Jarem had a vision then, of his head rolling across the floor to stop just short of the salar's feet, his master looking down at it with disappointment on his face, perhaps also a hint of regret for having trusted him this far.

It was the worst nightmare for a soldier—to die knowing his life hadn't made a difference, that his loyalty had been misunderstood.

He thought of saying something to fix the situation, an excuse, a good reason perhaps, and realized it could be considered an insult to his master's intelligence. The only thing to be done to justify his actions, Jarem decided, was to come clean and accept whatever judgment the salar would deem appropriate. Traditionally, however, or at least under the rule of Salar Muradi, what he had done incurred a death penalty.

Jarem adjusted himself and straightened as he saluted the salar. He was ready for that, too, had been from the beginning.

"How much has Imran told you, my lord?" He asked what he needed to know, had to know before he was to be executed. The truth was, Imran should have had no knowledge of anything at all. The general had never been a part of any conversation. He had been kept outside of the loop and had only been ordered to tighten up security and to deal with the mob, no more.

The salar, dressed in the most formal attire as though he was about to attend an important ceremony, seemed a little pale and worn down that morning as if he hadn't slept for the whole night. His expression was flat, unreadable, like that of a statue whose sculptor had failed to express himself. "I know everything, Jarem," he said. Words so softly spoken yet made shockingly loud in the stillness and the crippling silence that occupied the hallway. "Imran has been ordered to follow, observe, and report to me on everything you do."

Jarem looked at the general then, trying to read the man he'd trusted and fought alongside since the battle of Vilarhiti and found no trace of guilt on that face. On it was only pride—the pride of a man who had done his duty to perfection. It only occurred to Jarem at that moment, how much of a fool he had been to have believed Imran was loyal to him. He may have been the commander of Imran's division for two decades, but the men at Vilarhiti had fought and died only for one man—the one standing in front of him now, just like then, with those obsidian blades on his back.

"I see," said Jarem. "Since when, may I ask?" How long have you stopped trusting me?

"I've never trusted anyone, Jarem," replied the salar, to the real question that needn't be spoken—they had, after all, known each other for too long for that. "You, of all people, should know."

It was an answer in itself, really, for the salar to have refused to go into specifics. From the very beginning, of course. "I suppose I do," said Jarem. Except Ghaul, he wanted to say. He didn't. It wasn't the time to express that kind of bitterness. Besides, he knew the explanation for that well enough. Ghaul had been someone who survived Sabha with the salar—the prince at the time. If there was one person in this world the salar would trust, it was always going to be Ghaul.

But a man could wish he might one day gain such a trust if he stayed loyal long enough. A man could wish he might also one day become an exception, couldn't he?

As it happened, he wasn't going to live long enough for that.

"May I presume that you have dealt with the traitors, my lord? And the mob?" There were more important things, of course, that must be done and corrected before his execution.

The salar nodded. "The mob has been called off. Azram, his mother, and Amelia are being detained, so are the assassins you've sent into the temple."

Jarem sighed in relief. At least those problems had been solved. He could die without worrying about these things, even if the Witch would still be alive.

"I have," said the salar, in a slightly altered tone, "also released Zahara from the Tower, as of today."

Jarem's jaw dropped open at that. "You have, my lord?"

"I know she's a threat, Jarem," said the salar. "I've always known. You might have had more faith in my judgment. I have expected that much from you."

There was a trace of disappointment in the salar's tone, if no more than a hint. It had been enough to tell Jarem, however, that somewhere along the way the opportunity to gain that trust had been given, but at the very first test of loyalty, he had gone and done this thing. "I might have." He understood that now, and much too late. "I should have, my lord. I have failed you."

There was a pause from the salar, a trace of hesitation Jarem hadn't seen often. He was in a different mood that morning. "You will not ask for forgiveness, then?"

Jarem smiled, painfully. "Now you have failed me," he said. "You know better than to ask that question, my lord. You cannot afford to forgive me, not for this. As your advisor, I would never advise you to do so. I may be a fool to have misjudged your strength to rule, but you might have had more faith in my loyalty and my pride. I have, my lord, expected that much from you."

And he had, expected that much from the salar if trust was never to be given to the likes of him. People who asked for forgiveness didn't deserve to be forgiven. You accepted the consequences of your actions if your guilt was genuine. He had prepared to die the moment he set those plans into action, had known it might have come to this and made his peace with it. "You need to kill me for this to set an example, my lord. All I ask is that you let me die honorably and die without my loyalty being questioned." An honorable death, at least, was what Jarem knew he would be given. There was a reason, after all, for the salar's formal attire that day. He had almost forgotten how thoughtful this man he had served for more than twenty years was.

"To set an example," the salar said, more to himself than to Jarem. He smiled then, bitterly, sardonically as if he suddenly remembered a bad joke from the past. There was an ache to the way he'd spoken those words, one that bled into the room, and twisted something in Jarem's heart.

And then, like a veil being lifted from his eyes, like a clearing of a fog that had been clouding his vision, Jarem realized he knew the true meaning of those words and the expression on that face, the same one he had witnessed years before. The salar—the crown prince at the time—had looked exactly like this that one afternoon almost two decades ago, the day he had gone to the throne room to kill his father, the last Salar of Rasharwi.

'What was it that you told me, father?' The prince had said, digging the tip of the knife into the salar's throat, taking his time to drag it across. 'Examples must be set? Sacrifices must be made?' His whole body had trembled then, his jaw clenched as tight as the hand that held the blade. 'You should have killed me then and set your example. Then I wouldn't have to kill you both.'

The boy who was said to have never shed a single tear in Sabha, the same one who had grown into a man and later become the conqueror of Vilarhiti had stood then, above the corpse of his father he'd just slain, his whole body covered almost every inch in blood from having fought his way in, and cried, once and only once, the day he became the Salar of Rasharwi.

He had ruled, since then, with countless examples he'd set and sacrifices he'd made, and every time the face of that young man above his father's corpse had returned, if only for a split of a second. Jarem had never put it together until now. Had been ignorant enough to not see how much it had been taxing him to do these things.

And now he was asking the same of the salar—to set an example, for his own honor and pride, for the safety of the throne.

You wanted me to ask for forgiveness, and I have failed that too, haven't I?

"My lord..."

The sound of the two obsidian swords being drawn cut him off mid-sentence, made a hundred men in that corridor jolt like they had been struck by lightning. The identical, indescribably sharp blades that had been handed down to every Salar of Rasharwi from his predecessor gleamed brilliantly in the beam of sunlight that came in. Somehow, a measure of peace settled in the silence that occupied the hallway.

It was time.

"You have been with me from the start," said the salar. "This, I do not forget."

Jarem drew a breath and lowered himself to the floor, balancing his weight on both knees. His joints screamed at him for that. I am getting too old for this anyway. "Nor will I, my lord."

"You will die with honor. You loyalty has not been questioned. This, you have my word."

It was enough for him to know. Enough for a soldier to die without regrets, for his life to hold meaning. "Your kindness will not be forgotten, my lord."

The salar nodded. If there had been hesitation, it didn't show. It was what he admired about this man; once a boy he had helped raise to become the next Eli the Conqueror, perhaps, even, to succeed him. "Your last words, Jarem."

Jarem izr Sa'id prostrated himself on the floor, stretching out a hand toward the hem of the salar's black robe, brought it slowly but steadily to his lips. There was no regrets in his heart then, none whatsoever to have lived and served this man.

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

The two blades crossed in front of him, the open end of the X they formed trapped Jarem's neck in the middle. He could feel the weight of them on his shoulders then, could feel, also, a tremble so small no eyes would have noticed as they slid against each other, before everything turned to black, and he could feel no more.

***

There were few things in life that could shake Imran as a grown man, and it wasn't the sight of Commander Jarem izr Sa'id's head rolling off his shoulders, but that of the man who'd taken it. The man who, as he stood watching the blood of his trusted subordinate dripping down the length of his blades, appeared to be carrying the weight of the world and that of everyone in it, alone. Wrapped around him then was a void so large and desolate the presence of more than a hundred men could do nothing to fill—a cocoon of isolation guarded behind a wall no one could penetrate. He was still a figure so large, so grand among men, but one that Imran could feel had come dangerously close to breaking. It would take just one more blow, one last strike directed at his heart for that control to come tumbling down.

Change was in the air after the death of the Commander. A good man had fallen that day, but something else, too, that had been holding important things together had crumbled along with it. Imran wondered then, if the commander could sense it, somewhere in the hallway where his soul might still linger, how his death was going to change the entire peninsula. If he could see, even now, the way Salar Muradi was standing above his corpse, both arms hanging loose on either side, holding the swords as if they weighed a ton, as if that one single strike had drained the last of his strength. Jarem izr Sa'id had been the righthand man of the salar, but that day, one could say he'd lost both arms in the process, not just the one.

And he would lose even more than that, if one considered how Commander Sa'id's wasn't the only or the last execution the salar would have to carry out from that event.

There were his son—the third one now—his salahari, his newly wedded wife Amelia he would have to execute. To set an example. For the security of the throne, the Salasar, and every life in it. It was for those things and those things only, Imran knew. For the past two decades he had served both the prince and the Salar of Rasharwi, there had never been a day he could say that this man had ever enjoyed the position. It was just something he had to do, the only way he could make sense of his existence, a punishment even—one he seemed to have chosen to bestow upon himself to pay for some crimes he had yet to forgive himself.

And he had, as of that day, set free the only woman who might have come the closest to giving his life another meaning. One would have to be blind to not see it, the way his mood shifted when she entered the room, how much strength had been drawn from her presence in the past eighteen years. Commander Sa'id had seen it, of course, it was why he'd thought she had to die, but he had forgotten why she also had to live.

The roar that came in through the window of the commander's study tore him from his thoughts. The salar turned at the same time he did to the direction of the sound. Imran ran into the room to look out the window. Outside, a mass of people large enough to be seen from the Tower was pouring from every direction into the streets leading toward Sangi. It didn't take long for him to realize what was happening.

It took even less time for the salar to know it without needing to hear a word of explanation.

"Ghaul!!" Imran yelled at the top of his lungs as he ran back toward the door, knowing in his heart that this would be that last strike needed—

—and was proven right the moment he saw that black robe of the salar from behind, its owner already halfway down the corridor.

"Guards!" He was screaming now, running as he did. "Close that exit. Don't let him leave the Tower! Ghaul, stop him!"

Ghaul, who had been following just two steps behind the salar as he always did, turned to look at Imran, indecision written all over his face.

"There are assassins in the streets waiting to kill him! He can't go down there! Stop him!"

The explanation sent Ghaul running ahead of the salar to cut him off. "My lord," he said, "forgive me."

The salar stopped in his track, turned swiftly to check his surroundings, and upon realizing all exits had been blocked, reached behind him for the blades he'd sheathed just before he'd set off and cleared them without a second of hesitation.

Ghaul, to his credit, didn't even flinch at the sight of those blades. He took a firm step forward, made sure his intention to not move from the spot was crystal clear. "I can't let you go, my lord. It's not safe down there."

From behind, Imran could see the rise and fall of the salar's shoulders as he breathed. The last time Imran had seen him that mad was during the massacre at the Vilarhiti. This isn't going to end easily, or well, he thought. "My lord, let me take the men to get her. You don't have to go. We can get her back. Your people need you h—."

"I will say this once and only once," said the salar as he looked over his shoulder, his voice lifted to carry a command that could cut through steel. "You will come with me, down there, with a thousand men at my back, or you will get out of my way. Challenge me, and there will be blood on this corridor." He stepped into position, raised both blades in his hands, ready to strike. "It's going to take more than a hundred men to kill me. The first man among you who wants to die trying to kill Salar Muradi of Rasharwi will come forward and clear your sword now, on a count of three, or I will take my pick. One." His voice filled every inch of the corridor, rang louder than thunder, clearer than a wrath of god should one ever came down to strike.

"My lord," said Imran.

"Two." The whole Tower seemed to shake at the sound. It might even come down, Imran thought, if this continued.

Ghaul stepped forward then, pain written on his face as he faced his master, his axe lowered in submission. "I have sworn to protect you with my life, and I will die protecting you. I am the first you will have to kill, my lord, my prince."

It froze the salar on the spot, that last word Ghaul had chosen to address him with, and from behind, Imran could see the hands that held the swords trembled from where he was, was certain the rest of the men had seen it too.

The salar, a figure almost half the size of his giant bodyguard stood looking up at him, his breathing becoming lighter, shallower now, judging from the movements of his shoulders from behind.

It was spoken in almost a whisper, meant only for Ghaul to hear, but proximity had also allowed Imran to make out those words from the salar to the last man who held his trust.

When he was done, when those words had been said, Imran knew with a certainty he couldn't deny that they had lost this fight. There was to be no running from the path Fate had drawn for them—the path that had begun one evening after the battle of Vilarhiti, when a woman was sent, dripping wet from her head to her toes, into the tent of the crown prince who later became the most powerful man in the Salasar. A woman who now held the fate of the entire peninsula in her hands.

"Then you might as well kill me, Ghaul," the salar had said. "That is my life they are trying to burn."

One thousand men left the gate of the Black Tower that morning, riding not so far behind Salar Muradi of Rasharwi, his bodyguard, and Imran izr Imran, now Commander of the Royal Army— the general who had been promoted right after the death of Jarem izr Sa'id whose name would later be written by historians throughout the Salasar as the man responsible for the ending of Salar Muradi's reign.

***

A/N: This chapter has not been what I'd set out to write. I have always been fond of Jarem and I had planned for him to live for a long time. It occurred to me mid-chapter, that he had to die and he would have wanted to die at least to gain that place in the salar's heart in the end. I will miss writing him a lot, but I will have a chance to write him again when I start the prequel of Muradi's life from the beginning. As for what happens after this, I am a panster by heart and have absolutely no idea at this point *cries.