Nomad's Return

The water was death-cold.

It clawed at him like winter’s fingers, biting deep into every wound, turning his limbs numb and stiff. Darkness pressed in on all sides, the Oasis no longer the calm pool he remembered but a black pit that wanted him still and silent beneath its surface. Only a pale shard of sunlight pierced down, wavering like a dying candle.

He jolted awake with a gasp that filled his mouth with blood and icy water. The cold shocked him more thoroughly than any healer’s slap. Around him the water swirled red—his own blood leeching from a dozen slashes, curling like smoke in the current.

He kicked upward, muscles screaming, and burst through the surface with a ragged cry—only to collapse back beneath it as pain tore through his chest and leg. His body tried to surrender then, tried to sink and let the darkness swallow him.

“Move,” he snarled into the cold, bubbles streaming from his lips.

But the water felt thick as tar, dragging at him, making every stroke a labor. His wounds burned like hot iron against the freezing depths. Sharp needles of pain stabbed his skin, then deeper—into bone, into memory.

Eljas’s blade.
Eljas’s laugh.
His mother’s blood.
Sapphire in another man’s arms.

Failure after failure paraded through his skull, a cruel triumph marching banner-high.

His rage answered.

It flared bright enough to warm him, bright enough to drown the pain. He forced his limbs forward, teeth bared, and through the wavering beam of light he saw it—a rope, dangling from the bridge.

A salvation. Or a test.

He reached.

His fingers brushed it once, slipped, then closed around the rough fibers.

“Finally,” he gasped when his head broke the surface again, sucking in air as though it were gold.

He clung there, shivering, chest heaving. Then he began to climb.

Slow. Agonizing. Each pull tore open wounds, blood slicking the rope. His shoulders screamed, his leg trembled, but he climbed. Halfway up he paused and looked down.

The drop was far—too far.

“How in all the hells did I survive that?” he muttered. He didn’t know whether he questioned himself, fate, or whatever gods might be watching. None answered.

He gritted his teeth and kept climbing until at last his hand scraped wood. A small platform jutted from the cliffside, built long ago for maintenance or fishing. He rolled onto it, panting, water streaming from him in crimson rivulets.

He turned and stared at the waterfall spilling into the pool below, white and roaring.

“Gods, I missed that view,” he whispered. Then his jaw tightened. “Shame it belongs to that bastard now.”

The bridge loomed overhead. Its side stones jutted irregularly. Dangerous, but climbable. Jari hauled himself upright, groaning, blood dripping steadily. He reached for the first protruding brick and began to climb again, fingers numb, feet slipping.

He reached the arch beneath the bridge, muscles trembling, lungs burning. From there he pushed upward, gathering what strength remained for a final leap.

He flung himself toward the railing.

His fingers struck stone—then slid.

He fell.

The impact knocked the breath from him, wood splintering beneath his weight as he crashed back onto the platform.

“Aah… fuck,” he hissed, staring up at the sky, arms splayed, body screaming in protest.

For a moment he lay still, tempted by exhaustion, by pain, by the soft whisper that said he’d done enough.

Then he clenched his fists.

“Who cares,” he growled. “I can do this.”

He rolled over, forced himself to his feet, and climbed again. Every movement was agony, but he did not stop. This time when he reached the railing he caught it, fingers digging deep into the stone, and hauled himself over onto the bridge.

He lay there a heartbeat, chest heaving, blood dripping between the stones. Then he pushed himself upright.

“Okay…” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Now I’ve got to get out of here.”

He staggered into a run—more a limping, desperate sprint—away from the castle, away from the bridge, away from the man who had stolen everything.

He did not look back.
If he had, he might have seen movement at the castle gate.

Jari half-ran, half-limped across the desert flats, each step sending a bolt of pain up his ribs. The sun hammered him like a smith at the forge. Blood dried in hard crusts down his chest and leg, tightening his skin. He moved because he had to, because stopping meant dying, and he’d not give Eljas that satisfaction.

After a time he slowed to a stagger. The dunes ahead curved in a familiar shape—his shack was close. A miserable little hovel, but it had water. Had, at least.

“Let’s see if I’ve any left…” he muttered, reaching behind for his pack.

His hand closed on nothing.

“Shit.” He looked back toward the distant oasis, now just a shimmer on the horizon. “Dropped the damned thing.”

Water gone. In the open desert. Gods curse Eljas for this.

He stood there thinking—if the heat didn’t kill him first—when something scraped against stone behind him. He spun, swordless, fists ready, though one good punch might crack his ribs again.

No one. Only a squat, needled cactus.

“Right,” he growled. “Because no one hides behind a bloody cactus.”

He edged closer anyway, wounded or not, ready to throttle whoever thought to ambush him.

He never reached it.

A hard crack exploded against the back of his skull, and the world folded into darkness.

He woke to the rattle of wheels and the smell of dust and horses. His head throbbed like a drum struck by drunken giants. A gag bit between his teeth, and a blindfold chafed his brow.

Someone yanked the gag free.

“Talk,” a voice commanded—male, rough, impatient.

Jari spat sand from his tongue. “Talk about what? I don’t know you.”

“That’s exactly why you’re here. I don’t know you. Name?”

“Jari.” He said it because arguing took more effort than he had.

A silence. Then the man’s voice sharpened. “Prince Jari? Of Veyorun?”

“Unfortunately,” Jari muttered.

The blindfold came away. A sunburned face stared at him, grinning like a fool.

“That’s—gods, that’s something! Listen—listen— we’re Veyorun folk. Civilians. We fled when your father was toppled. Formed a village out here. But we stay loyal to Rasmus.”

“Loyal?” Jari snorted. “Keep him. He was a piss-poor father and a worse king. Should’ve followed my mother.”

The man blinked. “Right. Well… we didn’t know you lived.”

“Ran like a coward,” Jari said flatly. “Came back later, thinking I’d fix everything. Thought I was some hero out of the stories. Instead I found everyone I loved dead. And Veyorun—” He shook his head. “Still bleeding.”

“Why go back?” the man asked quietly.

“Because I’m a damned fool.” His voice cracked despite him. “If I hadn’t run, maybe—maybe they’d still be alive.”

The man’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Jari. Truly. Come with us. We’ll take you to our clan. Patch you up.”

Jari let his head fall, staring at the boards beneath his feet. “Whatever.”

The carriage jolted and swayed for what felt like hours until the desert opened to a scattering of earthen buildings—smooth adobe walls, stone buttresses, roofs shaped to catch the rare desert breeze.

Jari sucked in a breath despite himself.

“You like it?” the man said proudly. “We built this. Took years.”

“It’s… better than Veyorun,” Jari admitted. “Where’d you learn it?”

“A healer from Dravengarde,” the man said. “Showed us how to build for heat, for sandstorms.”

Jari’s heart lurched. A healer. From Dravengarde.

Please, he thought. Let it be her.

“What’s her name?” Jari asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

The man only grinned. “Ask her yourself.”

He pointed toward a squat stone building at the village’s center.

Jari pushed the door open.

And—