Zahara jolted awake from the hand around her mouth, its pressure muffled the startling sound she made, forcing it back down her throat. Above her, a dark figure loomed over her body, pinned her to the ground with the palm that was keeping her quiet.

"Someone's coming," he whispered. She recognized the voice immediately and allowed herself to breathe more easily. Muradi had a finger pressed to his lips as he spoke, gesturing her to be silent. "Maybe a group of men."

She gave him a nod and the hand on her mouth lifted free. Zahara gathered herself up into a sitting position, shaking away the dizziness from being abruptly awakened from sleep. Muradi, she saw, already had his swords prepared by his side, his eyes clear and alert as though he'd been awake for hours. Sometimes she wasn't sure if he slept at all since Ghaul had been away. Every time she woke up in the middle of the night, his eyes were open, watching her or something outside through the cave's entrance.

She angled her head to listen to the sound of those men he'd mentioned, and picked up nothing but the wind and the rustling of leaves.

"Take this." He handed her one of his twin obsidian blades and gestured toward the deep end of the cave. "Go. Hide. Keep silent. No matter what happens, don't come out."

Zahara swallowed, took the blade, and rose to her feet. He had seen this coming, had warned her about it two nights ago. A group of men, he said. A problem if he was right. Muradi was still badly injured, and she didn't know how to fight, with or without the sword. With Ghaul around, he could probably deal with the situation, but there had been no signs of him since he had been gone. The way she saw it, there was no possible way they could get out of this situation without being taken hostage or killed. They might also recognize Muradi, and together with her being a bharavi, the incentive to capture and hand them over for reward would be near impossible to resist. Should that happen, she would be back where she started, perhaps also turned into bait to lure Lasura back to the capita––

"Zahara." The call brought her back to reality. Muradi's hand was around her wrist, squeezing it with a firmness that hurt. She looked down and saw the sword in her grip shaking, tried to rectify it immediately, and failed. "I've got this," he said. The pressure on her wrist grew as he spoke. Her skin burned where he touched––something he hadn't done since they escaped. "Trust me."

The words struck like a blade. The hand around her wrist felt like an attack. Trust me, he said. As if it had been the most natural thing for her to do in the world. As if she was supposed to be able to do so despite the wrong in it.

Yet what truly bothered her was the odd sense of safety that did come with the contact, the illusion of security and trust that should never have been acknowledged or given room to take root. She attributed it to the fact that he was a man and she a woman, that she knew nothing of how to fight and he did, that there was, undeniably and evidently so, as far as she knew from experience and years of having lived with him, no monsters or beasts in this world bigger or more terrible than this man she called husband. And he was bent on protecting her, for whatever reason she didn't have to acknowledge. It made sense that she felt reassured, didn't it? Put that way, there was nothing wrong about feeling safe, was there?

She gave him a nod and pulled her arm back from his grip, brushing away the voice nagging at her conscience as she brushed out the folds of her dress and headed to the inner cave. A fist-size hole in the limestone formation allowed her to see everything that happened without being seen. She took advantage of it, and waited for the event to unfold.

Muradi stood, took off the robe and adjusted his tunic, frowning as he moved his limbs to test their mobility. The wounds still hurt a lot, she could tell. He never voiced it, but for a healer, such things needn't be told.

She could hear footfalls approaching now. How many, she didn't have the expertise to count. There were more than one––many more––that much she was certain. Muradi probably knew the exact number by now, judging from how carefully he seemed to be listening as he stood by the entrance, sword held tight in his grip. He stepped to the side as the footfalls came nearer, and disappeared into the shadow made by the moonlight coming in.

A man entered, paused to look around near the mouth of the cave. Muradi grabbed him by the arm, twisted the man's weapon off his grip, kicked it away the moment it landed. A step up from behind closed the distance between them faster than she could blink. One hand took a fistful of the man's hair, yanked it back as his obsidian blade swept across, coming to rest against the exposed throat.

More men rushed into the cave one by one. Still trapping the first man between him and the sword, Muradi wheeled toward the newcomers and stepped out of the shadow, allowing himself to be seen.

"Stay where you are." The warning echoed, halted the intruders' steps mid-stride. "You," he snapped at the closest man, switching to Samarran. "Touch that blade and his head comes off. Nod if you understand."

The men held their positions as they nodded. A paralyzed state of confusion followed as they looked at each other for the next course of action. It lasted a few minutes until someone with a torch came up from behind, pushing those at the front aside to clear the way forward. The light illuminated the cave as he entered, revealing everything in it, and everything that wasn't.

Seeing no further threats, the man holding the light squared his shoulders, drew himself up as he sneered. He was a big man, slightly smaller than Ghaul from the looks of it, and younger. His right ear, Zahara noticed as he turned, was missing.

"Fine blade you got there, asshole. Best put that down before you hurt yourself," said Left Ear. "There are ten of us. No chance you're getting out alive if you lop off Uri's head."

"Eleven." Muradi's eyes swept over every man in the cave twice, before returning to address Left Ear. "Unless you're not counting Uri here, seeing he's about to be dead."

"Doesn't change the fact that you'll die here, scum."

"Maybe." Muradi's expression remained flat, unreadable. "But I'll take four with me for sport." He jerked his chin toward the men in the front row, including Left Ear. "Five including Uri. You'll be down five men. Not a good situation for a group of bandits. Get me the man in charge. We'll talk."

"I am the man in charge," said Left Ear. It was a wonder to Zahara how far he could stretch that neck to appear tall.

"Of the torch, aye," said Muradi in a business-like tone. "You're doing a marvelous job at that."

It grated the man to the point of going red, which would have reached his right ear had it not been missing. The men behind him chuckled, looked away immediately at their feet or the rocks and stones lying about when Left Ear turned around to glare at them.

"The eleventh man." Muradi said before a retort could be formed, peering out toward something behind the men. "Get him or you walk out of here with five men short. You're not ready to take shit for that, Light Man. The rest of you cunts, stay where you are unless you want to be among the first to die."

Left Ear was trembling now, she could see it from the way the torch moved in his grip. In charge or not, the man was about to lose it, and that wasn't a good idea unless they could win the fight. Muradi should have known this. He wasn't new to the concept of handling men, but Zahara was no longer sure if he was still sane enough after all that had happened to make logical decisions. He also seemed different here, had been for a while since their escape from Rasharwi. There was a roughness to him now, a sense of cold recklessness she hadn't seen before, the kind that warned you to stay clear from the path of a man on the verge of going mad. The men in that cave felt it, reacted to it with a hesitant grip on their weapons and a clear determination to not move a muscle.

A tattooed hand came out from behind to grab Left Ear's shoulder, shoving him back to where the rest stood. From the lack of complaint and the tension that now emanated from the men, Zahara knew immediately who this was.

The eleventh man––the unmistakable leader––took three steps forward to stand at the most convenient distance to take off both Uri's and Muradi's head in a single sweep of his sword. On his left hip hung a curved blade, right next to a worn-down dagger that showed its frequent use. His jet black hair, matching that of Muradi, was gathered back in numerous, tiny, tight braids that ran from his forehead toward the back, then tied together in a low ponytail. His entire face was covered in black tattoos that extended down and around his neck to disappear behind the collar of his black tunic. From the looks of his hands––also covered in tattoos––she imagined it probably blanketed his entire body.

Black Desert mercenary, Zahara bit her lip at the recognition. It would have been a lot easier if they were dealing with some common bandits. Black Desert mercenaries were seasoned, trained, hardened by years of constant raiding on Shakshi settlements. The rest of the men may have been new and unruly, but they were being led by a true Rishi, complete with the iconic braids and the tattooes.

The air inside the cave thickened, turned solid as the leader swept his eyes around the surrounding, noting the signs of the small fire they'd put out, their belongings, the dirtied clothes and wrappings stained with blood. The missing weapons and evidence of how many people had been using the space was being noted, too, she was sure of it. Muradi knew this. His posture had switched from relaxed confidence into intense caution the moment this man came into view.

But there was also something else she could sense in Muradi. Something just wasn't right about the way he looked at the leader.

The two men's eyes met, and Zahara felt the cold, cold drip of sweat trickle down her spine as she watched those deep-set, black-lined eyes travel up and down Muradi's form, picking out every detail, visible or hidden. They came to rest on the gleaming black blade, took note of the hilt, and widened.

"Marakai's weeping cock," swore the leader, lips peeled back into a grin that revealed a row of crooked yellow teeth. "If it isn't Ranveer Bor-fucking-khan in the flesh!" The grin grew wider as he spoke, stretching now, from ear to ear. "No, no. You go by a different name now, don't you, your majesty? Your lordship? What do they call a king fucked out of his throne these days?"

Muradi grimaced, his lips pressed tight together to form a thin line as he tried to decide, she was certain, what to do with the situation. Ranveer Borkhan. She didn't know that name. Whoever this man was, his acquaintance with Muradi was before her time in the Tower, and obviously not a good one.

"What's the matter? That shit son of your's got your tongue too?" The man took two more steps, putting himself right in front of Muradi who didn't move an inch from the sudden disappearance of space between them. "Thought I wouldn't recognize you, you back-stabbing piece of shit? Come now. Give an old friend a proper greeting. What is my name, Borkhan? Do you remember, or do I have to beat it out of you?"

Muradi stilled, his expression as flat as his tone when he responded. "They told me you were dead. I should have known."

"You should have known?" His voice grew louder. Patience stretching thin in the syllables. "So you could do what? Apologize for fucking me over?"

A small shake of his head, followed by a pitiful smile. "Twenty years," said Muradi, "and still you think I'd let some scumbag whose life I've fucked live long enough to become a threat? Your faith in humanity is astoundi––"

A tattooed hand shot up, palm wide open as it cut through air, coming down hard on Uri's head to grip it like a ball. A quick shove to the side glided the Uri's exposed throat along Muradi's black blade, split it open inch-deep and right in the middle before throwing him onto the floor. Another hand lashed forward, missed Muradi's throat by a hair as he side-stepped out of the way. Muradi's blade came back as he wheeled, sweeping across the leader's chest, made a long cut on the black tunic but barely touched the skin as his opponent jerked back just in time. The motion exposed the wounded side of Muradi's chest. Would have missed the fist that slammed right on it had the injury not gotten in the way of his attempt to dodge. The blow threw him off balance, forced out a groan through tightly gritted teeth as he stumbled back to gain some distance. The mercenary rushed in to close the gap, grabbed Muradi by the throat, and hurled him down on the ground, nailing the sword hand flat under a knee as he pinned the former salar under him. A little farther away, Uri lay dying with a hand still clasped over the wound, blood running down the side of his neck to form a small puddle of dark red on the sandy soil.

"My name, Borkhan," growled the mercenary leader.

Still wheezing for air from the grip around his throat, she thought she heard Muradi laugh. "I'm still thinking."

Zahara winced as a fist hand crashed into Muradi's jaw, sending droplets of blood splattering on the ground next to his ear. "The name's Qasim," said the man, squeezing the hand around Muradi's throat harder. "Qasim Sharma. Get it into your head and maybe I'll let you die quickly. Get my gold without going to work on you."

The grin on Muradi's face didn't subside. If anything, it looked like he was even more amused. "Still the same insufferable dumb brute I remember," croaked Muradi. "You haven't changed at all have you? Hasim? Qasim? Whatever the fuck it is. Always thinking so small. Can't see shit past the dick in your hand then. Still can't see it now, can you?"

Qasim sneered at the remark, cold anger settling in now––the kind one might harbor when a decision had been made. "Got a lot to say, have you? That your last request? Want me to cut you open, hand you over in pieces?"

"Be my guest, Hasaam," Muradi replied. The way he smiled made Zahara wonder if he was truly on the verge of going mad. "Hand me over for gold. If you really think my shit son will let you live to spend any of it, you've gotten dumber than I thought."

Qasim stiffened, the sneer fading slowly from his lips as he considered the words. The grip around Muradi's throat loosened, judging from the ease at which he was breathing now. An invitation to talk. A chance he had been waiting for.

"I am the most celebrated salar Rashawi has ever known," he began, slipping back into the role she'd seen him play for eighteen years. "The city is overrun with soldiers and civilians who are loyal to me, not my son. What do you think will happen if you hand me over for a reward? Azram will pin my death on you and put on the most spectacular show in the history of the Salasar to sacrifice you on the altar so he can shift the blame and gain control of the city. You won't even get to see your gold while they gut you open along with these men standing behind you."

It would happen exactly that way, Zahara agreed. Anyone who knew something about politics knew that. The peasants who might hand him over would not. Qasim, however, seemed to understand a little bit about politics, judging from the thoughtful look he was showing now. Behind him, the mumbling from his men could be heard all the way to where she was hiding. It would create some conflicts among them now if he were to proceed with the original plan. A brilliant move on Muradi's part, she had to admit. He hasn't gone mad, after all. Not yet anyway.

"I see," said Qasim, quietly. "I can still kill you for the sake of it." The tone, this time, lacked conviction.

Muradi picked that up in a flash. He would use it now to his advantage. You could always count on him to sense the weakness in people, and bet on it being used to get what he wanted. "You can kill me, and then die the worthless dog you are for the sake of it." He took his time, stretching out the words, accumulating weight. "Or you can take your filthy hand off my throat, and be a part of something bigger than you've ever dreamed of. Remember who I am, who I was, and what I have become. I am worth more alive than any amount of gold in the peninsula, the only one who can give you what you want the most and you know it. Who are you going to be, Qasim? The scum who kills a nobody, or the man who puts Salar Muradi back on the throne?" A small pause, allowing the words to sink in. A cold, sharp, taloned hand climbed up her spine as she listened. "You wanted the Black Desert then, and you still want it now. Make the right decision, and I'll make you the new Grand fucking Chief of the Rishi."