"I see Djari has gotten herself a handsome new horse," Zabi iza Nyema said after taking a step back to look at Hasheem, grinning widely as she did. Djari's grandmother and mother to the current kha'a was a handsome woman with strong features, made stronger by the numerous lines on her face. They were laughing lines though, Hasheem noticed, and she smiled a lot with her eyes. Nan'ya, Djari had called her. It was how grandmothers were addressed in the White Desert. Hasheem realized he'd forgotten that word, and what his own nan'ya had looked like.

Earlier that morning, iza Nyema had insisted he be taken to her tent as soon as the oath taking was done. He needed some clean up before dinner, she had said, wrinkling her nose. Hasheem didn't blame her. For the past four days he had been sleeping mostly in barns and stables with the animals and probably smelled like one. Iza Nyema had ordered him to be wiped down three times to make sure he was clean enough to be placed at the dining table. She'd also sent for a healer—a proper one this time—to check on his wound. He was especially thankful for that part, considering the fact that his relatively small arrow wound had turned into something a lot more substantial—thanks to Djari and her knife—on top of the burn itself that still hadn't yet healed.

"Now let's see what I can do with that hair," she said, sitting him down for a braiding session. All Shakshis braided their hair, at least in the White Desert as per tradition. Hasheem had never braided his. In Rasharwi, it reminded people of the White Warriors and often made people nervous. There were also strict protocols with braiding, he'd learned. Different styles defined different status in the kha'gan.

Status in the kha'gan.

The thought gave him a chill. It still felt unreal to him, thinking back at the events that happened earlier that day. He was a part of a kha'gan now, had sworn himself to a life of service and protection to Djari, tying himself to her in ways that could be considered more binding than being someone's slave. And she had chosen to place that trust in him, knowing what it meant, despite everything that happened the night before, or the fact that he had no family for them to execute if he were to break that oath.

It shouldn't have been possible, or allowed, even if the khumar himself had come up with the idea. The chiefs had said as much when Nazir brought him before the council and told them of Djari's decision. The kha'a, whom Hasheem later learned was none other than the legendary Za'in izr Husari, simply sat quietly on the dais, arms crossed in front of his chest, listening to his son with an unreadable expression. When Nazir had finished, he turned to Hasheem and asked, 'Why?'

It was the only question asked that morning, and the tent's entire population beside himself consisting of ten high-ranking White Warriors and one bharavi had turned to look at him for an answer. A simple question, truly, but also one most difficult to address given the circumstances. They expected him to have agreed to this in order to survive, naturally. While it wasn't completely wrong, it would have been the wrong answer, especially for Djari, who had stood up for him and agreed to take on such a risk.

But there had been no doubt in her eyes then, not that he could see. There ought to be none in his, for the sake of her, Hasheem had decided.

That morning, he turned to the kha'a and revealed the truth about the attack on his own kha'gan seven years ago, then lied about how and where he'd survived. A merchant family in Khandoor had taken him in, he'd told them the tale. Their caravan was attacked and burned down four days ago on a journey across the desert by a raiding party. It was where and how he'd gotten the burn, and also why he tried to steal a horse. As to why he would take such an oath, he'd told them the truth, or at least what he believed to be true.

The kha'a had listened, thought about it for a time that felt like a century, and nodded. The chiefs' protests erupted immediately after, only to be silenced just as swiftly with a few words from Za'in. Hasheem had never seen grown men—fully clad White Warriors at that—being put in their places that way.

Then again, it was Za'in izr Husari on that dais, whose reputation alone should suffice to silence even crying babies. This was, after all, the man who had slaughtered an entire raiding party of two-hundred Rashai soldiers with only fifty White Warriors. Sarasef of the Black Desert himself, another legend of equal proportions, was said to have been avoiding raiding the western kha'gans because of izr Husari.

One didn't mess with a man who gave the deadly Black Desert mercenaries second thoughts, and Hasheem, having seen the legend himself in the flesh that morning, didn't doubt all those stories. When one trained to a certain point, one learned to measure an opponent before a fight. As far as his ability to measure such a thing went, Hasheem concluded that he would likely die in fewer than three moves crossing swords with this man.

Which was probably why the majority of that council had left the tent with no more than a discreet glare at Djari's new sworn sword. It didn't, however, change the fact that Hasheem had managed to make an enemy out of at least eight zikh-clad warriors after just one day of being there. For all he knew, his troubles had only just begun. He would have to start learning about each and every one of those chiefs soon, if he hoped to survive.

"You're going to break a lot of hearts." Iza Nyema, once done with his braid, beamed like an artist highly content with her newly finished work of art. She'd given him two, small braids above either side of his ears, running in parallel toward the back of his head––a symbol of someone belonging in the upper circle of the kha'gan. To honor Djari, he supposed. "If only I were sixteen again," she added.

"If only." He returned the smile, out of habit more than anything else. "You would have broken mine."

It wasn't that far from the truth. There was an air of something warm and comforting around this woman, like the morning ray of sunshine that would have attracted him a great deal.

Iza Nyema paused for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully. In her eyes were a different kind of light now—a sharper, colder one that suddenly put him on guard. "Be careful, boy," she said, patting him softly on the cheek, her fingers cool against his skin. "I'll break a lot more than that if you ever wound Djari."

He didn't doubt it. This was the woman who'd raised Za'in izr Husari. If there had been warmth and comfort in her, it was not without strength at the center of it.

"With all due respect, iza Nyema," he told her, "it was your granddaughter's arrow that struck me last night and her sword that would likely end my life when the time comes. If anyone is to be wounded in this, it would likely be me." He could not, in truth, imagine himself or anyone wounding Djari, or imagine her allowing herself to be wounded, not emotionally anyway. Physically, well, he had just sworn to make sure that didn't happen, hadn't he?

She gave him a faint smile, but one that didn't quite reach her eyes as before. "And what," she said, trailing her fingers down the side of his face and tilted his chin up to face her, "would you do if she were to wound you? Are you the kind who fights back, or one that runs?"

It was then that Hasheem came to understand the true reason why he had been brought to her tent. Zabi iza Nyema, old and frail as she was, had not been without venom. He was being measured, tested, and subtly warned all in one sitting.

"I am no stranger to pain," he told her. "Whether I fight or flee, it will not be the cause." Pain had never been a factor for him. He was used to being wounded, abused, and thrown into a hopeless situation with nowhere to run. Those things had never dictated his choices to live or die in Rasharwi.

"Then what would?" she asked, her green eyes matching those of her son narrowed sharply. "Your pride? Your integrity? The love of your land? What do you want, Hasheem?"

What did he want? It was a good question, and one he'd never asked himself. Hasheem considered himself to be proud, but never to the point of willing to live or die for pride. Integrity was something foreign to him—one couldn't survive in Rasharwi holding on to anything resembling that. He had no love for his land, couldn't even remember much of it, and even vengeance had not been on his mind when he decided to survive no matter what the cost.

It had been none of those things that forced him to endure all the pain and the pride-swallowing events of his life. There had, however, and now that he thought of it, always been a small yearning, a faint flicker of light that seemed to have guided him through those ordeals. He realized then, that after all this time, he was always looking for something, always trying to survive to reach somewhere. A place, perhaps, where there would be no more need or desire to run. He looked up at her then, surprised at the answer he'd discovered just now. "To find ... my place in the world."

"And where," asked iza Nyema, "is your place in the world?"

There was a correct answer to that, one he wasn't supposed to stop and think before giving her. Considering the oath he'd just taken, to reply with anything else would have been wrong. But it wasn't what she wanted from him, not for a grandmother who loved her grandchild. "I can't answer that," he told her, "not right now."

She smiled again, and this time it did reach her eyes. "Good," she said. "I would have put something in your tea if you'd said what you were expected to say. Come. We must be at the table before the kha'a."