'Fear can be your best weapon if you know how to use it,' his master Akai izr Imami had said. 'A man who fights without fear is blind, careless, and clumsy. Fear for your life, never your enemy, that is how you win a fight against one.'

All his life, Za'in izr Husari had fought with fear, had done so enough times to like the taste of it. Nothing could get him higher than the feel of those icy talons climbing up his spine. Only fear could light up his senses all at once like being thrown into a pit of vipers. Only fear could get his heart to pump that hard, that fast, as it delivered those sparks of lightning through his veins, making one feel twice as large and thrice the motherfucker to bring down and kill.

It had been this fear that stitched a smile on his face when Aza'ir's blade came down. The impact sent a sharp vibration up his arm as their steels met, the loud, tooth-aching clang of it woke him up like seeing a naked woman after a good long year of celibacy. His body reacted to it like instinct, the pulsating shot of power amidst the screams of muscles tightened to the point of bursting drove the blade back with the strength that surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it. Peace was the price of having won too many battles, too many duels. At some point, nobody wanted to fight you anymore.

The next blow came from high, aiming for his right shoulder. Za'in turned to meet it just in time with his blade, digging into the ground with his right foot as he pushed back. He took two steps forward and turned again, sinking low to deliver a thrust at the midriff. Missed by a hair when Aza'ir caught on and jumped back. A returning blow coming from the top sent a jolt up his arm as he blocked the attack, numbed the entire limb the same moment Aza'ir's fist landed on the right side of his face. Za'in staggered back, caught himself before losing his balance, took a moment to breathe as he kept himself at a distance.

That blow would have knocked the sword right out of his grip had the man been what he was twenty years ago. That punch, too, would have thrown him on his back by now. The man had gotten old; he was weaker, slower now than what Za'in remembered.

So, unfortunately, am I, thought Za'in izr Husari as he stood, chest heaving as if he'd just run a mile trying religiously to pump air into his lungs. Twenty years ago he would have dodged that punch cleanly, would probably have spun out of range before the sword came down. Like Aza'ir, he had become slower, weaker now with age, perhaps also with peace.

I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought, shaking his head.

Not so old yet, however, to get a kick out of it, he also thought, licking the blood from the cut on his lip, and rediscovering then, that long-forgotten addiction to the scent and taste that used to keep him up at night long after the fight.

Used to keep Zuri up too, all night, over a different need.

He smiled at that memory, spat the blood back out onto the sand and drove himself forward for more.

***

The fucking beast should have been knocked unconscious with a punch that close, Aza'ir swore inwardly as he shook out the pain in his knuckles. He knew he would have been—in Za'in's place—especially at the age he was now. Had, actually, been knocked out before just like that by the prick one Dyal fifteen years ago during hand-to-hand combat. Back then, he could never get close enough to do the same—the man had been too fast, too alert for that. And now that he could, he no longer had the strength for it. It stung even more, standing there, panting in earnest from having delivered those simple blows knowing they hadn't even made a dent. The bitter price of getting old, that.

The next attack came before he'd managed to get his heart to slow. Za'in, fast as a fucking cat even at that age, closed in with a blur and a blade raised high. A flash of memory from the old days struck him then, plastered itself to the man at present as he rushed forward. The distant image of Za'in coming at him with a frontal attack, two-hundred pounds of pure, rock-solid muscles behind a four-foot length of heavy steel slamming down on his sword, breaking his wrist when it landed. The same blow would cripple him now, he concluded, and decided to slip out of the way instead, realizing—much too late—that he had misjudged the situation. Za'in, grinning like an ugly devil at the success of his distraction, switched his stance at the last minute, dropping low to the ground with an anchored hand, used the momentum to kick Aza'ir's legs out from behind, landing him on his back.

A breath taken. A blink. An opening for Za'in to move into position, sword flashing silver as it caught the glare of the sun—now already high in the sky and perfectly positioned behind him. His dark silhouette loomed over Aza'ir, one foot nailing his blade to the ground, the other pressing down on his chest, crushing his already depleted lungs. A two-handed grip on the hilt plunged the pointed tip down at his right eye—

—and buried itself in the sand where Aza'ir's head had been. Took off a portion of his ear instead as he turned in time to dodge the attack. He twisted, took the slim opening as Za'in worked at repositioning himself to pull the sword back out, hoisted up a leg and kicked the man in the torso, rolling away out of range the moment he felt the weight on his chest lifted.

It felt like slamming your foot into a fucking rock, and all it did was sending Za'in back half a step, now with his sword pulled free from the sand. A quick toss of the blade turned the hilt back into position in Za'in's right grip as Aza'ir peeled himself off the floor. Came smashing down before he could block it with his own, took a good bite into his left shoulder when he failed to completely clear the path.

Rage spilled out of him with the blood that dripped onto the sand, painting half his torso red on its way down. He took three steps back to regain his breaths and footing, grinding his teeth at the shoulder and the pride Za'in izr Husari had, once more, and after so many times, sunk his blade into.

For three decades now they'd been at it. Duels after duels at Dyal events, taking turns to be tattooed champion. Every year the fight had grown closer, more personal, more intense. Then, when simple games had turned into khagan warfare, Za'in still managed to stay one small step ahead of him. Small matters, some would say, petty feuds, others had commented. Perhaps, he'd thought, but they were both predators and leaders of men, and a score uneven for men like them had to be settled one way or another and before they died.

It would now be settled with death, and that day, in front of witnesses in the thousands. Feels like the Dyal all over again, Aza'ir thought, snarling as he went back into the fight.

***

His father was smiling. He was smiling in the middle of taking a blow, as he delivered one, when he was made to retreat. It matched the expression on the face of his opponent, Nazir realized, watching the two circle each other, reading and anticipating the other's next move with the carefulness and expertise of an apex predator on a hunt. The pacing of their footwork falling as one in near-perfect rhythm, like two dancers dancing to the same tune, each taking turns to lead and follow, sometimes both, it was difficult to tell.

It must have been like this back when they were still competing at the Dyal. The annual festival held in Citara for the very best of White Warriors from every khagan to compete against each other had been where they met. Contestants were chosen from the most frequent winners on Raviyani eleven months before the festival to compete in the games. The warrior who won the most points from all events would receive a tattoo marking them Dyal champions on his arm. The most wins by a single man on record were six. His father had been marked four times. Aza'ir had five, but only four of those had been acquired while his father still entered the games. It was said, at gatherings and campfires, that unless Za'in izr Husari had been among the contestants, winning didn't count much toward being the best warrior in the White Desert.

So when Za'in izr Husari had decided to retire from these events at the request of his wife, Aza'ir izr Zakai had also retired one year later, after his fifth victory. He had made it clear, that there was only one man he wanted to defeat, only one score he wanted to settle.

It was about to be decided now, the fifth Dyal for the two of them, fought here, outside of Citara with both their lives on the line and their entire khagans as the trophy. Nazir had never had a chance to see his father compete in the Dyal. But watching them now, he could understand why those who had would swear the energy and anticipation at the festival had never been quite the same after the two of them had retired. The men present on that plain would be talking about this forever, he realized, about how they had been there to witness the deciding match between Za'in izr Husari and Aza'ir izr Zakai.

They engaged again. Two giants, moving against each other in almost a blur, too fast, too closely matched in skills, both wearing white, both of similar height, built and age. It was almost impossible to tell them apart if one were to stand a little farther from the action. One could forget to breathe, watching them that day.

The footwork had been effortless, timed to perfection to bring them together and take them apart. Precise, powerful thrusts and strikes of their swords meeting one another in a flawless show of efficiency. Blows after decisive blows blocked just in time as though every move had been choreographed and practiced beforehand. Nazir remembered then, that they had been fighting each other all their lives. They knew each other's habits, strengths, and weaknesses, and knew them like the back of their hands, like their own.

But they weren't really perfect, those blocks that had seemed so effortless and efficient. Both were bleeding now, the white of their zikhs stained almost every inch with blood. Aza'ir's shoulder had a deep cut that made it increasingly difficult for him to move, while his father had only a few minor ones but in more places. Both men were panting heavily now, had been for some time from the exertion. It would be decided soon, not by the level of their swordsmanship, but by the strength and stamina left in them.

And then he saw it, just as everyone else did, the first sign of strength failing one of them. Under the scorching sun of the mid-morning, Aza'ir's legs gave out from under him, sending the man stumbling back a step as he stood waiting for his opponent's next move. Nazir knew, at that precise moment, that his father had won the day.

All eyes were on Za'in izr Husari then, watching him tighten the grip on his sword, raising it high in the air as he charged toward the kha'a of Kamara. None of them were paying attention to what one man was doing at that moment, but all of them would later swear, that they would never forget how an arrow, shot out of nowhere, had pierced Za'in izr Husari on his right thigh, throwing him off his feet mid-stride like a downed gazelle on a Raviyani hunt.

***