The steps descended one or two stories below ground, growing narrower and steeper the farther he went. At the bottom stood a rough wooden door set in solid stone. Above it, thick beams and planks braced the ceiling.

  Müller paused on the landing, placing a hand against the stone wall, his frown deepening. I wouldn’t have expected to see this here. I was under the impression that stone was expensive in the desert. Was I wrong?

  As he scanned his surroundings, something caught his eye, drawing a frown. He crouched, narrowing his gaze on a faint yet vivid splatter of red along the lower reaches of the door, streaking onto the stone beside it.

  Old, yet not so far gone that dirt had fully claimed it.

  Müller exhaled, straightening. He placed a hand on the door and pushed lightly. It swung open with ease, flooding the steps with light.

  Laughter and conversation spilled out, only to die once Müller stepped inside.

  He strode in with an easy posture, but his gaze flicked across the room, sharp and watchful.

  A high-ceilinged, stone-walled room opened before Müller. Lanterns hung at intervals, casting a flickering glow over rows of mostly occupied tables and chairs.

  At the far end, a long counter stretched beneath hanging shelves, laden with barrels and wooden tankards.

  Rough, coarse-looking men filled the room, lounging in chairs or crowding the bar, their gazes fixed on him.

  For a moment, silence hung heavy, both parties watching and appraising the other. Then, a cheery voice rang out, cutting through the tension.

  "Müller, you're here?"

  Müller turned toward the voice, his eyes narrowing before easing. A cloaked woman sat at the far end of the bar, her red hair aflame in the candlelight. "Romanova."

  A grin spread across her face. "Barkeep, mead for my friend! And a round for the house—it's a celebration!"

  A cheer erupted, the patrons stomping their feet and clanking their tankards together.

  The barkeeper, a gruff-looking man with a scar running down one eye, nodded in understanding before turning to the shelf and hefting down a barrel.

  As the bar settled and interest in him faded, Romanova met Müller's gaze and tipped her head toward an empty table near the bar.

  They started toward the table at once, Müller arriving a step behind her.

  He pulled back a chair and sat across from her.

  Romanova folded her hands beneath her chin, her brown eyes twinkling. "I hope the journey treated you well, Müller. I trust the tavern wasn’t too difficult to find?"

  Müller grunted and leaned forward. "Why here?" His gaze swept the room, the corners of his eyes creasing. "Without a few lucky encounters, I might not have made it to this... inn? Tavern?"

  Romanova shook her head, her hair bouncing with the motion. "Luck had nothing to do with it. Didn’t I tell you when we first met? It’s fate. After all our meetings and run-ins, I’d have thought you’d learned that by now."

  Müller fell silent as a young server approached—a boy with shifty eyes drowning in a filthy robe far too short for him. He dropped two tankards onto the table with a loud bang, liquid sloshing over the rims.

  Romanova clicked her tongue and grabbed his arm, freezing him in place with a scalding look. "Aaron, didn't I warn you to be careful while serving me?"

  The boy nodded quickly, the memory of previous punishments flashing in his eyes. "Yes, Miss Romanova, you certainly have."

  Her grip tightened. A strangled yelp slipped from his throat. "I won’t remind you again."

  She released him. Aaron clutched his arm and scurried away, shivering.

  Romanova watched him retreat, then turned back to Müller, her expression once more light and carefree. "Sorry about that. You can’t let the plebeians grow too bold, you know? Best to keep them in their place."

  Müller ignored her question. "Miss, not Knight? Keeping it a secret?"

  Romanova raised the tankard to her lips, taking a deep gulp. She wiped her mouth, then set the drink down with a satisfied exhale. "Aren't you?" Her gaze flicked over him. "Your clothes are plain—far too plain for someone of your standing."

  Müller shrugged and took a sip. "Has its benefits. But it also attracts attention. Attention I'd rather avoid right now."

  Romanova nodded. "Same here. Right now, I'd rather go unnoticed. I have no interest in paying my respects to the local Lord."

  Silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional clink of their tankards.

  Romanova drained the last of her drink and set the empty mug down with a bang. Müller watched over the rim of his own. "Finished?" he asked.

  "Yeah," she replied, her eyes half-lidded. She slapped her cheeks, exhaling sharply before fixing her gaze on him. Her tone turned serious. "Honestly, I didn’t think you’d accept my offer. You didn’t seem too keen when we last met."

  "Things change," Müller said, his gaze slipping past her, lost in thought. He scanned the boisterous room, watching the inhabitants drink their fruity, tangy mead—seeing everything, yet absorbing nothing.

  "Things or people?" Romanova leaned in, resting her elbows on the table.

  "Things," Müller said after a moment's pause, his tone firm. "Things that drove me as far from the fighting and carnage as possible."

  His gaze locked onto hers, questioning. "Isn't that what you promised? An easy job, far from mortals?"

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  Romanova grabbed her tankard, her expression souring as she felt its weight. With a sigh, she placed it back down. "Yes... I promised that, didn't I? Well, I'm a Knight of my word. But before I decide, tell me—what exactly do you want from this?"

  Müller's eyes darkened, old memories surfacing. "I've seen the best and worst of mortals. Now, I want to see the in-between—the lower highs, the higher lows. What I want is simple: to understand what I lack, the perspectives I’m missing or overlooking."

  Romanova lowered her head, considering. "I'm not sure you'll find what you're looking for where we're going, but..." Her head shot up as she stretched out her hand. "You're hired. Welcome aboard."

  Müller set his tankard down, clasped her outstretched hand, and shook it firmly. "Glad to hear it. So, when do we leave?"

  Romanova leaned in, glancing suspiciously around the tavern. "Not now, and probably not soon. I still have a lot to do—supplies to purchase and contracts to settle—before we head further eastward."

  She closed her eyes and sighed.

  "Honestly, I was about to leave before you showed up. Had you arrived any later, you wouldn’t have seen me—and I probably wouldn’t have returned until just before leaving Deshan. Another example of fate’s hand at work."

  Romanova suddenly stood and hollered at the barkeeper, drawing his attention. "Three more for my friend here. Put it on my tab."

  The man nodded before turning back to his other customers.

  Müller clicked his tongue and grabbed Romanova’s arm. “I don’t want it.”

  Romanova’s gaze sharpened. “Well, you need it. Don’t worry—I’m not expecting thanks.”

  She yanked her arm free and turned away, her voice low yet cutting through the tavern’s bustle. “I’m leaving now.” She cast a glance back at him. “Don’t contact me. I’ll find you—when we’re ready to leave or I require your help.”

  With that, Romanova raised the hood of her cloak and strode off, weaving through the tavern’s occupants before slipping out the door.

  Müller’s eyes followed the door as it swung shut. He groaned, throwing his head back once it slammed closed. Is this the right choice? I don’t know her, don’t understand her. Should I follow her? I can still turn back.

  He exhaled and lifted his head. Who knows? The path is only ever clear in hindsight.

  CLANK.

  A tankard landed on the table—then another and another.

  Aaron, the waiter, hurried away without meeting Müller’s gaze.

  Müller watched him go before picking up one of the drinks and sipping. His eyes drifted over the tavern as he drank, quietly listening to the fragments of conversation that reached him.

  "Why is everything so expensive in Deshan?" a voice slurred.

  "You've been here for three cycles and still whining? I figured you'd have gotten used to it by now," his companion replied.

  "I'll get over it when this city stops robbing me blind," the first man barked.

  Another conversation drifted to Müller.

  "There’s a limit to ignorance. If you stab yourself in the foot once, you should at least avoid doing it again. And yet, somehow, you’ve managed to hurt it a third!"

  "Oh, shut up, Brad. Your blabbering is making my foot throb worse."

  Losing interest, Müller tuned them out, his focus drifting—until a particular conversation caught his ear. Everything else faded into the background.

  "You've never been to Deshan before, have you?"

  "Yeah, never before."

  "As an outsider, what do you think of our grand city?"

  A pause. The man seemed to gather his thoughts.

  "It lives up to its name—the Obsidian Jewel of the East."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  A sigh rang out. "Aside from the obvious, the most noticeable feature is the number of wells. And the way water is flaunted? As if there is no fear of scarcity."

  "That’s because it doesn’t—at least, not here."

  "Really?" The man sounded intrigued. "Why’s that?"

  A chuckle carried to Müller. "The first settlers were clever. They built the city around an oasis."

  "That alone wouldn’t be enough. With constant use, wouldn’t it eventually dry up?"

  "Oh, it’s no ordinary oasis. It’s a vast body of water, large enough to swallow hundreds of ships. Clean and clear, its surface shimmers like silver beneath the punishing sky."

  "Hmm. With all that water, you’d think food prices would be lower."

  A man scoffed. "Water and food are two entirely different matters here. We have an abundance of one but almost no means to produce the other. Nearly everything is imported, and with the conflict between Drifteland and Cliffend, prices this cycle have been through the roof. And since food costs more, everything else followed suit—merchants blaming it on ‘higher manpower costs’ and whatever other excuses they can spin."

  A sudden silence fell over the table before the outsider spoke, his tone edged with surprise. "Wait… you haven't heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "It’s over. The war between Drifteland and Cliffend has ended."

  A stunned pause followed before the man burst out, "Really? Are you certain? How do you know?"

  "I was in Raha just before coming here. The latest caravan brought the news—Drifteland surrendered and withdrew."

  "Doesn't that mean prices will stabilize?"

  "You’d think so, but you know how merchants are. They'll find any excuse to delay the inevitable."

  "Still, you should leave here once in a while. A war might break out, and you wouldn’t even know."

  "No one else here seems to know, right? That means the news hasn’t traveled far yet. Leaving wouldn’t have made a difference."

  Another silence.

  "True… since no one here knows, we can turn this into a profit. There are bound to be a few dunces willing to bet on the losing side."

  A low chuckle. "I see… bet on Drifteland?"

  "Exactly. If anyone chooses them, we withdraw immediately. Let's see how many fools we can swindle."

  The conversation continued, but Müller was no longer listening.

  So the news followed the caravan, huh? No surprise there. Still, I would have liked to ignore it a little longer.

  He reached for a tankard, only to find them all empty.

  They'd called it a war, but such a word was too simple—too clean. For those trapped in Benedict during the siege, such a word couldn't be used. It was something far worse.

  No, it was a war—just not a conventional one. It was a cruel contest between arrows and hunger, a brutal question of which would claim you first.

  Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, eyes slowly closing as memories surged forth.

  "HEADS DOWN! ANOTHER WAVE IS COMING!"

  Müller pressed a hand against the rough, grainy wall and slowly forced himself to his feet. Carefully, he peeked over the top, a warning whispering at the back of his mind—one well-placed arrow could end him instantly.

  Below, an army stretched across the land, hundreds upon thousands roaring war cries as they surged toward the walls.

  At their back, leagues of archer could be seen, their bows drawn taut, their arrows ready.

  Müller, breath ragged and mouth dry, dropped and pressed his body against a stone wall before raising his shield and huddling beneath it.

  Not a moment too soon—an instant later, the storm arrived, arrows raining down from above.

  Cries and shouts rang out from those too slow or simply unlucky.

  Müller gritted his teeth, his arm screaming in protest with the effort to keep his shield raised.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure sprinting down the ramparts—a slight, young boy who seemed vaguely familiar.

  His gaze locked onto the boy as he weaved through the rain of arrows, his head jerking left and right, miraculously always a step ahead—or just behind—being impaled.

  But Müller knew luck never lasted long in war.

  Normally, he wouldn’t have interfered. He would have left the lad to his fate, his policy of self-preservation keeping him in check. Yet, before he could think twice, his hand shot out. He seized the boy’s wrist and yanked him down—just as an arrow sliced through the space where his head had been.

  He held the boy's head against his chest, holding the shield. With a sharp thunk, the final arrow struck, burying itself halfway through the wood—mere hairs from his eye.

  Sighing, he cast the ruined shield aside and turned to the boy.

  "What were you doing?" Müller barked, shaking him hard. "Don't you know how dangerous that was?"

  The boy stared up at him through a curtain of hair, green eyes glinting with awe. Then his gaze sharpened, and he swallowed before speaking. "You are Müller, right? Squire Dante sent me. I have a message for you."

  Müller’s eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

  The boy turned and pointed to a fortified building along the wall. "At the tower, master."

  Müller nodded, dragging him to his feet, his eyes fixed on the tower. "Let's go!"

  Without another word, they started forward, the tower looming large in front of them.