Sunsunder

Borin led Jari through a narrow passage into his estate. The place smelled of oil and iron, of smoke long cooled into stone. Weapons lined the walls, most of them scarred, none polished for show. At the far end of the hall, beneath a hanging lamp, lay a sword encased in linen and leather.

Jari stopped walking.

Even wrapped, he knew it.

Borin unfastened the bindings with care, as if touching something sacred. The blade emerged slowly, catching the lamplight, pale and clean despite its age.

“I kept it,” Borin said quietly. “To remember Rasmus. But a sword belongs to blood, not memory. It’s yours.”

Jari reached out before he’d quite decided to. His fingers closed around the grip, and the world narrowed to steel and weight and balance. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, darkened by sweat and time, worked with flame-shaped guards that curled toward the blade.

Amara breathed out softly. “Does it have a name?”

Jari nodded. “Sunsunder. Father said it was desert-forged. Claimed it could split light itself.” He almost smiled. “He exaggerated. He always did.”

He drew it fully. The blade sang faintly, a sound more felt than heard.

“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Selim said lightly.

Jari snorted. “What for? You’ve got magic. That’s enough to keep you alive.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I was joking. Just because I’m stronger than you doesn’t mean you need to bite.”

Jari laughed. “You? Stronger than me? That’s—”

The room tilted.

The walls slid sideways. The lamp flared, then dimmed. For a heartbeat, Jari had no idea where he stood, or why he held a sword, or whose voices pressed against his ears.

“What in the—” he muttered. “Where am I?”

The world snapped back into place.

Selim was laughing. “See? That’s why you’d die. One breath of confusion and it’s over.”

Jari shook his head, forcing steadiness back into his limbs. “Fine,” he said. “Point made.”

Borin crossed his arms. “Enough games. How does the sword feel?”

Jari tested the balance, turning his wrist. The blade moved as if it knew him. “Good,” he said simply.

Amara smiled despite herself.

“Then we return to the plan—” Borin began.

“No,” Jari said.

They all turned toward him.

“I went into Veyorun alone,” Jari continued. “Killed guards on the bridge. They’ll be watching now. Hunting. We wait.”

“We don’t have time to wait,” Borin snapped. “Momentum matters.”

“And survival matters more,” Selim said calmly. “Three days. Let the city breathe. Let them grow careless.”

Borin glared at them both, jaw tight. At last he looked away. “If this fails,” he said, “it’s on you.”

“Fair,” Jari replied.

Amara yawned, the tension breaking at last. “It’s late. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Borin nodded. “Goodnight.” He left without another word.

Selim lingered, rocking on her heels. “I’m not tired. Drink with me?”

Jari shook his head. “Another time. We need rest.”

She studied him for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she shrugged. “Suit yourself. Goodnight, Jari.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

She left.

Jari stood alone with Sunsunder in his hand. He looked down at the blade, at the scars it carried, at the faint reflection of his own face.

Jari woke with the taste of warmth still on his skin and a smile he did not deserve. The dream lingered—Amara’s voice, Amara’s hands, the easy closeness of a world that did not hate him.

Then the ceiling resolved into beams and dust and shadow.

“Damn,” he muttered, swinging his legs from the bed. “Thought it was real.”

The inn bed creaked as he stood. Too soft, he decided. Too forgiving. He dressed quickly, buckling his belt, feeling the pull of half-healed wounds complain as they always did. Comfort, he had learned, was dangerous.

Outside, the village was already awake. Smoke drifted from cooking fires, and the air smelled of earth and insects and morning. Jari went to the well, drew a bucket, and drank.

He grimaced. “Not even close,” he said to no one. “Oasis water was better.”

He wiped his mouth just as Amara passed between two stalls, sunlight catching her hair. She laughed at something a merchant said, and for a heartbeat the world seemed lighter.

Jari watched her go.

“So that’s how it starts,” a voice said behind him. “Staring.”

Jari jumped. “Hell—Borin.”

Borin grinned and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What do you want?” Jari asked, though he already knew.

“Nothing,” Borin said easily. “Just noticed you watching Amara. Hard not to, eh?”

Jari forced a shrug. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Borin laughed. “I think she might fancy me. What do you think?”

Jari felt something twist in his chest. “No,” he said. “Don’t see it.”

Borin raised an eyebrow, amused. “Well. You should eat. Cooked beetles today. Best you’ll get.”

“Right,” Jari said, already stepping away.

He walked fast, eager to put distance between himself and that conversation.

And ran straight into Selim.

She stood in the street as if she’d been waiting there all morning. “You’re everywhere,” Jari thought bitterly.

“Morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” Jari replied. He lifted the bucket. “This water’s terrible, though. Oasis had it right.”

Selim wrinkled her nose. “I hated the Oasis water.”

“Huh.” Jari shifted his weight. “Well. I should go.”

“Jari—”

He walked past her.

He reached a food stall and ordered dried meat, fingers already counting coins, when Selim’s hand closed around his arm.

“Stop,” she said. “I get it.”

Jari turned. “Get what?”

“You still love Sapphire.”

The name struck harder than a fist. “How do you know her?”

Selim’s grip loosened. “She stayed with me whenever she came to Veyorun. We talked. A lot. Last time she came, she told me about you. About running away.”

“That was two years ago,” Jari said flatly. “And she’s with Eljas now.”

Selim blinked. “Eljas?”

“They’re married.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Jari didn’t answer. He pulled free and walked away, leaving the stall, the food, and Selim’s words behind him.

Later that night they gathered in the tavern, a low-roofed place that smelled of spilled ale and old smoke. The fire burned poorly, as if even it were tired, and the benches were scarred with knife marks left by men who had needed to carve their anger into something solid.

Amara and Borin were already deep in their cups when Jari and Selim arrived. Borin’s laugh was too loud, Amara’s smile too loose. Jari felt the familiar tightening in his chest and did not like it.

“So,” Amara said, lifting her mug with unsteady pride, “I thought we might speak of where we come from. A little binding of wounds, yes?” Her words stumbled, but the thought behind them was earnest.

Jari shrugged. “If you wish. Someone must begin.”

“I will,” Selim said.

She did not raise her cup. She did not smile.

“My parents hated Rasmus,” she said simply. “Hated everything he stood for. They hated me too, once they learned who I loved.” Her eyes stayed on the table. “They beat me for it. Said it would cure me.”

No one spoke.

“My father took another woman. Five years he hid it. When my mother learned, she left. Took my sister. Left me behind like something broken.” Selim breathed out, slow and careful. “Then came the rebellion. My father joined it. While he was busy shouting for freedom, I ran. I never went back.”

The tavern seemed quieter after that, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Amara reached for Selim’s hand. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “Truly.”

Selim nodded. “I am safer now. That is enough.”

Amara cleared her throat. “Then I suppose it is my turn.” She sat straighter, though the drink fought her balance. “I wanted to be a warrior. Dravengarde breeds them like wheat. My brother Godfrey wore steel before he could grow a beard.” A sad smile touched her mouth. “My parents said a blade was no place for a woman. So I learned herbs instead of strikes. I heal men who live the life I was denied.”

Borin leaned in and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You are strong all the same,” he said.

Jari looked away.

Borin drank again, then laughed. “My tale is dull by comparison. I have lost nothing worth mourning. Fortune has been kind to me.”

“Kind,” Jari echoed dryly.

Borin turned toward him. “And you, Prince? What ghosts follow you?”

Jari felt them stir at once.

“I was born to rule Veyorun,” he said. His voice sounded flat to his own ears. “My parents were butchered in a rebellion led by the man I trusted most. He took my brother. He took the woman I would have married. He took my crown.” Jari lifted his mug, though he did not drink. “I ran. I am very good at running.”

“You are alive,” Selim said. “That matters.”

He nodded, though he did not believe it.

Later, when the fire had burned low and the tavern emptied, Borin told him there were weapons at his estate, arms he no longer needed. Jari thanked him and left alone, the night air sharp against his skin.

Borin’s house stood quiet when he arrived, its windows dark. Jari stepped inside and heard movement above him—laughter, breathless and close. He climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. Borin and Amara lie in bed together.

He understood at once.

The room blurred. The air seemed to thicken, as if the world itself had drawn a breath. Cups rattled. A stool scraped across the floor without being touched. Something tugged at Jari’s arms, at his chest, at the old, buried fury he had never learned to master.

Fear cut through him sharper than any blade.

He turned and fled, boots pounding down the stairs, out into the night. He did not look back.