As the wagon rolled closer, the city sharpened into focus. A low wall encircled it, its smooth surface adorned with flowing script and delicate murals. Intricate carvings of swaying palms, flickering lanterns, and cresting waves greeted travelers, leaving an impression of calm beauty foreign to the unforgiving desert.

  The gate stood open, unguarded, framed by a delicate arch of pale stone. Beyond it, the road stretched inward, lined with tall palms whose fronds swayed lazily in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across the light-brown sand.

  However, the first thing anyone noticed was not the city itself but the tower—a spire of obsidian-dark stone that loomed over everything. It stood like a beacon, drawing travelers across the desert to Deshan’s gates.

  Müller’s gaze drifted ahead, where a line of wagons stretched before him—some belonging to merchants, others to travelers.

  A hum of activity rippled through the caravan now that Deshan was in sight. Cheers and excited chatter spread like wildfire, infecting everyone in its path.

  Müller ducked back into the wagon, his initial observations complete.

  The man tapped his pipe against the wooden frame, emptying the bowl. "I'd start gathering your things if I were you. It'll get hectic once we arrive—better to be ready."

  Müller grunted, grabbing a leather satchel and his sword from where they rested. "Not my first trip. I can handle it."

  "Alright, alright." The man raised both hands in mock surrender. "Message received."

  Müller finished his preparations before glancing over to see the man casually tucking his pipe into the folds of his robe.

  "No luggage?" Müller asked, settling on the edge of the wagon.

  The man chuckled softly. "Nothing to weigh me down. When you carry nothing, nothing can be taken—that’s a lesson from a well-traveled old man."

  Müller watched as the man picked up a length of white cloth and deftly wrapped it around his head. In a few practiced motions, only his eyes remained uncovered.

  "Much better," the man muttered, tugging at the edges to perfect the fit. "I refuse to let this blasted sun cook me alive again."

  He glanced at Müller. "This might be the last we see each other—we might as well make it a memorable parting."

  Müller smiled faintly. Despite his endless pesterings, the man had been surprisingly good company during the journey, even though he'd only joined the caravan at the last stop—a tiny desert village.

  "What brings you out here?" the man asked, jarring Müller from his thoughts.

  Müller took a moment before answering. "A woman. I'm supposed to meet her at an inn in the city."

  The man’s grin spread wide. "A woman, eh? Hope your purse is heavy."

  Müller shook his head. "Not that kind of meeting. It’s for a job." He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting. "Probably my last."

  The man fell silent for a moment, then spoke. "Judging by that look on your face, I’m not sure if I should pray for your success… so I’ll do something better." He leaned back, eyes drifting closed. "I’ll pray it all works out in your favor."

  Müller smiled faintly. "Thank you. What is your name?"

  The man’s eyes cracked open. "I never told you?"

  Müller shook his head.

  "Well then, I am Artyom of Velkaarn. Think of me as a wandering traveler." He paused, cocking his head to the side. "Or maybe a traveling wanderer?" He shrugged. "Ah, either way, you get the point."

  Müller ignored Artyom’s rambling, his attention snagged on one word. "Velkaarn?" he repeated, trying to place the name.

  "A vassal city in Primeva," Artyom explained. "Not much to speak of, unless you fancy endless cold and ancient stone."

  Müller opened his mouth to reply, but the wagon lurched abruptly, cutting him off.

  Both men glanced down instinctively. They had entered the city. If the growing bustle outside hadn’t been enough to clue them in, the sudden end to the wagon’s rattling certainly was.

  Artyom stood and walked past Müller, pausing just long enough to pat his shoulder. "This is my stop. Let’s share a drink if our paths cross again."

  With that, he hopped down, landing lightly on the ground outside. He glanced back with a nod, then slipped into the crowd, vanishing from sight.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The wagon rolled on, leaving that section of the city behind. Müller’s gaze shifted to the multitude of finely adorned individuals moving along the street.

  Voices carried from all directions—vendors hawking water jugs, dried dates, and tiny trinkets; stall owners bickering with customers over the most trivial items; workers darting past, bent under the weight of sacks and baskets.

  Low, squat buildings flanked the street, their walls sun-bleached to the color of bone. Mudbrick roofs slouched beneath layers of palm thatch, while narrow alleys twisted between the buildings, forming a tangled maze.

  Müller inhaled deeply, savoring the rich air, thick with the scent of spices, sunbaked stone, and faint traces of incense drifting from shaded courtyards on the breeze.

  The wagon wheels thudded softly as it veered down a narrow street, breaking away from the caravan.

  Müller’s eyes narrowed. He hurried to the front of the wagon and banged on the wood. "Driver, where are you going?"

  A moment passed before a gruff voice answered, "I’ve got important cargo to deliver—I can’t follow the caravan to the end just to turn around and come back."

  Müller gritted his teeth. "What about me? My belongings are with the caravan."

  "Not my problem," the driver said flatly. "You paid me to get you here—that's all I agreed to. If you want them, head to Raha. That’s where all caravans end up."

  "How do I get there?" Müller asked.

  "Ask anyone on the road—it’s a well-known place in Deshan. Aye, and be careful getting off. This cargo’s worth more than your life."

  Müller didn’t answer. He walked to the back of the wagon, retrieving his satchel and sword. Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he slowly drew the blade.

  His gaze drifted from crate to basket, fingers curling tighter around his sword’s hilt. He chose his target and struck, slicing a large basket clean in half. Smirking, he sheathed his blade, watching brown grains spill across the rough wooden floor.

  Before the driver could realize what had happened, Müller leaped from the moving wagon and strode briskly back toward the previous street.

  Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, he stepped out from the narrow alley. For a moment, he stood still, gaze sweeping across the bustling street before turning and heading deeper into the city.

  He hadn’t gone far before pausing. Sweat ran down his temples, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

  Reaching into his satchel, Müller pulled out his water pouch. He licked his cracked lips and lifted it to drink—only to find it empty.

  “Damn,” Müller muttered, scowling at the dry pouch.

  His gaze drifted to a nearby stall, where a bearded old man rested beneath a faded canopy, gently fanning himself.

  He looks easygoing. I’ll ask him where the nearest well is, Müller thought, and without hesitation, he stepped forward.

  The old man's eyes flicked toward him, calm yet assessing, drifting to the sword at his side as he approached.

  Before Müller could even open his mouth, the man cut him off. “Welcome, customer! I have a fine selection of luxury goods, specially designed for a traveler like yourself.” He lifted a folded white cloth. “I see the sun has been unkind to you. This is a ghutra, perfect for easing the sun’s bite. Simple to wear too—fold it and secure it with this.” He held up a braided black band. “An agal.”

  “If that’s not your liking, I have others, though I warn you—they’ll cost a bit more.”

  Müller raised a hand, silencing the pitch. “I only wanted to know where the nearest well is. I didn’t ask for all this.”

  The old man’s expression turned flat, and he clicked his tongue. “Straight ahead,” he said, pointing further up the street. “You’ll see one before long.”

  He reached down to return the cloth, but Müller placed a hand over his. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy. How much?”

  A toothy grin spread across the man’s face, and he chuckled merrily. “For you, a discount—three silver Pharos for the ghutra and the agal.”

  Müller’s hand stilled inside his satchel. “Three? That’s steep. Won’t one silver cover it?”

  “No, no, no,” the man said, shaking his head. “That’s what I paid for the ghutra. I can’t sell at a loss, can I?”

  Müller sighed and pulled out two silvers. “I still need to pay for an inn tonight, so two’s all I can spare. If you don’t take it, I’ll find someone who will.” He nodded up the street. “I’m sure another merchant is willing to make a sale.”

  “Merchant? Me?” The old man let out a sharp laugh. “Bah, I’m no merchant.” Still, his smile widened. “Since you’re fine with my four poor grandchildren starving, I suppose two will have to do.”

  He plucked the silver from Müller’s hand, then passed him the items. “Need any more help? Maybe with the ghutra?”

  Müller shook his head. “I’ll manage. But I do need directions to a place.”

  "Where do you need to go, traveler? I’ve lived here my whole life, and I can say with certainty—I know just about every nook and cranny in this old Deshan."

  Müller sighed in relief. "Good. There are two places I need to find. The first... Raha, I think it’s called...?"

  The man leaned back, arms folding across his chest. "Raha? That’s easy." He pointed up the road. "Just follow this street until it splits—one path goes left, the other right. Take the right. Keep going until you reach a fountain. The road keeps on from there, but that’s not your way. Look for a smaller street branching off to the left. Follow that to the end—that’s where you’ll find Raha. Got all that?"

  Müller mapped the route in his mind before nodding. "Yeah."

  "So, where’s the second place?"

  Müller raised a finger, rummaging in his satchel before pulling out a worn piece of parchment. He squinted at the faded scribbles. "Damn, this is hard to read." He angled the parchment toward the light. "Ava... ata... aba?" His brow furrowed, then his expression cleared. "Abarran’s Inn."

  The old man frowned. “Abarran’s Inn? Never heard of it.”

  Müller stuffed the parchment back into the satchel. “Then how am I supposed to find it?”

  "Hmm..." The old man stroked his beard, gaze drifting in thought. "That doesn't sound local—probably a foreigner’s place. You could ask around, but if even I haven’t heard of it, well... can’t promise others will be much help."

  Müller groaned, half-turning away—only to freeze when the old man clapped his hands. “Wait, wait! It’s an inn, right?”

  Müller nodded.

  The old man’s grin stretched wide. “Well, there you go! Since you’re heading to Raha anyway, stop by the inn district. It’s not far from there, and if anyone knows where to find it, they will.”

  Müller smiled as he donned the ghutra, securing it with the agal. "Thanks, old man."

  “Bah, get out of here,” the man huffed, waving him off. “Anyone willing to let my three grandchildren starve has no place at my stall.”

  Müller paused, turning back with a raised brow. “Three? I could’ve sworn you said four.”

  The old man tapped his forehead, flashing a toothy smile. “Did I say three? No, no—two! Only two. Old age muddles the mind.”

  Müller chuckled, shaking his head as he melted into the crowd, leaving the old man to resume his fanning.