"Kill every last one of them, but bring him to me alive!" Saracen yelled at the men behind his back as he ran through the gate, feeling a strange new wave of energy coursing through him. He could see his life turning, could taste his new legacy being formed the moment that blue fire lit up the sky and the eastern gate of the Barai opened. The men could feel it too, judging from the cheers that erupted as they rushed into the most secure prison in Samarra. They were going to make a name for themselves tonight, as a part of an army that finally took down Salar Muradi of Rasharwi.

It was just as di Amarra had said. An army was, in fact, waiting for him when they reached the location of the signal fire, one that matched the size he'd been given. The men, hungry and long-deprived of a proper fight since they'd relocated to Samarra, needed no instructions. They crashed into the black-garbed men like beasts, snarling and hacking off heads with mouths still open from the surprise, creating piles of dead bodies wherever they went.

Saracen stayed behind, chest pumped full of pride as he watched the slaughter. He wasn't going to join them––he hadn't come here for that. His energy was reserved for one thing only, and after quick sweep of the area, he found what he was looking for.

Up on the roof of a building where the signal fire had been lit, a figure of one man cut a sharp, majestic silhouette against the backdrop of roaring blue flame. It needed no confirmation. A man like Muradi was someone you only had to meet once to spot him from five hundred paces away.

He looked up at the sky then, feeling the cold rain on his face, imagining it washing away the mud that had concealed his true potential, preparing him for a new destiny. His body felt light as a feather, his mind as clear as a blank parchment, that same energy he'd felt as they entered the Barai had increased tenfold the moment that figure came into view.

He had no qualms with Salar Muradi, perhaps even admired him as a leader, but a man chosen by god must do god's will. Muradi's corpse would make history for the Rishis, and he was destined to be the man who killed a legend. It was all writ––

Saracen hadn't finished that thought when he saw the lone arrow, loosed from somewhere down below, heading straight for his target.

***

Leandras was already heading up the stairs when noticed the raised crossbow. He'd picked up speed before it was nocked with an arrow, scaling those steps two at a time without the slightest idea what he was going to do or why when he got there. Ranveer didn't seem to notice the threat, even when he was certain the man was looking straight in that direction. Perhaps the smoke or the rain had made it difficult to see. Perhaps it was the angle from where he was standing. Perhaps everything was working against him tonight, and he was, in fact, destined to die here.

It wasn't an outcome he was willing to accept without doing something about it. It didn't even require thinking twice to interfere. The need came to him like reflex, like instinct.

But by the time he reached the roof, it was already too late.

***

Akshay's arrow was well calculated, meticulously timed, and precisely aimed. It would hit him on the left shoulder, miss his major organs, and at that range the head would likely penetrate through his back, making it easier to remove. It was obvious to Ranveer from the moment the man had raised the crossbow that the shot wasn't aiming to kill. Akshay was aiming to wound, to disarm, to capture alive. He could see that intent before the man pulled the trigger, just as he could see the arrow's path before it reached him.

By the time Akshay took the shot, he knew his calculations had been right. The arrow followed the path he'd forecasted in his head, flew at the speed he'd bet on, and reached him exactly where he'd anticipated. Out of reflex, instinct, and intuition hoarded from having survived too many battles, his left foot lifted off the ground just before the arrow blasted through his chest, placed itself a step behind as he turned sideways, and cleared him from its path. The arrow grazed him on the chest as it went by, left a cut on his tunic and a long line of minor flesh wound under his collarbone. He smiled, and waited for the expected clank of that arrowhead as it hit the ground.

The sound never came.

***

The young man who'd suddenly emerged on the roof took the arrow in his chest. The impact threw him back, landing him two steps behind the original target. It took the Salar a moment before he realized what had happened, then he turned to look at the injured man, and froze dead on the spot. Akshay felt a trickle of cold sweat creeping down his spine as he watched the accident unfold. He'd seen that blood-curdling stillness from Salar Muradi before, had witnessed the result that followed, had wished he wouldn't have to see it again. The arrow was supposed to miss the important organs to make sure it wouldn't kill him, and by sheer coincidence, or something else Fate had in mind, it had landed, instead, where the damage might be most permanent.

The sound of battle changed at that moment, pulling his attention from the roof. Someone important had joined the fight, judging from the escalated cheers of men in the alley. Akshay scanned the area again quickly, and spotted someone who must have been leading these new warriors forcing his way through the commotion toward the building with the signal fire. Something about the way he moved said the man was heading there to kill.

It made no sense. These men who'd just arrived were supposed to be on the same side as Muradi...

...or they all thought that was the case.

Fuck.

Akshay tossed away the crossbow, unsheathed his blade, and went into the fight. The moment he got close enough to see the face tattoos and paintings on these new arrivals, he realized the magnitude of their mistake. These men were the Rishis––the Rishis in Samarra who should have been their allies.

Or at least not on the same side as the men they'd been fighting, judging from the way that man who could only be Saracen was heading toward the roof with one and only one intent in mind––to kill Salar Muradi of Rasharwi.

It became clear to Akshay, as he raced against time to get to the building, that they had all been fooled by the signal fire, and that both sides were now fighting the wrong enemies.

Someone must have tipped Saracen what was happening tonight. Someone on the inside had promised to open the gate to the Barai once the signal fire was lit. The Rishis had stormed in here expecting an army led by the Salar, and found it. And found them.

This was it. This was the plan that would get them out alive, and now he understood why his presence was needed, why the Salar had to wait for him to appear at the scene. He was willing to bet another group of men was freeing Niroza at the very moment, perhaps already on their way out one of the gates.

It was brilliant, so brilliant he would have stopped for a moment to applaud its success had there been time. The plan could only be executed by Deo di Amarra; he was now certain of the Red Mamba's involvement. But the mastermind behind it, the only man alive he knew would be mad enough to have taken risks of this magnitude was up on that roof, waiting for him to give it the grand finale.

And you didn't even know you'd been used, Akshay thought as he ran up the stairs toward the center stage, laughing at his own foolishness and what he was about to do next.

***

Leandras wondered if it had been guilt, a sense of duty, or the bond he had with his mother that made Ranveer stare at the arrow in his chest that way. It must have been one of those things, since they had only known each other for a few days and the words exchanged had been few. He was certain, though, that the expression he was seeing was regret.

'...don't die before me.'

A surprise, that. Perhaps they truly were father and son, and perhaps he had grown tired of killing sons. Perhaps I'm dying and am having a hallucination.

"Get up, Leandras," Ranveer said crisply after a short silence. The regret was gone now, replaced by a command from a superior to his soldier. An order expected to be obeyed. "Time to get out of here."

Get out of here, he said, as if that was a possibility. Leandras shook his head. He'd been raised practical, not spiritual. "You're not going to get far dragging me with you." Wounded or not, surviving that mass slaughter down below was irrational in any case. He still didn't understand half of what was happening. Why were the Rishis here? Why were they fighting the guards? How were they going to get out?

Not that it mattered now. "Just go."

Something about that reply pissed him off. Ranveer shifted is weight and stared down at him like a god being cursed on his own altar. Lightning flashed behind him then, as if to call the world to attention. It illuminated the harsh lines of his face that brought to mind the jagged edges of those obsidian swords. "I am the man in charge here," he said quietly, though with the weight of a hammer. The thunder that followed seemed to be etching that statement in stone. "I decide what happens. I make the call. You will get up and walk out of here, or I will drag your dead body behind me through the gate. That is what will happen. Do I make myself clear?"

Leandras stared at the man with his mouth opened, then chuckled as a thought came to mind, and immediately regretted it. There was an arrow in his chest, he'd somehow managed to forget. "How the fuck did you convince my mother to let you live?" he said, pushing himself off the floor and up on his feet. The last man who'd said something like that to his mother died in his sleep. He could hardly imagine––

Ranveer gripped his arm as he turned toward the staircase and stiffened. Leandras turned to look and realized someone had climbed up to the roof. The tall, dark figure was holding a curved blade, his tattooed face screamed a clear intent to use it.

"Step aside, Leandras," Ranveer commanded, calmly, but you could see him still turning over a thought. He obeyed that instruction without a fuss. The least he could do was get out of the way.

The twin obsidian blades came out of their scabbards when he cleared the distance, their gleaming black, jagged edges caught the light of the blue fire like cuts on a diamond, casting a chaos of surgical sharp reflections around them every time they moved. The blades had been broken, remade, and refitted on the same hilt countless of times throughout history, each time from a new slab of obsidian cut from the Black Tower itself. 'To remind their holders of the power they carry, how fragile it can be, and what it takes to rule,' said the inscription that wrapped around the handle. He wondered sometimes how many Salars had understood that statement.

"Such beautiful weapons." The man he soon recognized as Saracen of the Rishi echoed his thoughts. He spread his arms to the side, like an actor entering a stage, or a priest welcoming someone into his temple. "And what a spectacular setting to die for the most famous Salar of Rasharwi. I've always known it would take someone bigger to kill you than assassins."

Ranveer nodded. "And you want to be that man, I see."

Saracen stepped closer, seemed to find something in that tone a nuisance. "You've always doubted my ability to rule, my destiny. It was a mistake to choose my brother as your ally, and you will pay for it tonight. Marakai the Sky Father has spoken. I have been promised victory."

Ranveer peeled back a smile, raised his swords a little higher. "Said every blessed sons and daughters of every god I've killed," he said. "Would you like to pray first, or are you ready to meet your god?"

***

He did wish the man would take time to pray. The truth was, he could hardly stand without grinding his teeth over the exhaustion of having just fought an entire army, not to mention the pain from both old and new injuries that was feeding on his strength like a hundred hungry leeches. It meant that he would have to deal with Saracen quickly before his energy was sucked dry, which wasn't the problem.

The problem was keeping the man alive while he did this.

Saracen could not die––must not die––by his hands, or everything he had tried to accomplish would be useless. He'd come to the conclusion that he needed Sarasef as an ally, and had already taken steps to acquire that alliance. Despite the brothers' conflicts, and whatever Saracen had done, Sarasef would take vengeance on whoever had his brother killed without his consent. Ranveer knew this. He'd spent enough time with Sarasef in his youth to know it was off-limits, that if Saracen were to die, the decision would have to come from him. He also knew Saracen would be here to kill him to prove himself. The latter didn't take knowing the man in person. Religious lunatics tended to be excessively loud and predictable, life-threatening risks not withstanding since they were supposed to be saved by one god or another.

They should have never run into each other, him and Saracen. The commotion and timing should have prevented it. Now that it had come down to this, he was going to have to find a way to disarm and disable the man without inflicting fatal injuries, which was not going to be easily done given his own banged up state. To make the matter worse, Leandras had also been shot. The wound wasn't fatal, but could be if it wasn't tended in time. He had an hour at most, perhaps even less, and that meant getting to wherever Akshay was alive.

It also meant that Akshay would have to survive the fight to do what he'd anticipated, which was still a gamble, if not the biggest gamble he'd taken tonight.

Too many people I need to keep alive. Too many lives I can't spare. Not a situation he wanted to be in, and one he'd spent his whole life trying to avoid.

Saracen took his time, not to pray, to calculate. He was built smaller than his younger brother, and possessed a priest-like calm Sarasef lacked. His footwork was lithe, well-timed, decisive. The curved blade sat in his hand like he'd been born with it. The focus said he would be thinking and noticing things before they engaged––an opponent who played out the fight in his head before it even began. Ranveer realized then, that however foolish, arrogant, and nearsighted the older brother was where power and politics were concerned, those faults did not extend to Saracen's ability to fight.

The first attack came at his midriff, curved blade slashing left to right in an upward angle that sent the rain splashing high at face level, hoping it would blind him for a second. Ranveer dodged it in time with a small step to the side, ducked low as the blade swooped back over his head and missed by a hair. Got himself up again shoulder to shoulder with the Rishi, took a test swing at the man's now exposed torso, didn't get more than a cat claw's mark on him before Saracen jumped cleared out of the way.

They circled each other now. Ranveer keeping his blades out and moving, stalling for time to regain some energy. Saracen, viciously looking for a good way in. Didn't finish taking his third breath before Saracen rushed in again, steel swinging like a mad man trying to ward off some kind of evil spirit. Or you'd think that way if you didn't know what an opponent trying to wear you down looked like. Try to meet those poorly aimed but powerful strikes, and it would suck your strength dry by the tenth move.

Six, in his case, if not five given his fatigue right now.

Ranveer knew this, and knew how to deal with it too well. Survive enough battles, and even the thickest of soldiers would have learned how to conserve energy. He kept the twin blades by his sides and concentrated on getting out of the way with his footwork. Meeting one of those blows would also break the obsidian. He had brought them for show and thought of taking out those crescent blades again, but when you were running on reserves, something longer was needed for a good clearance, for more time.

Time was what he needed, but time was also running out, and Saracen, acutely aware of this fact and his own advantage, didn't let that opportunity slip. The attack kept coming in swift successions, each one quick as a cobra backed by experienced muscles powerful enough to hack off a limb in a single strike. In a fair fight you could keep on dodging to wear him down (such was the risk that came with it), but Saracen had long noticed his fatigue, and both of them knew that tactic wouldn't work this time. He would have to find an opening to strike soon, and in a way that would wound but not kill.

And saw one, as Saracen twisted into the same pattern he'd noted three times before. The side step would follow, the sword arm would go back, the torso would be open on the count of three.

One. He gripped the right-handed sword harder, made sure it wouldn't slip.

Two. A turn of his wrist brought the pommel end out. A breath heaved in, and held.

Three. Ranveer charged in, one long stride brought him up close enough to knock the man out from under the chin––

––and slipped.

The rain caught him at the last minute, his leg gave out just as it landed on the slippery ground, threw him off for a second as he tried to regain balance. Saracen saw it, turned his upper body halfway around, came back in with a full elbow swing that crashed into the side of his head, knocking him off his feet and sent him flying two steps to the side to land on the ground. Was still shaking his head free of birds and stars when he looked up and saw the gleam of that curved blade coming down to split him open. Tried to roll away from the path. Didn't make it far enough, fast enough. Fuck.

A strange sound from above, echoed once in the rain. No, a thud that seemed to have come from two directions, followed by a clank of steel. It took him a moment to realize neither his head nor his swords had produced those sounds.

A small distance to his right, Saracen's curved blade lay spinning on the ground from the long drop. He thought the rain had stopped, looked up, and saw two figures standing over him, bracketing Saracen front and behind. A dagger's pommel jutted out from under Saracen's chin, its entire blade disappeared behind a face caught halfway between dread and surprise. A little lower, slightly on the left side of his chest, a two-hand length of steel made it through the heart from the other side and was beginning to drip blood. Saracen twitched once as Leandras pulled out the dagger, and twice more when Akshay retrieved his sword.

He could hear something break in his head the same moment Saracen's body hit the ground. Could feel the turn of events he didn't know how to stop.

A brother, now dead by Leandras' hands...the life that must now be sacrificed to keep Sarasef an ally...the fleet he would have to kiss goodbye from Lucidra and Niroza were that to happen...the damage that awaited no matter what he did...

If Leandras doesn't die tonight...if this gets out...if Sarasef knew. The thought came to him with a series of dread and resentment, like unwrapping a festering wound you knew you couldn't fix.

"Stay where you are!" Somewhere above him, Leandras barked a warning at Akshay. He looked up and saw both men with their weapons out, ready to start another fight.

Ranveer pushed himself up off the ground and stepped forward to stand between them, facing Akshay.

And here it was, his biggest gamble tonight, a life or death bet made on the decision of one man and nothing but a hunch to go by. He caught those hard eyes and held them, held his pulse down too. "Are you here to arrest me," he said, "or are you here to kneel?"

Akshay raised his sword, not a change in expression, not even a twitch of a brow. Leandras raised his own blade in response, held that silence like a headman's axe waiting for a signal.

It always came down to this––to the decision of one man or woman, one favor you gave a person, or one mistake you made somewhere. Sometimes he wondered if Saracen had been right, that perhaps some god did have a hand in who we met, what we stumbled upon one day some decades ago, and the only control we ever had was what we chose to do with those moments.

"The fire," hissed Akshay, a faint flicker of rage in the way it was spoken. "That was for me."

"It was." Another risk he took, that. He knew the man, knew how much he hated being a foregone conclusion, knew the story of the burn on his face and the fire that did it too. An intelligent man would work it out, a broken one might take it the wrong way. And Akshay, if nothing else, was one of the most intelligent, broken man he'd come across.

"You lured me here. With fire." Another step forward from Akshay, leashed hostility straining for release. Leandras met him halfway, the arrow still sticking out of his chest seemed more a threat now than an injury.

"I did."

"You would go that far?" he said through gritted teeth, trembling so visibly you could see it on the steel of his sword. "To test me? Knowing what you knew?"

And there he saw it, how his bet had come through in the form of tears that rolled down Akshay's deformed face, over those scars. "What was it that suggested a test of my loyalty, my lord? What have I done to make you doubt it so?"

There had always been only one answer to that throughout his life––a warning he had delivered too many times to count, one that used to come fluently, carelessly, and without strings attached. Now, the words felt heavy on his tongue, tethered to a weight in his chest and the thought of what had been lost the last time it was spoken.

'I've never trusted anyone, Jarem. You, of all people, should know.'

He drew a breath, felt the remainder of his strength leaving him on the exhale. Too many people I need to keep alive. Too many lives to safe. "I did stand there and let you shoot me for ceremony, didn't I?" he said. "You might consider it a gesture of trust."

Akshay knelt then, under the rain that was still hammering down on all their backs, in the cold, dark void of the night that resembled the content of his heart that day. He knelt and laid the sword down, before bending to the ground, to reach out for the hem of his robe and bring it to his lips.

"May all your dreams be realized, my lord Salar."

The same words, spoken by two different men, one dead, one still alive whose loyalty he might have lost had it not been for the first.

He looked up at the sky and smiled at the irony of it, at his own shortsightedness.

Even now, you are still trying to save me.

***