Qasim still couldn't believe his luck. He had never been a lucky man. Everything he'd achieved didn't even come from hard work paying off, they'd been leftovers from someone else's hard work paying off, and where decisions were concerned, betting on his being terrible ones could probably make a rich man out of a poor gambler.

It could only be luck, this time. It had to be luck that brought Ranveer Borkhan back into his life. It had to be luck that his decision to leave the man alive had led to this. It had to be luck (it couldn't possibly be anything else!) that tonight's rescue mission had ended with him and his men being brought to the Salar's living quarter inside the Barai, and had turned out to be the event that would soon make him the Grand Chief of the Rishi.

He looked at the priceless decorations on the floors, the walls, the ceiling and shuddered at the memory of how it had happened. Somewhere in the middle of that hopeless battle, Borkhan had climbed to the roof and revealed himself. Then came Saracen and his men––an arrival so perfectly timed it could only have been planned ahead––turning the simple fight into utter chaos. The next thing they knew, Saracen was dead, the Rishis surrendered, and the guards, having seen their captain captured and held at knifepoint on that roof, threw down their arms in unison. In just two hours and a handful of men, one man had taken control of the most well guarded prison in Samarra and captured half the Rishi's force belonging to Saracen. He hadn't realized it until now, that this had never been a rescue mission to begin with. Borkhan had come to take the Barai from the start. He'd planned all this, since––

'We go to Samarra. We take out Saracen.'

A conversation, spoken a lifetime ago, one that had slipped his mind.

'...an army I will give you when we get to Samarra.'

An army, he'd said. He had one now, and with it, would gain more.

'Sarasef will come... He's not going to let someone else kill his own blood. We'll take care of both brothers, and make you the new grand chi––'

"... You fucking son of a bitch," Qasim swore out loud, couldn't help laughing at how brilliant it was. The man had been right all along. Had even done what everyone thought was impossible. He ought to have killed that traitorous son of a whore for stabbing him in the back a long time ago––he still wanted to––but that could wait. It won't be long now, before he could carve himself a number on his cheek, and then anything was possible, even killing the man who made him Grand Chief. All debts had to be paid somehow.

He drank to that, and refilled his wine.

***

Ranveer stood by the dusty window, watching the first light of the sun illuminate the leftovers of battle and the prison he'd marched himself into. The rain had stopped not too long ago, leaving the air wet and heavy with the scent of blood and burnt things from the fire. Fighting in the rain was never pleasant, but in a storm, under a raging sky, victories always felt like they came at the cost of defying a god.

He wasn't a religious man; faith in anything except the certainty of more suffering to come didn't last if you had to survive Sabha. Live long enough, however, and the presence of divine beings would become something difficult to miss. The truth was, he'd never ruled out the existence of these gods, he simply never found worshipping them very useful.

He could understand it though––the need to worship and pray for miracles. Especially on a night like this, when it felt like he'd just angered a divine being, when the victory they just had seemed like the beginning of a greater war, praying seemed to be the only solution to get out of the mess. Praying, for once, seemed like a good idea.

For another man, in another position, and under different circumstances, he thought. There wasn't a divine being powerful enough to undo all his sins, for one thing, for another, he didn't like owing anyone a favor. Nothing in life ever came for free, answers to prayers included. You had to always be aware of that, or die young and content with having lived your whole life chained by obligations and people you couldn't kill when it made sense.

No, there was only him. Tonight's problems were his to solve. The future was his to prepare for. He had no time to pray, no time to beg any god for answers. He did need answers, however, for several things.

The guards he'd just won back needed careful handling to keep in line. Getting them to throw down their arms and surrender the Barai had required a show of holding Akshay hostage. Memories of past leaders, no matter how great, weren't enough incentive for men with families to commit treason. They needed an excuse, some forms of justification, or someone to make that choice for them. He had given them that on the roof, now he had to give them confidence and get them to fight. Such things required a glimpse of victory, or an illusion of one if victory didn't seem achievable.

And all victories from here relied on an alliance with Sarasef and Niroza––an outcome he'd planned meticulously for that would have been accomplished had the former's only brother not been killed by the latter's nephew. Sarasef would want Leandras dead if he knew, and Lucidra would burn down the Salasar before she let that happen.

He hadn't found a solution to that. He needed more time, someone to gather more information, someone to consult...

'Consult, my lord?' An image of Jarem sprang to mind. A memory from a lifetime ago. 'You always know what to do. I'm only here to make it happen.'

Something to laugh about had he not been so exhausted. Where are they now, these men to make it happen?

He was alone here, bruised, battered, and exhausted, in the same room within which countless meetings had been held under his command, one he'd handpicked for its airiness and the vibrant paintings on the walls to keep the men alert. Now, the doors and windows had been shut tight, the lights sparingly lit in a hurry. The thin layer of dust that hung in the air told him it hadn't been used for some time. New bars had also been installed on all the windows, to keep the officials safe.

Or to keep them in?

'You can cage an animal until it feels content and call it an offering of peace and protection...'

Perhaps she was right, he thought as that old memory of Zahara came to mind. Perhaps he had been moving from one prison to another for peace and protection. It did feel difficult to breathe in here, and something in his chest felt increasingly tight. He'd forgotten that the Barai was a prison, and he supposed a cage was a cage whether you were locked in it for prevention or protection.

'We will fight each other because we are free to fight, and we'll take our chances in these mountains even if it means a lifetime of struggles and conflicts for a life without boundaries.'

It made sense now, more so than ever. He had felt more alive out there than in here, where things were as simple as fighting, killing, and facing the possibilities of death to stay alive. Zahara might have been right. It might have been why he found it so difficult to leave her.

A knock on the door pulled him from that thought. He gave permission and saw Akshay enter with a case of medical supplies for his wounds. They hadn't been tended to, his wounds. There hadn't been time.

The captain was strategically alone, of course, and did not forget to bolt the door behind him. He was here to report and privacy was important. You could always count on Akshay to be competent, thoughtful, and efficient. You could also count on such a man to be somewhat defiant, stubborn, and difficult.

The captain ought to have waited for the healer to come––a part of his instructions along with delivering information as soon as they became available. Time had been wasted getting those supplies, and regardless of reasons, it was considered an act of defiance. Good intentions, just as bad ones, could kill you. What he needed right now weren't men with good intentions. He needed men who followed instructions. Men like Jarem.

Like Jarem?

Jarem had been that man, and then he'd failed.

Or you've failed him.

Akshay bowed and set the case down. He looked pointedly at the supplies, and then at the captain.

"The healer is still with Leandras Naeem, my lord," said Akshay, more as an explanation than an excuse. If there had been guilt involved for having shot that arrow at him or for the display of disobedience, it didn't show. The former had been the appropriate course of action, however. He'd placed the man here to keep Niroza alive a long time ago, with strict instructions that no one was to know of his loyalty to him in case he ever needed a spy. Akshay had understood that need, had loosed the arrow for everyone to see, and with it made belief that his loyalty was to Azram. The captain should be congratulated for following that command to perfection, as he still needed someone to gather information in Azram's circle. In light of that achievement, he decided to brush the disobedience aside, at least for now.

"How is Leandras?"

Akshay paused for a heartbeat, appeared to shuffle something in his mind, or trying different words on for size before speaking. "The arrow didn't make it far past the cuirass, but cleaning the wound will take some time. I thought you might want to hear the report now, while I tend to yours." He reached forward as he spoke, and paused halfway for permission to remove his robe. "May I?"

Back in the Tower, and under different circumstances, he might have thrown the captain out the balcony for this presumptuous decision alone. But he was not in the Tower, and the circumstances were different. He nodded, instead. "You may."

Akshay dropped on one knee to loosen the armor around his torso, putting him at the same height as the candles on the nearby table. The light illuminated his burn scars, exaggerating their severity as it flickered in and out. Most people would have worn a mask to cover a face so deformed, yet Akshay insisted on wearing it like a badge, a reminder of something he was proud of. It made one wonder if the mask had been what the fire destroyed, and now he was wearing his true skin. A man with not much left to lose had less need for pretense, but someone like that was always dangerous, and must be handled with care.

Which was why tonight's attack had been a gamble. You could trust Akshay to be loyal, but you couldn't trust him to do what he was told.

"Where is Niroza?" he asked, the words came out strained and uneven, caused by the unexplained tightness in his chest that seemed to be growing by the minute.

Akshay caught it, observed his breathing pattern for a time, then replied, "Broke out of prison with the crew before his sister reached the quarter. Met them halfway, got out, and should be on the ships by now."

Before Lucidra reached the quarter? "How did he get out of the cell?"

"Feigned an attack to snatch a few pins from my robe. Used them to picked the locks."

"I see." It made sense. Niroza would have seen and planned the use for those pins a long time ago, and had simply decided to wait until the timing was right. "He knew I was coming?"

"He couldn't have," said Akshay, shaking his head. "Must have smelled the oil. Recognized the scent. Drew his own conclusions."

Of course. "I take it he left you the pins for keepsake?"

"He did, my lord." An edge in the reply, touched with a strange combination of bitterness and approval. "For keepsake."

Would have wrapped it in something nice too if he could. Niroza was like that. He'd sent a captain his personal belongings from a ship he'd commandeered before. Out of courtesy, he'd said in the accompanying letter. I'm a well-mannered man, he'd claimed afterward, smiling proudly.

Roz's sense of humor that had always given the citizens of Samarra something to gossip about didn't surprise him, something else did. "Lucidra left with them?"

Akshay looked up from the bandage he was unfolding, seemed to be chasing a thought. "You're wondering why she left her son."

"I asked you a question, Captain." It came out a little too harsh than necessary, but an overstep of boundaries was a challenge of authority regardless of incentive––something he could not afford given the circumstance and must be addressed immediately.

The captain pressed his lips together, swallowed, and replied, "She was seen coming to her son's aid but left with Niroza when you took over the Barai."

That changed things. Lucidra, as expected, had come to Leandras' rescue. It made sense. Mothers didn't leave their sons in the hands of the enemy if she could do something about it. Niroza, however, would have considered Leandras safe, calculated his needs for their ships, and decided to first gain freedom then make demands as a free man. The price for his fleet's cooperation that should have been an exchange for getting him out of prison would now be set according to how much Niroza was willing to risk harming a nephew he'd never met, whether he wanted revenge, and how willing desperate he believed a dethroned Salar would be.

It just so happened that he didn't find killing Leandras desirable, while Niroza had cause for revenge, and he was, in fact, desperate. It also happened that if there existed a man who knew him better than the Red Mamba, it was Niroza Naeem who had once been his savior, his commander, his mentor, and the closest thing to a friend or a brother he'd ever had, not to mention one of the most intelligent men and best judge of character alive. Roz would see how desperate he was the moment he knew Saracen was dead, and if Roz wanted to strike...

The tightness was in his chest again. He drew a long breath, which seemed to chase it away only briefly. "What of Saracen's men?"

"Confined in the prisoner quarter awaiting your decision."

"Do they know he's dead?"

Akshay looked up, catching his eyes. "Would you like them to know, my lord?"

For all his flaws, Akshay remained a sharp, loyal man who could follow his thought process. That almost gave him relief. Almost. "In time," he said. "For all of them, in and outside the Barai."

There were still the other half of Saracen's force residing in the old fortress that must be handled carefully and swiftly. It could be done with some planning. Without seeing a corpse, information given a certain way could convince the weak-minded anything, even stories of dead people coming back to life by some kind of divine power. Controlling how and when to release important information was crucial to winning any war, and until he could sort things out, no one must know of Saracen's death, especially Sarasef who was supposed to reunite the Rishi and become his ally.

"I will make sure not one word of it gets out of the Barai." Akshay nodded. "The gates have all been shut to all as soon as Niroza had left. No one leaves, no one enters, not until you say so. For now, you need a rest, my lord. Your wounds are not grave, but you've lost blood."

He was close to collapsing, and was still dripping blood as they spoke, to be accurate. Not something that had stopped him from heading into another battle twenty––perhaps even ten––years ago. It wouldn't stop him now, but given his current state, he might be heading more toward his death than victory. Just one of those things that told him he wasn't young anymore. "How are our men?"

"Rested and taken care of, my lord."

A good start. "Keep them fed and under close supervision. Anyone has a problem with my command, isolate them without causing a scene. Compensate the families of the dead. Do whatever's needed to keep them in line." The men must remain on his side. He couldn't afford an uprising within these walls, on top of everything else. "How much do they know about the situation?"

"The riots in Rasharwi have been in your favor, my lord. Those who have served you do believe Azram usurped the throne and is here to stay, but such talks have been punished severely." Akshay finished wrapping the bandage around his torso and rose to his feet, to tend to the chest wounds. "The prince regent has, in the past two weeks, hung fifty-three men for spreading the discussions. Now that you've made an appearance, I believe he will try to welcome you back publicly, and then have you assassinated along the way."

Azram would do that, judging from the information he'd gathered while in Samarra and from what he knew of his own son. The guards had been reluctant to throw down their arms because they knew––everyone knew––Azram would never let him live to take back the throne. To surrender the Barai was to take his side in the war to come––an action that came with great consequences if he were to lose. Meanwhile, whoever killed him, if they had succeeded tonight, would be executed in public to make Azram appear a loyal, loving son. Di Amarra would have advised such reactions from the start, to avoid an internal war within the Salasar, which, in turn, would interrupt his business across the peninsula. These men would be dead either way. The question was how to convince them to die for him, not Azram.

It required making winning seem a possibility, if not a certainty. These men weren't warriors of the desert, they didn't fight to their deaths for pride, for integrity, for freedom. They fought for prosperity, for money, for the safety of their women and children. To cower behind walls, as Zahara had said.

It would require an army of considerable size, which meant acquiring enough allies. And for allies to gather, he needed to offer them some assurance. He needed both Sarasef and Niroza, and he needed time to negotiate, time he didn't have.

News of his return as well as Saracen's death couldn't be kept a secret for long even with the help of someone as thorough as Akshay. As soon as Azram knew he was alive, assassins would be sent, and then it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. Something had to be done, and done quickly.

A tightness in his chest again, a longer squeeze this time.

"Have you sent for Zahara?" It suddenly occurred to him that he'd given that order some time ago, right after he'd taken over the Barai. She must be brought within its gates for safety as quickly as possible, and should have arrived by now.

"I have, my lord," said Akshay, looking up at him again with that deformed, expressionless face, and even more expressionless eyes. "The men I sent didn't find anyone in the house. They're still searching and looking for information. Where do you thin––"

***

The paperweight, parchments, and ink bottle flew across the room, swiped clean off the table with a force that made Akshay jump back three steps. He had served this man for more than two decades when he was a prince, when he became a commander, then the undefeated conqueror of the peninsula, and not once, not even during the heat of battle, had he seen Salar Muradi of Rasharwi lose it.

"Get me a horse and five armed men," said the Salar through gritted teeth, his trembling fists clenched tight enough to bleed.

"My lord," he said. He could be killed for disobedience, but something wasn't right. "You cannot leave the Barai. Not in your condition. Not n––"

A fist came down hard against the wooden tabletop, made a sound so loud it roused the guards standing outside. "Get me a horse and open the fucking gate!" He was shouting now, shaking violently as he tried to push himself off the table, spilling words between heaving breaths. Breaths that seemed difficult, unnatural. "I'll kill you for this ...you backstabbing son of a bitch... I swe––"

And then, with a hand clawing over his heart as he struggled to breathe, Salar Muradi, the undefeated conquerer who had taken yet another victory tonight, collapsed on the table for the first time over a health condition that would later alter the fate of the peninsula.

***