Amara

Jari ducked into the low doorway, blinking at the dimness after the sun’s glare. A woman sat by the hearth-pit, grinding something in a stone bowl. She looked up.

Not Sapphire.
Of course not. Gods damn him for hoping.

He felt the foolishness sting, sharper than any wound Eljas had carved into him.

“Well then,” the woman said, brushing hair from her brow, “are you wounded or just fond of blocking my light?”

“Wounded,” Jari muttered, shuffling forward.

“Sit.” She tapped a stool with the authority of someone used to men twice his size obeying.

He sat. She studied him a moment, then clicked her tongue. “Shirt off.”

Jari blinked at the bluntness. “Right.” He peeled the blood-stiff cloth away, every movement a mute curse, revealing the gouges, cuts, and bruises Eljas had gifted him.

“Saints,” she murmured, stepping close, fingers gentle but firm on his ribs. “What’d you fight? A bloody cave bear?”

“Eljas,” Jari said flatly. “Who else.”

She paused, jaw tightening. “Did you kill him?”

“No.” The word came out an ember of shame and anger.

“A pity,” she said, as if stating a simple, necessary truth. “The world would be cleaner without him. After what he did to Rasmus.”

“Mm.” He didn’t trust his voice.

She worked in silence then, binding wounds with cloth steeped in some sharp-smelling desert herb. It burned, but in a way that promised healing rather than death.

When she finished, she returned with a wooden cup and a strip of dried meat. “Eat. Drink.”

The water was cool. Too cool. It tasted like life itself. He closed his eyes, savoring it as if it were a woman’s kiss.

When he opened them, he caught himself staring at the healer — at her long brown hair, at her grey, thoughtful eyes, at the small mole on her nose that somehow made her more beautiful.

Idiot, he told himself.
You’ve got Sapphire. Or you had her. Or you lost her. Gods know.

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

“Amara,” she said, smiling softly. “And you?”

He hesitated like a boy. She waved a hand in front of his blank stare. “Hello?”

“Jari,” he said quickly.

Her eyes widened. “Rasmus’ son?”

“Aye.” He didn’t add the bitterness that always followed his father’s name.

“We thought you were dead!” she said brightly.

“Only on the inside,” he said, managing a crooked grin.

“So—anyone else survive?”

“Raollin,” he said. “My brother. He’s in Veyorun still. Safe enough.”

She nodded, relief flickering across her face — but before she could speak, the door slammed open hard enough to shake dust from the rafters.

A woman stood there. A brown ponytail. Hard face. Eyes like a hawk sizing its prey. Jari had seen prettier vultures.

“It’s really you,” she said — then strode forward and punched him in the shoulder.

Pain spiked through him. “Gods! Do I know you?”

“This is Selim,” Amara said quickly.

Selim? Jari stared. She’d… changed. The desert hadn’t been kind.

“We dated when we were ten,” Selim grinned, as if it were some fond fairytale.

“Oh.” Jari forced a smile. “You look… different.”

She heard the hesitation. Her grin faltered.

“It’s good to see you, Jari,” she said quietly, then ducked back out, fleeing the awkwardness like a startled hare.

Jari exhaled. Amara raised an eyebrow.

“Old flame?” she teased.

“Old mistake,” Jari muttered.

“Shall I show you the village?” Amara asked.

“Aye,” Jari said. Movement might loosen the stiffness in his ribs. And the sooner he healed, the sooner he could slit Eljas open like a goat.

He followed her into the sunlit street. The desert wind tossed grit at his ankles.

“This is the housing district,” Amara said.

“I’d never have guessed,” Jari replied dryly.

She gave him a flat look — the kind a soldier gives when humor is an unwanted luxury.

The homes were simple enough: adobe blocks, rammed earth, stones hauled from the canyon. Solid, sensible structures. Better built than the sun-baked hovels of Veyorun, which only stood upright because the gods hadn’t bothered to knock them over.

“Down here are the food markets,” Amara said brightly.

“Let me guess — food.”

She punched his shoulder playfully. Agony flared. Jari hissed through his teeth and tried not to yelp like a kicked pup. When he glanced up, he caught Selim watching from behind a stall. The moment he met her eyes, she fled like a frightened hare.

He ignored her and examined the stalls. Clay counters heaped with roasted locusts, ants glazed in honey, skewered beetles, snake meat curling on spits. Cactus fruit stacked like purple shields. Dried meat hung in iron hooks — rarities, expensive, the sort only skilled warriors or healers could afford.

And they’d given the first strip to him.

For drink the merchants offered cactus juice — as deadly as it was refreshing — or camel’s milk. One stall even boasted minted tea, its steam drifting like a promise.

“You eat this?” Jari asked, looking at a bowl of fried beetles.

“You get used to it,” Amara laughed.

He stared at her laugh. Too long. Too open. Too foolish. Selim watched again from a distance, and again she darted away.

“Still infatuated with me?” he muttered to himself.

Amara led him onward. “Here’s the bonfire circle. And that’s the town square — church, blacksmith, pub, and the farm on the far end.”

“Pub?” Jari perked up. “I haven’t drunk since before… everything.”

“Then drink tonight. It’s open till midnight.” She smiled.

“Maybe I will.” He glanced back toward the forge. “Who’s the big man who hauled me here? The carriage driver.”

“Borin,” Amara said instantly, eyes brightening like sparks off steel. “Borin the Stonehand. Commands thirty fighters. Blacksmith from the canyon. Built his own warhammer — killed over a hundred with it.”

Jari saw the light in her eyes and felt his gut twist.
Wonderful. She loved the bastard.

“You alright?” she asked.

“Perfect,” he said, voice as dry as desert stone.

She led him to the inn. “I’ll get you a room.”

“Thank you, Amara,” he said, offering a smile gentler than he meant to give.

She paused — just a heartbeat — then turned away.

Jari exhaled.
“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s get drunk tonight.”

THAT NIGHT

The desert was cold now, a blade’s edge of wind cutting through his thin shirt. Lanterns burned low along the street, throwing long shadows. He found the building with a crude sign: PUB.

“That’ll be it,” he murmured. “Hope Amara’s inside.”

He pushed open the door. Warmth hit him. Noise. Laughter. And among the crowd, he saw Amara — sitting close beside Borin. Too close. Laughing at everything he said, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

“Gods,” Jari muttered. “I can’t beat that ox.”

His anger came hot and stupid. He forced it down, breathing hard, until a bottle toppled beside him. As if nudged by nothing at all. He frowned. Then dismissed it. His head played tricks these days.

He walked to the table.

“Well, hello again,” Borin said cheerfully.

“Hey.” Jari sat beside Amara. Borin grinned like a man who owned every inch of the room.

Before Jari could speak, Selim appeared and slipped into the seat across from him.

“Is she everywhere?” Jari groaned inwardly.

“Hello… Jari,” she whispered.

“Selim. So—”

“So, Jari,” Borin interrupted, leaning forward, “we have a plan.”

“A plan?” Jari echoed.

“A plan to retake Veyorun. To gut that despicable bastard Eljas.” Borin’s voice hardened like quenched steel.

Jari felt a grin creep across his face. “Go on.”

“First, Amara.” Borin nodded at her. “She’s from Dravengarde, as you know.”

“What’s that matter?” Jari asked.

“Let the man speak,” Amara muttered.

“Because,” Borin continued, “she has ties to fifty Dravengarde riders. Armed. Trained. Loyal. She can summon them. That’s fifty extra blades.”

Jari sat straighter. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Amara said proudly.

“Next,” Borin said, “my part. I command thirty fighters — the best warriors in the desert. And skilled smiths.”

“And arrogant as goats,” Jari said.

Borin’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue. My men would break you in half any day of the week.”

Jari smirked. “Go on then.”

“Selim next—”

“I master disorientation magic,” Selim said, lifting her chin.

Jari stared. “You do what?”

“I mastered it at twelve,” she said softly.

There was something odd in her gaze. Something he couldn’t place.

“First step,” Borin said, reclaiming the conversation. “Amara’s scouts map the guard rotations along the southern aqueduct. Hidden posterns. Patrol gaps.”

“They can manage that?” Jari asked skeptically.

“We’re from Dravengarde,” Amara reminded him. “We do what lesser clans can’t.”

“Hm.”

“Next,” Borin continued, “my forge-men craft silent grappling hooks and metal spikes.”

“What’s a grappling hook?” Jari asked.

Borin sighed like a tired father. “A hooked tool to climb walls. Gods, you really are backward.”

Jari bristled. “Your men that skilled?”

“They’d crush you beneath their boots,” Borin growled.

“Fine. Continue.”

“Selim launches a distraction at the eastern gate — sky-arrows, noisy but harmless. Then a strike-team sets controlled fires in empty market stalls.”

“Controlled?” Jari asked. “Not burning the place down?”

“We’re reclaiming Veyorun, not destroying it,” Borin snapped. “Think for once, Jari.”

“Is that all?” Jari asked tightly.

“No.” Borin leaned in. “You lead the infiltration team.”

“Me?”

“With your father’s sword.”

Jari’s breath froze.

“My father’s… sword?”

“Aye.” Borin grinned triumphantly. “We saved it when we fled.”

Jari’s heart thumped like a war drum.

“Show me,” he said.