The war room was dim, candles flickered in every corner. Trophies rotted on display, save for the enormous milky skulls of long forgotten beasts. Banners moulded while they hung with haunting intrigue, most others were folded away. Remnants of dead factions and forgotten kingdoms. Purples and golds, reds and oranges, faded stitching and disfigured symbols. Blades with strange hooks and stronger curves than his own khopesh rusted. Axe heads turned green, withering away before his eyes. This time his wanderlust tingled without the stomach-churning bitterness.

Pride grunted at him from his corner. Mazin struggled with the stale air. Worsened by the decaying relics. Ma stood beside the grand stone map table, smiling at his arrival with a wine glass in hand. It didn’t distract from the stink of discomfort within.

Da scribbled behind her, oblivious as usual. His desk was aglow with candlelight, beating away the encroaching dimness.

“Gawahir,” Ma said.

He rushed to his feet, tossing aside his pen. His cloth was poor, for a pharaoh. It wore him rather than the other way around. Other than the gold circlet and Atum Ra amulet, Da appeared out of place.

Da yawned when he joined Ma at the map table, across from Mazin, avoiding his gaze. He was paler the normal, like chalk, far away from Mazin’s own dark umber skin, not even Ma’s sandy umber complexion was close. Bags dragged down his eyes, gaping pits hollowed his cheeks. Mazin saw nothing of himself in Da, there was nothing to latch onto either. He couldn’t recall kindness from him in recent years. Perhaps a smile, and a pat on his back here and there. That was it.

Da hovered over the table with lazy eyes, Mazin gave up trying to win his attention. His mismatched eyes fell down to the stony beauty depicting Ko’Eri. Bil’Faridh was the only location displayed in full. The palace hugged the flat mountain range of Sanctuary, with the seven districts splayed like fingers from a palm. Without the chaotic colours. Blue separated each of the districts. The Beast’s Tear, flowing from Sanctuary behind, gushing through the city, streaming through the walls to form the wide moat ringing around the capital.

“Have you decided on the day?” Da asked.

Mazin glanced at Ma.

“Yes.”

He waited for more, but she smirked at him instead. Da remained passive.

“The lynx road will be safe while you’re in the Sank’Ta Province. Beyond it, stray west into the Boor,” Mazin followed Da’s hand floating along the road indentations.

“Raban might be a coward, but he’s not cruel. He won’t harm you, at least with his own hand. What is most important is staying clear of the emperor’s reach.”

“Is Zaki coming with me?” Mazin asked.

“When will you to grow up?” Da snapped. His dark eyes rose with a snarl. Ma soured, turning Da sympathetic.

“No baby, Zaki is a clan Tamer now, the clan comes first.”

Mazin’s head dipped, unmoved by Ma’s softness.

“Avoid villages and towns. You don’t need unwanted eyes. This journey north is risky enough. Perhaps avoiding main roads altogether will serve you well.”

“Pack warm, winter hits hard in the north.” Ma said.

“I do not want to hear about your guides suffering your presence, whoever they are.”

Da wrapped his hands behind his back, eyes still on the map table. Mazin searched his bald head, drilling for his thoughts. He turned towards Ma’s piercing gaze and sighed, lowering his head again.

“Is that all?” Mazin asked.

Da grunted, and Ma nodded. Mazin departed with the image of Ma’s searing eyes stabbing Da’s back.

It was a troubled walk back to his quarters. Not even the pull of Sanctuary’s gardens lifted him. His departure excited him again, thanks to the kumkani, but the guilt of leaving behind Zaki worsened. There was also Farah and Jamar, nothing more could be done for them. Da’s dismissiveness wounded him also, not unusual. The man was often fighting with Zaki, but now there was suppressed anger between Ma and Da. He hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the kumkani. What strange feelings before his first departure from Bil’Faridh.

Mazin offered weak smiles and nods to the greeting palace guards and ghosts. The latter lingered on his ruby eye, whispering about its brightness when they thought he couldn’t hear. He pretended to scratch an itch over his red eye whenever a grey ghost passed.

He glided through the blur of grey stone dominating the palace’s interior. Until the golden tapestries and hieroglyphs swarmed the lion section. His ironvine ring occupied his restless fingers while his sandals sunk into thick mats. Gold at first, before changing into pharaoh blue after a few turns, then onyx. Mazin frowned at the quiet passage. Lye soap filled his nose, with hints of sweet flowers. Roses, and something else, strengthening as he approached the double doors of his room.

A palace guard in black scale watched him approach. Her hazel eyes within the roaring Sinha helm glittered when she bowed.

“Prince Mazin, a pair of Tamers for you within,” she said.

“Prince Mazin,” the pair greeted as one when he entered and shut the doors behind him.

Dressed in fine silks, plain gold, both a head taller than him.

“I am Galel Hathor,” the one on the left said. A miniature bronze sistrum amulet hung around his neck. He could have been an older brother, with an organised beard along his jaw. Bald, though judging by the dark stubble, it was by choice. A painted blue lotus sprouted between his eyebrows, matching his blue lips.

“And I am Kamaria Sobek,” the woman beside Galel said.

Mazin didn’t require her introduction, his eyes were on the golden crocodile head hanging from her neck. Red suited her, especially on her lips, and the tint in her dark neck length curls.

A Sobek before him, awe filled his chest. The family of warriors all yearned to live up to their ancestor’s legend. Master Tamers, or the best of warriors as Unblessed even. Nothing less, Sobek demanded perfection. With the line of Horus ended, the Sobeks were unmatched in matters of combat. Yet now his awe spoiled into confusion, for he assumed all Sobeks patrolled the border between the Dhaar and Gaur Provinces. The best place to show off their expertise, despite the lack of grand battles.

“We are your guides on your journey north, your sword and shield,” Kamaria continued. She presented a folded page and to him. Mazin frowned, then snatched it after the Tamer insisted with a nod.

We leave the night after next. Say nothing, tell no one. The pharaohs alone have knowledge of our plans.

Now we will speak for the unwanted ears.

An explosion of heat buffeted his face and he stepped back. He returned the paper to Kamaria, and her hand glowed like a lantern. The page curled into itself; the edges darkened as they burned. Her fingers appeared no different, but it was as if he stood before Master Roole’s furnace. It turned into ash in her palm, but even the ashes disappeared, with the sudden heat.

“Tomorrow evening, Prince, the jaguar gate will remain ajar. The stone bridge crossing over the Beast’s Tear is always unguarded.”

“It snows north of the Sank’Ta. We may be lucky enough to miss most of it,” Galel added.

Mazin caught on quickly, they danced around their lies with common truths. Their scents remained unmarred by deceit. It was still odd, was his life at risk?

“I,” Mazin paused, reminding himself not to spoil their good work. “I understand.”

“Very well, we won’t keep you Prince, farewell,” Kamaria bowed and Galel followed her out.

Mazin stared at the closed doors long after they departed. He smirked, imagining Ma concocting the game. The effort was appreciated, but now he stood alone, and his gloom returned.

His room turned orange; unending rust forced its way into his room from the wide-open shutters of his windows. Mazin hovered around his mirror, admiring the silks and their wine-red tinge. It was quickly ruined by his glowing red eye overpowering it all. He turned away and drew his khopesh, pointing it away from himself.

The world faded when his eyes yearned for slumber, but his mind prepared for battle. He lowered his stance and became a fortress. His khopesh became another limb, an extension of himself, as the kumkani often described weapons. There was space for his second hand, squeezed between the bulbous pommel and the other, strangling the soft leather.

Mazin’s slow dance began, flowing to the will of the gentle breeze wafting into his room. It cooled him while he glided, slowing his heart. He was the breeze, until a sharpness struck him. Freezing him and forcing his eyes open, racing his heart once more.

He thrust the khopesh back into the sheath, and freed it from his back. A hint of citrus preceded the approaching army of slippers. Mazin welcomed the knocker and Cyrea stepped in with another, whose arms were filled with preserved food. Salted and dried meat, dehydrated fruit and something he thought was bread, but it smelled different. The other placed it on his dining table and bowed.

“Shall we bring your supper, Prince?”

“Please, thank you,” Mazin said.

“We were told to deliver this; we weren’t told of the contents.”

“Thank you… uh again.”

Cyrea bowed and departed with her companion. A hint of sourness followed her, but Cyrea’s citrus perfume overpowered it. Mazin squeezed the hilt of his khopesh, and his stomach lurched.

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He told himself to pack, but there wasn’t much to it. Not enough to keep his mind busy. Thick wools, extra shirts, and rough pants filled his bag. Mazin stuffed an itchy blanket before forcing in the preserved food. Idle hands filled him with anxiety as the rust darkened into night.

The grey ghosts returned with the aroma of spiced mutton to make him salivate. Accompanied by steamed bread and lightly boiled vegetables. Cyrea was amongst them again, smiling at him as they brightened his darkened corners. There were more sour expressions from the others at her, but she remained oblivious.

Eventually he was alone again, to enjoy his food and combat his mind. Time flew by, a full stomach kept him content and the wine addled his mind into compliance. The cool breeze burdened his eyes and he stumbled to bed, still dressed in the lavish silks, falling asleep before he knew it.

A hand yanked him away, dragging him into the void. Mazin stumbled on his knees in the unending darkness. It took him a moment to gather himself and end his grovelling. He sat crossed legged, hands resting on his knees searching for calm. It was short-lived.

The void quietened; the whispers didn’t surround him like they usually did. His neck prickled; he was being watched. Mazin rushed to his feet, reaching for his non-existent khopesh over his shoulder.

“Who is it?”

A pair of ruby eyes appeared.

“Trouble on the horizon. Ill news on bloody lips.”

Mazin narrowed his eyes.

“There is no time, plans must be changed. The elders call you now.”

“Speak plainly!”

“Open words invite unwanted ears. News comes to worry your guardians into rash action. We cannot delay, we come for you.”

“Wait!”

His demand floated into the blackness unheeded, before vanishing as the dark Feline’s eyes did. Mazin bubbled with frustration, alone, tired, unable to grasp anything. There was only the void, and little time for anger.

A gaping pit opened beneath his feet, and he was swallowed whole before he could scream.

The prince gasped awake. It was warm and his rich silks clung to his weeping flesh. Mazin mourned the rich fabric while he forced it off, leaving only his loincloth in hopes of welcoming coolness. His lips were as hard as baked soil, his tongue a desert.

A perspiring jug of water called him, and he enjoyed the brief coolness with every step his bare feet took. Darkness engulfed his room; silence filled the palace. The city beyond his open shutters did its best to match it. He eyed the glowing ruby pommel of his khopesh with an itchy palm.

The late-night breeze battered he branches outside, but caressed his bare skin when it flowed into his room. Drying the last droplets of sweat running down his body.

Mazin drained his first cup of disappointingly lukewarm water. The second cup took two gulps, but it was the constant cool breeze from outside that he enjoyed more. Until it became a chill, bringing him shivers while crackling the branches outside.

He poured his third while listening to another heavy crack. Mazin frowned when the coolness that usually followed didn’t come. A shadow crept over him from behind, inking over his cup and the jug on the table. It swallowed all the feeble light of the night.

Mazin dropped his cup and rolled, hoping to throw off the intruder. Water splashed on his floor as he snatched his khopesh, spinning around with the blade drawn and pointed towards the great swarm of darkness.

Its eyes glowed as bright as the ruby pommel, fiery red and fixed upon him. Amongst its light absorbing black fur sparked silver streaks like lightning flashing across a pitch-black sky. The dark Bagha grunted at his khopesh, but Mazin kept it raised. A bubble formed in the back of his mind.

“The elders sent me; we must leave now.” Its voice invaded his mind.

“Why would I trust a Bagha?” Mazin managed a weak reply. His heart quivered in the silence.

“We do not play the games that humans play.”

The dark Bagha stepped forward to reveal its unkempt fur. Wild, thick and seemingly knotted. On all fours it stood as tall as he did. Mazin remembered the void dream, the vague warning echoed within. Then his semi-nude body struck him. His khopesh clanged to the floor and his face blazed under the wild Bagha’s gaze.

“Now?”

“Was the warning insufficient?”

Mazin sheathed his blade, then hesitated again, glancing at his already packed bag, then back at the dark Bagha.

“Have you no fear of the cold?”

He darted to dress himself, fumbling with dark wool shirts and thickened pants. The dark Bagha’s eyes bore into his back the entire time he forced on the darkest clothing he found, and while he strapped his khopesh to his back.

Why am I not questioning this? Mazin asked himself, fiddling with the ironvine ring beneath his glove.

The dark Bagha stood before his open balcony with his bag hanging from its jaw, eyeing him with scarlet coloured expectancy.

“In the void, I was told the vagueness was for my protection. I want to know why now.”

The question quelled his fear, though he doubted the beast would reveal this was a trap if it was one.

“Lion blood is being spilled, and word comes on swift legs. The elders fear what the news will do for the pact.”

Far more than he expected, and honest. His fear remained however, stilling his legs.

What about Zaki? How will Ma feel once I’m gone?

If this news was as bad as the dark Bagha suggested, perhaps it would serve him well to wait.

“Boy!”

Mazin jumped at the beast’s outward growl. It bared its knife length fangs without dropping his bag. The prince snatched a shoulder length hood, but hesitated again.

“How will we leave? Palace guards swarm the grounds, they are all Tamers?”

“Fortune favours you, for I am no Tamed.” The dark Bagha grinned. “When we jump, you must not linger. They will feel your presence and search for you. Run for the lynx gate, keep to the shadows.”

“Jump?”

“Take hold of me!”

Mazin leapt towards the dark Bagha, raising his hood over his knotted curls. Sleep clung to his eyes, his mouth was bitter, and his fear remained. His fingers trembled when they dug into the dark Bagha’s rough fur.

Darkness ripped his body apart in a wave. His skin peeled off his muscles, his muscles tore into ribbons, and his bones cracked. He became nothing in the new blackness, but the same void. Pain should have followed, it should have exploded, but a blink later Mazin came back together and the darkness vanished.

He rolled forward on hard stone and suffered the full force of the wind outside the palace’s walls. His head swam, and his legs wobbled in search of their usual strength. The ground spun while he pinched himself. Mazin found his breath, rising against a dusty wall. Darkness clouded his eyes still.

The stink of the city forced itself into his nose, along with the night’s chill. Mazin glanced back at the towering palace behind. The walls were tall and flickered with lantern light. His eyes searched for his room, but a drawn blade and clinking armour ended his foolishness.

Mazin ran.

He wasn’t sure where yet, all that mattered was getting away from the palace. He clasped the hilt of his khopesh while he sprinted, clinging to the shadows. The dark Bagha vanished with his bag, but the mutterings of patrolling guards stopped him from hesitating.

The prince made quick work of the noble ring, thankfully the streets were quiet, but the lynx district was a distinct change. Dominated by volcanic grey stone buildings and bright crystal torches, there was little darkness to cling to. Light spilled out of noisy inns, illuminating the jovial drunkards stumbling out of them. Ale and cider wafted around while he crept against the brutal architecture, pausing whenever their alcohol addled eyes caught his silhouette.

There was no chance of rushing through the major streets, so he was forced to dive into piss stinking alleys, where vagabonds snored. Huddled under thick stinking blankets, beside drunkards in pools of their own making. He ignored the slurred songs while sprinting across shadowless sections, where not even shrubbery would shield him.

Mazin dived into a dense garden the moment a pair of district guards turned into the street he wished to cross. In armour of plain steel, with Bana’lava carved into their breastplates. Fur was common amongst Lynx soldiers, but this far south demanded common sense on their part.

They stomped past him, clutching spears while they yawned. District guards were never Tamers, and he was grateful for that, for his heart drummed in his chest while he hid.

Long after the guards turned the corner, Mazin leapt out of his cover. The thorny shrubbery groped him, but snapped against his speed. Despite it, the walls of Bil’Faridh still seemed a world away.

Yelps and drunken shouts frequented his periphery when he sped through open courtyards swarmed by people. Cramped alleyways and shrubbery far too small to hide in forced him into the open again. Once more he became a flash for inebriated eyes.

Mazin slowed after putting the noisy people behind him, arriving at a darkened courtyard. The towering sandy walls of Bil’Faridh towered high into the night sky, sparking with torch fire carried by patrolling archers. He dived into another bush, eyeing the doused lamps ringing around the gate courtyard. Faint smoke still floated from many wicks.

The lynx gate was open. Bright torches blazed close by, borne by a quintet of guards. Excitement floated from them, but his Tamer ears couldn’t pick up their chatter.

“We were almost too late.”

The dark Bagha invaded his mind again, without the warning bubble. Mazin jumped and spun around to face the hulking mass of black and silver. It dropped his back at his feet then turned its bloody gaze to the gate.

“The bloody messenger has arrived.”

“What?” Mazin asked, shifting his khopesh to his waist and tightening his bag to his back.

“We wait.”

He shifted on his knees. The shock of tearing apart didn’t stop him from wanting to do it again. Hopefully the dark Bagha would suggest it.

“Shall we shadow jump then?”

“I am not your Tamed!”

Mazin stepped back at the sudden anger drumming his mind. The dark Bagha didn’t glance at him. He mouthed an apology then shoved his confusion aside.

The wind did its best to lift his hood while he waited, eyes jumping between the gatehouse and the dark Bagha. He tested the weight on his back to keep his restlessness in check, then fiddled with his gloves. His ironvine ring was snug within his glove, an adequate distraction.

A commotion erupted at the gatehouse, and the dark Bagha grunted. Mazin watched a mounted Tamer rush passed the guards. Her Sinha leapt over the wailing guards and sped towards the palace.

“Head down, do not stop running.”

The Feline sped off. Mazin broke from his cover soon after. He sprinted for the gate, one hand keeping his hood down, the other kept his bag from battering his back. The lynx guards screamed too late, but the dark Bagha did little more than roar and nip at their ankles. They drew their weapons and swung wildly at the darkness, oblivious to the prince’s approach.

Bells tolled within the gatehouse, and more guards spilled out of it. Few glimpsed him and pointed their weapons. Mazin darted by before they could react, head down and through the open gate. Chains groaned as the enormous gate began it slow closing. His mind was on the calmness of the Beast’s Tear beneath the bridge he crossed.

Mazin stumbled onto the lynx road, then resumed his sprint. The bells clanged behind him still, the dark Bagha roared, and steel clattered, but the prince refused to look back. The bells spread to the jaguar and tiger districts as he vanished into the night.

Fresh air filled his lungs, untainted by the city stink. It was quiet, quieter than he ever expected. No constant buzz of a city, no ringing bells, no marching soldiers. The open road was peaceful. Mazin smiled. His eyes fixed on the horizon ahead, imagining snow-capped peaks and ancient walls glittering with ice in the north.