Zeni crept out of Neith's home, careful not to make a sound. Outside, the predawn air was cool and crisp, a welcome respite from the heat of the previous day. The village was still abuzz with the muted revelry of the Festival of Ankhara, despite the hour. It was as if the celebration had gone on a diet, shedding its excesses of noise and light, but still nibbling on the fringes of the night.

As Zeni slinked through the village, she found herself quite impressed with the sheer determination of her fellow revelers. There they were, the proud and the inebriated, clinging to the last vestiges of the festival’s first day like sailors to a sinking ship. Miracles, the powerful allure of free-flowing beverages were.

Her mission, however, was not to join in the festivities but to locate her friend Yasmine.

Zeni's path led her past a group of dancers performing a somewhat wobbly and off-kilter version of something she’d recently learned was called the Dance of the Seven Veils. It was unclear whether this was a deliberate artistic choice or the natural result of prolonged exposure to the festival's more intoxicating offerings. In either case, the audience seemed to be enjoying it, their laughter and cheers echoing through the village streets. The dancers, in their seemingly compromised state, twirled and stumbled through the veil-removal ritual, still managing to convey an air of mystique despite their evident lack of coordination. The audience, well-versed in the lore, roared with appreciative laughter at this inebriated interpretation, a comedic twist on a time-honored tale.

The quest for Yasmine continued, taking Zeni through a veritable gauntlet of peculiarities. There was a man dressed in billowing green-gray cloaks intended to represent a crocodile, attempting to sell what he claimed were "genuine Sobek teeth,” though Zeni had her doubts. There was an elderly woman who, with great enthusiasm, insisted on reading Zeni's fortune from a deck of papyrus cards (apparently, Zeni was destined to meet a tall, dark stranger – or was it a short, pale one?). And, of course, there were the inevitable street musicians, playing instruments that seemed to have been assembled from the contents of a particularly cluttered attic.

All of it captured her attention so wholly that she briefly considered she might wait until tomorrow or some other time to continue her mission, so tempted was she to take part in all of these fantastical delights. But she showed an enormous amount of restraint, despite not really feeling as though she should.

As Zeni rounded a corner, she found herself outside Basa's inn, a popular gathering place for travelers and locals alike. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a figure seated just outside the ring of early-morning (or perhaps late-hour) drinkers reveling in the inn's outdoor atrium. The atrium was a temporary tented affair, erected specifically for the Festival of Ankhara.

The figure was none other than the pretty Iah-sha'a woman with the silver hair and quiet demeanor who had won the Game of Sands the day before. She sat on a chair, seemingly lost in contemplation, as if the boisterous festivities surrounding her were but a faint whisper on the edge of her consciousness. Zeni, finding the sight rather odd and experiencing a peculiar sensation, decided to hang back in the shadows of the alley between buildings and observe. Like a creep.

After a few quiet moments, the door to the inn creaked open, and a red-haired man stepped out. Zeni recognized him as the individual who had been wandering through the village with the silver-haired woman the first time she'd laid eyes on her. He approached the Iah-sha'a woman with a purposeful stride, his expression reading to Zeni as concerned.

The silver-haired woman looked up, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before they exchanged a few hushed words. Zeni strained to hear their conversation, but the cacophony of the festival's merrymaking made it nearly impossible to discern anything more than fragments of their discussion.

Zeni edged closer, trying to maintain the delicate balance between remaining hidden and getting close enough to eavesdrop on the intriguing pair. She noted the silver-haired woman's graceful movements as she spoke, like a dancer's fluidity, belying the intense nature of the conversation.

As Zeni inched ever-nearer, the red-haired man seemed to grow more animated, his gestures becoming more expansive, almost desperate. The silver-haired woman, on the other hand, remained calm and composed, her voice steady, though Zeni could detect a hint of urgency beneath the surface.The universe – or perhaps just the boisterous festival-goers – seemed to finally conspire in Zeni’s favor. The revelry and laughter quieted just enough for her to make out the red-haired man's words.

"...and he's going to be barred from ever returning here," he said, sounding frustrated and resigned.

"Does that mean we, too, are no longer welcome?" the silver-haired woman asked quietly.

The man shook his head.

"No, as far as the village is concerned, he acted alone, and we're not held responsible for his affronts."

The woman seemed relieved.

"He did act alone. If I had known he was planning to perform such an unsavory action, I never would have agreed to his accompanying us. I cannot believe he’d behave so fraudulently—and for a marksmanship match, of all things."

Zeni's eyes widened in surprise as she realized they were talking about the vellum – the man who had cheated during the archery competition. She was taken aback to discover that the silver-haired woman and the red-haired man were part of the vellum's entourage or perhaps vice versa. However, she felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that they seemed just as upset with the turn of events as everyone else.

"Where is he now?" The woman asked.

"He's being…taken care of," the red-haired man replied. "Kiri was contacted by the elders here, and will arrive by Passenger Port at first light to bring him back to Moon Dwelling. Your uncle is furious."

Zeni, still lurking in the shadows, smirked. The vellum's disgrace seemed to have rippled through his circle, leaving them to deal with the fallout. And while Zeni didn't exactly relish the thought of others suffering, she couldn't deny a certain pleasure in seeing that his actions had consequences, even for those who appeared, at least on the surface, to be innocent.

She continued to watch the pair, their conversation now taking on a more somber tone. The silver-haired woman sighed, a note of regret in her voice.

"Qasir has always been drawn to creating chaos and trouble, even when we were children. I should have known bringing him along was a terrible idea."

The red-haired man nodded in agreement, adding, "At the very least, we won't be delayed any further from reaching Esmara before the summit is to convene."

“I quite enjoyed the festival,” the silver-haired woman said almost contrarily.

The man sighed.

“Yes, Rania, I am positive it was enjoyable partaking in the delights this tiny village has to offer. But while you were both off enjoying yourselves, I was here dealing with the issues that arise from each additional day we waylay ourselves.”

The silver-haired woman—Rania nodded solemnly.

“I understand,” she said. “I was merely speaking as to the joy I’ve experienced these last few hours.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Zeni was suddenly torn between her curiosity and guilt at both wanting to listen in and not wanting to violate a private conversation. She decided the best course of action would be to duck out of there and run in the opposite direction as fast as possible to avoid the feeling of embarrassment threatening to eat her alive. So she did.

—

Zeni finally found Yasmine a short time later, sitting at the edge of the town with her eyes on the vast expanse of the desert. When Yasmine caught sight of her friend, her expression brightened, though subtly so. The hunter woman always maintained a certain level of reservedness, but Zeni had grown close enough to recognize the change in her demeanor.

“Zen,” Yasmine greeted warmly.

"Heya, Yasmine," Zeni returned, walking over to join her friend. “Whatcha doin?’”

Yasmine turned her gaze back to the desert.

“Just waiting for you,” she said seriously and then tossed a smirk Zeni’s way. “Late as usual.”

Zeni scowled.

“Sorry!” She exclaimed. “I stumbled into a cup of steamy hot gossip and had to take a sip.”

Yasmine raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press the matter. The hunter was never much for that sort of thing. Zeni sighed. If she wanted someone to spill the tea with, she’d have been better off inviting Basim. He adored a bit of tittle-tattle.

Yasmine then looked back to the slowly-brightening desert.

"Are you sure about this, Zen? We could go back and enjoy the festival, and save this for another time."

But Zeni was resolute, her determination unwavering.

"I have to do this, Yasmine. Something inside me is telling me it's important that I go now."

Yasmine studied her friend's face, searching for any hint of doubt or uncertainty. Finding none, she simply nodded. "Alright, then. If you're sure, then I'm with you."

—

A few hours into their journey, Zeni and Yasmine decided it was time for a break.

The two friends settled down on a soft carpet of sun-dried grass, grateful for the chance to rest their weary legs.

Yasmine reached into her knapsack and began to carefully lay out the contents of their modest lunch; unveiling a small, tightly-wrapped parcel of fig leaves. Inside, an enticing array of delicacies awaited them: thin slices of dried date bread, still warm from the lingering embrace of the morning sun, and a small mound of crumbly, creamy white cheese, redolent with the aroma of the rich, verdant pastures from whence it came.

Beside these, there lay a handful of plump, glistening olives, their dark skins shimmering with a fine sheen of oil, and a cluster of ruby-red grapes, each one bursting with the promise of sweet nectar. A small clay jar, its sides adorned with intricate patterns, contained a generous dollop of honey, its golden hue rivaling the sun itself in brilliance.

As the two friends shared their simple meal, they reveled in the flavors and textures: the earthy tang of the olives, the velvety smoothness of the cheese, and the sweetness of the honey that clung to their lips, daring them to taste more. The date bread, with its subtle, fruity undertones, provided the perfect foil to the rich tastes that unfolded before them.

Zeni looked over at her friend, astonishment on her face.

“What?” Yasmine asked.

“Did you make this?” Zeni asked, taking another bite of bread.

“I did…” Yasmine said, suspicious of what was to come next.

“Damn,” Zeni said with a nod. “It’s really good!”

—

As they crested a rocky ledge, Zeni and Yasmine found themselves in the heart of the mountains, nearly five hours' travel from Kephri's Rest. It was now mid-morning, and already the sun blazed down upon them with an intensity that would make even the hardiest camel reconsider its life choices. The mountains around them stood like ancient sentinels, their stone faces weathered and worn by countless millennia, and yet still retaining a sense of majesty that only the passage of time could bestow.

Zeni marveled at Yasmine's uncanny ability to navigate the treacherous terrain and locate their destination with such ease. There had been moments when it seemed like the trail had vanished entirely, but Yasmine's keen senses and intimate knowledge of the desert had guided them unerringly. Zeni knew she was in the best of hands.

Speaking of, the trail they followed currently wound its way down the mountainside, a narrow, meandering path that seemed to delight in confounding their attempts to predict its twists and turns. As they descended, they found themselves in a recessed area, something of a clearing, surrounded on all sides by the protective embrace of the mountains.

Nestled within this natural sanctuary, they discovered a small house, a…well, one could call it a humble abode that looked as though it had been constructed from baked mud bricks and palm-frond thatching. The dwelling seemed to blend seamlessly with its surroundings, and Zeni found herself squinting to truly make out where it began and the mountain wall ended.

The area around the home was a fascinating study in ingenuity and resilience. Numerous contraptions had been devised to catch even the slightest amount of rainwater, their confounding designs appearing both practical and almost whimsical. A series of clay pots and channels, along with reed screens, formed an intricate network that channeled the precious liquid to where it was most needed.

A large section of the clearing was devoted to cultivating food, an impressive feat given the harsh conditions of the environment. Hardy desert plants such as date palms and fig trees stretched along the boundary of the property, and even small patches of what looked like barley and wheat grew in carefully tended plots. Interspersed among these were patches of melons and leafy greens, their vibrant colors standing out like riches against the dusty backdrop of the desert.

In this secluded oasis, it was clear that someone had carved out a life for themselves, using their knowledge of the land and their own resourcefulness to create a small, self-sufficient haven in the unforgiving landscape.

As they stood at the edge of the clearing, Zeni felt a surge of excitement. She was eager to approach, but as she moved to step forward, Yasmine held her back with a firm hand.

"Wait," the hunter cautioned, her eyes scanning the area with a practiced gaze. "Remember, Zen: he's a recluse and doesn't take kindly to unexpected visitors. We need to be cautious and respectful as we approach."

Together, the two women continued, their steps slow and deliberate as they made their way onto the property. All the while, their senses were alert for any sign of danger or the presence of the elusive recluse.

As they made it almost halfway to the hovel, Yasmine suddenly tensed, her body rigid and her gaze fixed on something ahead. Noticing her friend's reaction, Zeni couldn't immediately discern the cause but instinctively gathered more Ka, her energy crackling in the air around her. Following Yasmine's line of sight, Zeni looked up toward the top of the house just as a deep voice rang out, echoing through the clearing.

"Don't take another step. Not unless you want me to unleash that ass-beating of a lifetime."

The voice was powerful and commanding, leaving no doubt that its owner meant business. Zeni and Yasmine exchanged a glance, and Yasmine nodded at her. They had come this far, and they weren't about to back down without a fight – or at least a conversation. After all, they had questions, and this individual might just hold the answers she was seeking.

Gathering her courage, Zeni called out in response.

"We mean you no harm! We've come seeking…uh, wisdom, not conflict. Please, allow us to speak with you."

As the words hung in the air, the tension in the clearing seemed to thicken, each moment stretching out like taffy as they waited for the unseen speaker's reply.

As Zeni and Yasmine watched, a figure emerged on the roof of the small house. Zeni's first impression was one of surprise at the man's youth. She had been expecting a grizzled old adventurer, someone worn by the sands of time and the trials of the desert. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with a young man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties at most.

His dark skin seemed almost to drink in the sunlight, while his short-cropped, textured hair stood up in odd directions, as if cut unevenly by a nervous barber. Intricate tattoos adorned his body, swirling patterns and symbols that danced across his skin. He wore light, russet-colored raiments that hung from his lean, muscular form, an almost carefree air to his attire.

Zeni couldn't help but feel as though this man would fit in perfectly as a kind of indie hipster musician from her own world. There was an intentional "uncaring" quality to his wardrobe that suggested he had put more effort into appearing disheveled and unconventional than most people would spend on looking polished and refined.

As the man looked down at them from the rooftop, Zeni found herself revising her initial expectations. This was not the desert hermit she had envisioned, but he was the person she and Yasmine had come to find. And it was clear that he was not going to simply welcome them with open arms.

“Say your words, whatever they are,” the man bellowed down at them. “Then get the hell out of here.”

Zeni gulped.

“My name is Zeni,” she began, carefully. “This is Yasmine. We’re from Kephri’s Rest. Am I correct in assuming you also are from Kephri’s Rest?”

The figure didn’t make any indication one way or the other if he’d even understood them, let alone was willing to answer, but since he wasn’t actively attacking them with fireballs or something, she figured she could continue.

“How about this,” Zeni continued, thinking. “I’m a Rahhalah hopeful—and I plan to enter the dungeon near here soon. I’m told you might have some insight into that.”

This seemed to get a reaction out of the man, and he scowled.

“I’m not who you’re looking for,” he said warningly.

“You’re not Omar?” Zeni asked.

He didn’t say anything.

“Please,” she said. “I’m new to this world and I was just hoping—”

The man suddenly leaped forward, off the roof and on to the dirt, landing in a roll and jumping up to his feet in one fluid motion. It had happened so fast that Zeni didn’t even have time to react.

But Yasmine did.

Her bow was already drawn, and an arrow was fixed on the man’s position as he stormed forward, stopping abruptly a few feet from them.

“You’re new to this world?” he demanded.

Zeni, not sure how to continue, when it definitely seemed like a bad idea to say ‘yes,’ now, simply shrugged.

“Is that what I said?” she asked casually. “Maybe I’d confirm or deny if you tell me whether or not you’re Omar.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I’m Omar,” he said, shaking his head and gesturing to a plank of wood stuck to a post near the entrance they’d passed. “It’s on the sign.”

Zeni glanced at the signpost, feeling the hot blush of foolishness creep up her neck and cheeks. There, planted firmly and visibly in big, bold black paint were the words:

OMAR’S ESTATE

KEEP THE FUCK OUT

“Oh, uh, heh…” Zeni muttered.

“Well, no use in pretense,’ Omar said roughly and then flicked a nod to the house. “Come inside. I think we need to chat.”