Najla kept her eyes on Basim, studying him with worry. He reached out a hand to her, as if trying to pull her along, but she did not take it. Clearly, whatever Basim knew of the confrontation between her and Ketill, he did not believe it could be resolved. Worse, Najla realized he would not speak the words she was waiting for him to say, to tell her that she’d been little more than a burden in their time in the north. She did not need him to say it, his words were careful indicators of his thoughts. I’ve picked up some skills, I’ll need to find a better shelter, she had no place to play in those labors. And yet, it didn’t seem to matter to him. He was still a Sawarim, after all, and she was still his blood. The thought pushed a deep sense of shame into Najla’s heart, a sensation she had not known for some time.

<“Let’s go back.”>

<“Didn’t you just hear me? Ketill’s not going to let you back.”>

<“I’m not going to bury my head in the snow without trying.”>

<“You aren’t worried? What if he-“>

Basim trailed off then, unable to speak the words. However much he’d grown, he was yet unable to look his sister in the eye and imagine what harm could come to her, just as she was unable to allow her brother to freeze to death on her account. They’d have to make difficult choices for the other, and though Najla did not wish to swallow her pride, that was not the greatest fear she held now. Ketill’s threat rang clearly in her ears, reminding her of just what he could do to her, what he might have done if he did not hate her so thoroughly. Regardless, she shook her head, hoping to wipe away Basim’s concerns, even if she could not do the same for herself.

<“He won’t. If he wanted to kill me, he’d let the snow do it, he’s proven that already.”>

It did not take much more to convince Basim, for he did not seem too intent on wandering off into the cold, despite how he’d spoken before. Perhaps he’d just been trying to ease her fears then, just as she was now, though they were both stubbornly throwing themselves into danger. Najla did not speak much on the walk back, still shivering from her time left out in the cold, despite the cloak that Basim had been smart enough to bring her. More than that, she was thinking carefully on the words she’d have to speak soon, ones she’d never believed she’d have to say.

When they finally arrived, it seemed whatever hesitation Basim had held regarding their return had faded, and he was quite eager to get her inside the house, beside a fire. He knocked on the door once, standing slightly in front of Najla, as if hoping to protect her from Ketill. Perhaps a subconscious reaction, but Najla had noticed, and once Ketill would open the door, she would be quick to remove that barrier.

<“Go inside.”>

Basim frowned in surprise, not yet moving. He seemed reluctant to leave her with Ketill, and Najla could not blame him for that. However, more than anything, she did not want him to hear the words. It was not as if Ketill would invite her into the house to speak with him in private, and Najla was prepared to endure the cold a little longer if it meant Basim would not have to hear her words.

<“Please? This needs to be done in private. Trust that I’ll be there soon.”>

<“Fine. But if you’re not, I’m coming out again.”>

Perhaps it was the sound of the word ‘please’, one her brother did not hear from her often, that convinced him. Perhaps it was the cold, his faith in her, whatever it was, he nodded, moving inside the house. When the door closed after him, Najla looked up at Ketill, hesitating for a moment before the sharp cold reminded her to hurry. She did not know quite what to say to him, he wasn’t the sort of man to hope for blind apologies, she knew that well. For Ketill’s part, he’d learned all too well that she was willing to manipulate her words based on whatever benefit she could imagine from them, and it would take a massive effort on her part to convince him otherwise. Her only other option would be excruciating. He’d spit in her face, dragged her out into the cold, and here she was, standing before him, begging for a place in his home. It was easier not to think on it, to allow the cold to push her into speaking the words instead.

“It wasn’t right to call you a dog. It’s not right to make Basim suffer for it, no matter how set he is on doing so. I know I haven’t been much help but-“

The words were clearly difficult to choke out. It was a small relief that Basim had gone inside, though not as great of a relief as she’d hoped. Even now, as she looked up at Ketill, she could feel that fear settle in her stomach. More than anyone, Najla knew just what he was capable of. She had seen it, had felt only a small portion of the anger he held towards her, and was not quite willing to see the rest. He was not willing to show her either, it seemed, for there had been little to stop him from enacting his threats now. She would not want to see them enacted either, the threat he’d spat in her face would have been enough to chill her regardless of her time out in the cold.

“I will be. I’ll learn, for his sake.”

She clutched the cloak around her tightly as she waited for Ketill to accept, or to endure whatever harsh words he’d want to throw her way now. It was clear that she was trying to apologize without saying the words, believing Ketill would not care for an apology so much as a promise to be useful in the future. She would only spit out a true apology if prompted, though it would hurt her pride to do so. However, she would say nothing more, not until Ketill would move to open the door and allow her in, out of the cold. Then, her hand shot out, covering the door, as if that would stop him from opening it. Her strength would not be enough, but whatever words she wished to speak to him now, she clearly intended for them to be spoken in private. That much could be seen in her hand, blistered and red from the cold, though it rested on the door, blocking her path to whatever relief she’d find in the house. Her voice was hushed now, as if she believed Basim would be waiting behind the door, to hear if his sister would be allowed in. She would have been, if she was him.

“To suffer this indignity is… I can do it. But what you threatened, I will never. Not for my life, not for my blood. I am not a fool to believe I can stop you, I just ask that you slit my throat before. Not after.”

---

Regardless of how Najla felt about the incident, it did seem to have a marked impact, and she stayed true to her words. After all, she had no choice, not when Ketill had made it quite clear that any other option would end with her left out in the snow to die. Still, her wariness of Ketill had only increased, and though she would not mutter insults at him any longer, there was no hiding the way she looked at him. It wasn’t as if it bothered him regardless, both seemed content to stay away from the other as much as they possibly could. It was near impossible, when the cold had blocked them in their home this way, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t try.

In that sense, she found a strange comfort in doing some sort of work. Her pride had already been shattered by the way he’d treated her, so there was little to stop her from actually working now. It was difficult to hold the pretense of being above such work after an incident like that. Besides, it provided a welcome distraction from time to time, something to focus on besides the cold outside and the events that had brought her here to endure it. There was no marked increase in her abilities, especially since she had no one to learn from regarding the tasks that had been dealt to her. It would have been a blessing in that sense to have another woman in the house, one who understood cooking beyond throwing items in a pot together, one who could have taught her how to sew, but that was a luxury she would not have had now. Still, she did what she could, without complaint this time, and would even seek to learn more from time to time, an endeavor that clearly surprised her brother.

Najla sat before the fire, her eyes watching her brother as he twisted the plant fibers in his hands, gnarling them together into a tight rope. He seemed to enjoy these tasks, mostly because they’d offer him something to do, but seemed even more eager once his sister spoke up to him.

<“Show me how to do that.”>

He looked up at her with a frown, though there was no anger in his expression. He simply seemed confused, but when she beckoned for him to move closer, he did not hesitate, picking up the fibers and moving to sit beside her, showing her how to twist them together in a rope. Basim clearly seemed to enjoy teaching Najla something new, something he’d rarely had a chance to do before, when their only necessary skills had those that brought them power or pride. It was not as entertaining for Najla to learn these sort of survival skills, but there was little else to do here. She would follow his motions, but as she stretched her hand out, a sudden pain flitted through it, one that elicited a small noise from her, more out of surprise than the pain itself.

<“Still?”>

Najla shook her head at Basim’s question, though she set the fibers down onto her lap as she examined the scars on her hand. It had healed to where she could perform most tasks, but she often had to remind herself that the full range of motion had been taken from her, and that stretching her hand in such a manner would only bring pain. Still, she would not allow Basim to worry for long, for she was quick to snatch the fibers again.

<“Don’t worry about it. Show me how to twist it again, I can’t seem to get it.”>

<“It’s not that hard.”>

<“Maybe for you.”>

<“You’ve memorized hundreds of prayers but twisting some plants together is too complicated?”>

<“Shut up.”>

Najla’s reply was not harsh, and a hint of a smile was apparent in her expression now, the first one since she’d been allowed to enter again. Basim did not mean these words harshly, he never did, the patient way he waited as she tried again was enough to prove that. It was simply how he was used to interacting with her, without having to worry about hurting her feelings or bringing up painful memories.

<“See, you’ve got it. I told you it’s not that hard.”>

<“Really, don’t you ever get tired of talking?”>

<“It’s the only way to stay warm here.”>

His comment elicited a laugh from her, though it was cut short by a sudden pounding on the door. Najla’s eyes widened at the noise, and she turned to look around the house, as if counting who was there. All of them were inside, there was no one of them left to knock. Basim seemed startled too, but it was Najla that stood, looking back at Ketill, for it was clear she expected him to be the one to open the door. She would not be the one to do it.

“I did not think anyone else lived here.” Najla’s voice was hushed now, though her eyes flitted between Ketill and the door, waiting for an explanation from either end. “I thought you killed all of them. Don’t tell me you missed one.”