The death of his father had come when he was thirteen. That vision, among many, had been one the gods decided to not reveal to him the time and place it was to happen. All Nazir had seen was that Za'in izr Husari would die from a blade, stabbed from behind his left shoulder, the tip coming out on the other side to pierce through his heart. He wore white, which was something he did regularly as kha'a. It would happen in the middle of the desert, where he traveled frequently to a hunt or in answer to a summon made by Citara. The landscape had never been clear to Nazir in his vision, and through the glimpse of what he had seen, no recognizable landmark had been there. The killer, too, had never been shown to him. These visions that had come to him more than once gave him nothing to prevent any of it. The only sense of time they had ever offered him was the fact that his father looked to be the same age he was now when he died, and he had looked that way for more or less ten years now.

It would happen in broad daylight, on a day like this, where the sky was a deep shade of blue and mostly clear, save for the small clutters of clouds that looked like someone had left clumps of wool on it after shearing a sheep. But a day like that came by often in the desert, and no matter how much things seemed to be going wrong that day, or how prominent that bad feeling in the pit of his stomach was, it didn't mean the death of his father would happen. Wars and conflicts had always been and would continue to be a large part of Za'in izr Husari's life. It was likely—honorably even—for him to die that way, and not necessarily that day.

Or so Nazir told himself as he rode with the Kamara khagan toward where his father and his warriors would be. They had brought him along on the ride in case leverage was needed. His hands had been tied in front of him, secured to the saddle of a horse that had also been tethered to a White Warrior's mare. Baaku had been held somewhere back at camp. They had him tied up, too, beaten into submission by order of the kha'a. He had, after all, put up a fight that took four armed men to hold him down.

Aza'ir izr Zakai, the kha'a of Kamara, had brought with him eight hundred White Warriors to fight his father. Among them, Nazir had overheard, was the khumar of Khalji, Zardi izr Aziz, who had contributed to that number with his own two hundred zikh-clad warriors. It meant that this alliance and attack had been planned for some time, which didn't surprise Nazir. His father and Aza'ir kha'a had been rivals for longer than anyone could remember. Nazir had never been told the story in detail. He only knew that it had begun over something inconsequential that happened one Dyal in Citara. Things had somehow escalated, accumulated, and intensified since then. Deaths after deaths had piled up on one another from their conflicts over the years until an alliance became simply out of the question. It was why he'd never considered Baaku's proposal as anything but folly. Their fathers would try to kill each other if they were put into the same room for too long. They had, after all, wanted to kill each other for decades.

But Baaku was Baaku. He never thought anything was impossible. The fact that their khagans were rivals had never, not once, stopped Baaku from pursuing him, hadn't even made him hesitate.

'I don't give a fuck if your father wants to kill mine,' he'd said the first time Nazir found him in his tent one night. 'Our people are free because we're free to fight, free to decide if we want to live or die. If we can't go where we want to go, love who we want to love, then tell me, what the hell are we fighting for?'

What, indeed, were they to fight for if not for these things? Small pleasures that made life worth living. The freedom to make choices even if it might lead to an undesirable outcome. Is life not measured by how it was lived rather than how it ends? Was it so wrong for him to seek some meanings to his life besides what it meant to others?

'We may die tomorrow for all I know,' Baaku had said, his face softened in the dim light of the tent. 'I don't want to die not having done this.'

He remembered his own words then, also the beating of his own heart. 'You could also die doing this, Baaku.'

Baaku had shrugged and smiled. 'Can't think of a better reason to die if you ask me.'

Nazir had known then, as he made those five steps toward their first kiss, how powerless he was against the hands of Fate or whatever gods who had drawn a line for them to meet, only to have things end up the way they were now or were going to end in the future. The vision of Baaku's death had also come at that precise moment when Nazir realized a space so large, so permanent in his heart had been seized and occupied by this man without his consent.

Baaku wore a sash bearing the rank of kha'a in that vision. When he was made into one, that future would be one step nearer.

It could happen today with what was about to happen. A fight between kha'as was always to the death. Before the day was over, either he or Baaku would be made kha'a.

Either way, I will lose one of them. Perhaps more than that, if one considered what would happen to Djari and Hasheem should his father loses this fight.

One of those possible futures was there now, staring at him in the face as his father's company came into view.

The two companies met on a wide, empty plain a little under an hour ride out of the Kamara's main camp. His father had paused and turned the group around the moment he realized he'd been followed. They took positions, now, facing each other about a hundred paces away.

The battle didn't happen at the time they ran into each other; it would never occur that way in the White Desert. There were codes, honors, and traditions to consider in these things. A formal declaration of war was to be given before any fight or battle to hold merit in the eyes of Citara. Witnesses from both sides to the agreed-upon terms had to be spared to report to the White Tower. A breach of these rules and traditions could cost a kha'a his position, sometimes also his khagan if Citara demanded it.

His father urged his mount forward, followed by two of his chosen witnesses. Aza'ir kha'a met him half-way with two of his own, one of which was leading Nazir's horse along to the meeting. He had expected this, of course. Aza'ir could be expected to stop at nothing to damage his father's reputation, this time using his son.

But if there was one thing Za'in izr Husari was known for, it was how calm he could be during the direst situations and how impossible it was to break that calm. The fact that the Kamara was there with eight hundred warriors didn't seem to trouble him, nor was seeing his son captured by the enemy. He simply took one glance at Nazir and shifted his attention back to the other kha'a.

"Do I terrify you that much now, Aza'ir," said his father, "that you would go so far as to kidnap my son for leverage?"

A chuckle rose from Aza'ir's throat. Nazir braced himself at the sound, knowing the reply that would come. "Why don't you ask him what he was doing at my camp in the middle of the night? Or maybe you were the one who'd sent him to spy on us, by way of seducing mine?" He turned then, to Nazir. "Did it work, Nazir khumar? Has my idiotic son spilled more than his seeds when you suck him off?"

Refusing to rise to the occasion, Nazir kept his eyes on his father, didn't say a word. There were more important things than his reputation at that moment. His father knew it too and brushed the insult aside just as quickly.

"I see," said Za'in izr Husari, calmly. "If my son has breached your territory, then you have the right to hold him hostage and demand a form of punishment. Only," he paused, the corner of his lips lifted into a sneer, "that is not why you are here, is it, Aza'ir?"

"No," said the kha'a of Kamara. "It isn't."

Za'in nodded. "State your business, then, and be done with it."

"Very well," said Aza'ir izr Zakai. "I am here to lay claim to your life, your khagan, and all its territories. You will fight us, here, until the battle is decided, or you can surrender both your life and your khagan and no one else has to die. What will it be?"

Za'in izr Husari stilled for a time as he made his decision, the fabric of his zikh billowed and snapped in the wind that swept past them from the east. The men from both companies sat their mounts in complete silence, waiting for the reply that would dictate the fate of thousands in the next hour. Everything went quiet, except for the signs of nervousness from the horses that could be clearly heard across the plain from both sides.

His father drew a breath, pitched his voice to carry. "Your quarrel is with me, and it will end with me. This is my proposal. I will fight you, here, in single combat, until one of us is dead by the other's blade. If I fall, you will have my khagan and no more blood is to be shed. If I live, I demand a return of my son and we will lay claim to the Kamara and all its territories. These are my terms should you accept the challenge. You are, of course, free to have eight hundred men fight in your place against me and my five hundred." A small grin tugged on his father's lips, made him look like a boy for a moment. "It adds to my legend either way."

It would—add to his legend—no matter how one looked at it. He would go down as the brave kha'a who fought to defend his khagan to an honorable death, or the one who defeated an army nearly twice the size of his own. The latter had been done, twice, actually. There was a reason people don't fuck with Za'in izr Husari and a possibility Aza'ir izr Zakai had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

It also didn't leave much room for Aza'ir, not put that way and if he were to keep his honor intact. Once challenged to single combat, no kha'a could decline and not be called a coward. His father knew this and also knew it was the only fair chance he was going to get given the number of warriors they were up against. A smart move, but not a surprising one, if you grew up watching him.

"Well then," Aza'ir peeled back a smile, "choose your weapon, and let's get this over with."

***