They strayed east on their journey north, abandoning the main lynx road for side paths. Ammon’s suggestion, which Mazin followed reluctantly, but it didn’t take long for him to forget about his concern. The change was pleasant despite the haze of winter in the early mornings.

The Dhaar Province, even at its borders, was beautiful. Not even the sharp winter could ruin his appreciation. A layer of frost coated the green grasslands and darkwoods, sparkling like crystals under the touch of the weak sun. Darkwoods kept their near black leaves in sharp formation, like blacksteel arrows drawn towards the sky. Ammon warned him that the Dhaar would be wet, but it drizzled only once. Soft enough to barely trouble his hood.

Mazin thought the air beyond the Beast’s Tear was something to enjoy, yet the Dhaar washed away near two decades of the capital’s stench, and Ammon’s stink for that matter, from his nose.

The early morning was brisk, forcing two thick wool shirts on himself to keep away his shivers. A pale fog surrounded them as they strode along a pebbled side road. His memory of the map table in the war room did depict the Dhaar as a shorter road towards the north, despite the risk. What Ma didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Ammon had been quiet since his sudden despair a few nights ago. He said nothing beyond directing a few times, and the occasional sip of his rancid drink. His back was bent, and he constantly adjusted his cloak. Sometimes he walked ahead, but most of the time he was a step behind Mazin. Always quiet. It annoyed Mazin, which was surprising, his companion was a comfort.

Mazin nibbled on the last of his stale bread, after giving the other half to Ammon. His appetite vanished as the journey continued, but he wasn’t about to complain. He eyed his surroundings, searching for the dark Bagha, who hadn’t made an appearance since Ammon kept to his side. Not even in the void. No flash of silver striped stygian black fur, or familiar ruby red eyes. Sleep eluded him, but not even night’s darkness brought the beast.

Ammon hacked and coughed without breaking stride, then unleashed a thick glob onto the pristine grass. He sniffed and Mazin felt the wanderer’s eyes bore into the back of his neck. Instinct raised his hand to the silk strap covering his bloody left eye. His vision was unaffected, the fabric was sheer to his enhanced eye. He often forgot it was there until others stared.

Prince Mazin yawned and stretched, cracking the stiffness from his arms and back. He caressed the ruby pommel of his khopesh and sighed. His sourness seeped into his nose, tarnishing the freshness of his surroundings. He feared asking Ammon if he knew of any nearby springs. The man didn’t complain about his smell, or his own alcohol; he noticed nothing. Flowing water reached his ears a few times already, but there was no way of going to them without Ammon suspecting his Tamer senses.

It tempted him to reveal them. Many dark Tamers travelled north to Bana’Parvat for their bonding. Perhaps even alone as he did, why would his solitude be peculiar to him? Ammon was a Lion after all, maybe he wouldn’t take kindly to have a dark Tamer for a companion. The risk was too great, he was sure the man didn’t believe he was a thief. How long would it take for Ammon to connect him to nobility?

From there, the throne was a simple step. Ma claimed their fame spread beyond Bil’Faridh, the Lion Princes with the eyes of Felines. Kumkani Lihle confirmed it to some extent, when he arrived to the capital to train them. Long years passed until the fearful glares and stifled surprise became bearable, at least for himself. Zaki didn’t suffer for his eye.

The possibilities overwhelmed him, and the fear kept him away. The constant reminders to suppress his senses, and the name he gave to Ammon. It was tiring, but a necessary nuisance, for now.

A strange scent filled the air, overpowering his own stink. It snatched him his thoughts, but it dissipated as soon as he noticed. Mazin shook himself and whipped his water skin to his lips. The weather kept the water cool, but it tasted bitter on his tongue. He choked, and the realisation hit him before he grabbed Ammon’s attention. It was rot and decay.

“Something wrong?” Ammon asked, yawning as they paused.

The Dhaar had been quiet so far. Every farm and village were a speck on the eastern horizon. No one was on the road, save a few bedraggled stragglers and cloaked strangers. Now death tainted the air.

“Down the wrong pipe boy?”

“What?” Mazin squeaked. “Oh no, yes… yes, a hurried drink.”

Ammon’s eyes stayed on him after his forced chuckle. Mazin cleared his throat and kicked his feet again. He shoved the skin into his bag after another sip, which failed to wash the bitterness from his tongue. The stink grew in the growing breeze, until he couldn’t ignore it.

His fingers tingled as the stink took on other smells. Fire, ash, charred wood and flesh. Mazin hoped it was livestock. The pale haze darkened; wispy whiteness turned into smoking grey. He lifted his makeshift mask over his nose and lowered his hood, hoping Ammon didn’t notice. Soon Ammon frowned at the smog, then coughed.

“Something’s burning,” he said, fumbling to cover his nose and mouth.

“I thought you said there aren’t any villages nearby?”

“There aren’t.”

“Perhaps we should change,”

“They may yet be alive, whoever they are,” Ammon rushed forwards. There was no life in whatever destruction lay head, Mazin was sure. The urge to abandon his companion returned.

The prince jogged to catch up, delving deeper into the smoke with the coughing Ammon. It was a strange fire, both strong and long gone. Once the destruction lay before them, Mazin became more confused. Felled darkwood trees lay hacked on the ground, charred in some spots, dented in others. The grass was flat and yellowing. There were fresh tracks amongst them, but it wasn’t the makeshift homestead the wreckage suggested.

Mazin drew his khopesh in a hurry. The smouldering ruins were fresh, and he tasted sweat. He waved away the fading smoke and kicked aside the crumbling in search.

“Trouble?”

Ammon’s words flew past him as he investigated the wreckage. A newly constructed settlement by the looks of it. One grand wooden home with remnants of thatch blackening the yellow grass around it. Two walls still stood, scarred black by fire and blood. The other two foundations were a mystery to him, because nothing remained beyond the rubble.

It was warm. His eyes latched onto the bent blades of grass leading towards the northeast. At least ten, maybe more. The bubbling adrenaline fizzled from his limbs. Mazin spun around to Ammon, whose eyes focused on his drawn khopesh.

Panic froze him. He pretended not to notice the man’s eyes.

You fool! You absolute fool!

“Did you find anything?” Mazin asked.

“Nothing.” Ammon’s eyes followed the khopesh back into his sheath on his waist. “I’ve never seen a khopesh so large, it must weigh an awful amount?”

“I’ve had it for… I’m accustomed to it.”

Ammon nodded. Mazin didn’t wallow in his own stupidity, a sudden cough and gurgling drew his gaze. Fresh blood filled his nose, mingling with decay. He glanced at Ammon first and was relieved when the wanderer’s attention turned as well. They rushed towards the noise and found a mass of bruises leaning against the back wall. Mazin slapped his thigh.

How did I miss this?

A mangled corpse lay on the man’s lap. Ammon gagged at the sight of what remained of the face. Mazin spotted flashes of pale white, the skull bone. He turned away from the shredded cloth and exposed flesh.

“Please,” the man coughed blood. It dribbled down his jaw and smelled awful. The man’s heart thumped infrequently; his chest was filled with blood. “Help… my… dau…”

The man wheezed his last breath. His bulbous and battered face, his torn lips cooled. Blood bubbled out of him after his last words, oozing down his chin and dribbling onto his stained chest.

Ammon muttered a farewell under his breath. Mazin considered the horror, it had to be Lion’s work, but the lump in his throat fought him. Tigers wouldn’t attack their own like this. Collateral during a skirmish between the two clans, most likely.

“We should bury them,” Ammon said. “They deserve that in the very least.”

“What if the attackers return?”

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“We cannot leave them like this. We are Lions boy!”

“No, you are right, I’m sorry.”

They continued in silence, dragging their boots along the pebbled road. Mazin walked with his hands in front of himself, while Ammon drained his rancid drink, muttering. Mazin didn’t care to listen, his eyes were fixed on his gloveless hands. The dead deserved more than his gloves; stains remained on his palm. Black and irremovable, no matter how much he rubbed. Mazin’s stomach writhed while he stared, blood or ash, he couldn’t tell. For his nose suffered both scents, along with death.

He rubbed his hands together, warmth came, but the darkness remained blotchy. His chest tightened when the pale sun turned into the darkness of wine red. Mazin rubbed until his palms burned. There was no change.

“Galel,” an explosion of rancid stink snapped him away from his hands. Ammon’s hand on his shoulder freed him from his surging panic. Mazin caught his eyes linger on the ruby pommel of his khopesh.

“We stink that much, hmm?”

“Wha… oh,” Mazin lowered his mask. “I forgot.”

“Polite more like. Be polite no more, there’s a spring close by, suffer no more.”

He hacked and coughed after another bout of laughter. Then snapped up his horrid drink and gulped. Mazin grimaced after turning away. The wind whistled its sharp cold onto his cheeks.

“I look forward to it,” Mazin shouted over the wind, wrapping himself with his arms. Ammon’s snicker died in the cold.

A few strides later and the iciness brought the gushing flow of water to his ears. Darkwoods sprouted on the eastern side of the pebbled road. Pairs and trios became small groves. Paths of flattened grass snaked away from the road. Some were yellow, others pale white and brown, all leading towards the grove. A popular spot.

“We go off here,” Ammon said and Mazin followed.

Somehow it became colder as the feeble sun fell off into the west. The wind picked up, and he shoved his hands beneath his armpits. He wondered whether bathing in this cold would be worth it. His sourness wasn’t awful, nothing compared to Ammon’s drink. Mazin feared there wouldn’t be any amount of bathing possible to remove that stink from his companion. If the man wasn’t so attached to his skins, he would have tossed them away long ago.

Steam floated out of the grove of darkwoods they approached. Vibrations rumbled the ground, but Ammon didn’t notice it. A hot spring, Mazin already felt better. They crossed the threshold and he was embraced by a blanket of warmth. Sweat beaded on his brow, and one hot spring became three pools. Each one fed by the pool above it. The ground rumbled beneath his boots, he couldn’t decide if he felt fire or steam.

“What is this place?” Mazin circled the stony pools and eyed the stream flowing northwards from the lowest pool. “I didn’t realise springs were so,”

“They are a different sort of garden of Sanctuary.”

“You’ve seen gardens?”

“Sanctuary itself.”

“You’ve been to the capital, beyond the palace?” Mazin’s eyebrow rose at Ammon.

“There are many Sanctuaries. The one in Bil’Faridh is the largest in Ko’Eri.”

“What other Sanctuaries, have you seen others, are they in Ko’Eri?”

“We should bathe before the weather becomes unbearable,” Ammon laughed, ending Mazin’s excitement before it took over.

Ammon’s body was a mess of scars and old wounds, startlingly pale on his sandy umber skin. Mazin averted his gaze often, with more than respect, it pained him to see his past suffering. The usually prideful scars of a warrior upon one who wasn’t. He hadn’t the heart to inquire, nor did he think it appropriate.

They were in the middle pool. The scalding heat of the bubbling pool above flowed its cooler waters into theirs, which then flowed down into the lukewarm pool below.

The water soothed as it bubbled, seeping through his flesh and massaging his travels out of his tense muscles. It wormed through and around him, reaching his sour crevices. Ammon sighed often wiping the perspiration from his face. Winter was denied entry to their little paradise. Not even a tendril of coolness could pierce the steam, despite the numerous openings amongst the ringing wall of darkwoods.

His eyes drank in the wondrous green grass. The darkened wood with sharp leaves. Coarse stones decorating each pool glistened with steam, it was beautiful.

Moisture seeped into the shred of silk over his left eye. He turned away and ringed it out. Ammon’s eyes were glued to him the entire time. The man leant back against the stones and enjoyed the stars above when Mazin turned back. It was his turn to watch the man.

The water was clear, revealing where the gentle bubbles faded. I could have been as murky as the dirtiest water; he still would have seen through it. Ammon’s scars were gentle on his front, compared to the horrors on his back.

“Where are these Sanctuaries you’ve seen?” Mazin asked.

A smile stretched Ammon’s lips. He was slow in moving, slower to answer. Ammon sighed and raised his head, his eyes opened with dreamlike peace.

“I have come across two in Ko’Eri. One in the Dhaar, the other in Jagu’Ghaatee.”

“Where is the one here?”

Ammon paused again, swirling the water with his hands. Mazin realised he, for once, didn’t smell like his rancid drink. It was a joy, yet hints of it still spoiled his nose.

“I couldn’t tell you. It was by chance that I found it. I’m lucky I haven’t returned since.”

“Lucky?”

“There are some things. Places so… I don’t have the words. You should see certain things once.”

“That sounds more ominous than good.”

Ammon grunted, then leant back with his eyes closed again. Mazin hesitated, there were many more questions he wished to ask.

“There is, or shall I say was, one beyond the Mahn’Parvat. In a city called Saph’Chattaan, though now I’m not too sure.”

“What happened?”

“The Wolves have never loved each other.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mazin mumbled.

“Not like here. Not the occasional civil war. They have never not fought, not once. The Wolves have spilled their own blood more than they have ever spilled others.”

Mazin sat up and listened, then sank when Ammon’s pause extended into silence.

“How far north have you travelled?”

“Not far enough. Mahn’Jaanvar is grand. The lands beyond the Wolves are all broken. The Mr’Bhoom, a grand swathe of nothingness, scars the continent. A dry ocean with towering brown waves frozen in immense heat. Where shade is non-existent, and chitinous monsters chitter beneath the lifeless sand. If you are lucky enough to survive the endless journey through it, the torture turns moist. A swampy jungle, where every step could be your last. The ground could swallow you whole, and you drown in the dankness that even sunlight cannot eke through. Scaled eyes watch you from the shadows, wrapped around the wide trunks of mountainous trees, hissing. Impassable terrain, fear inducing from a distance. That is as far as I dared to go.”

A dream, regardless of the warning in Ammon’s words. The man lived Mazin’s dream. To see more of Mahn’Jaanvar, experience places beyond his own imagination, to walk amongst nameless beasts. Discover more of the Great Beast’s works, beyond duty, beyond the needless fighting between Felines.

“You have the lust?”

“The what?” Mazin asked.

“Wanderlust boy, wanderlust, I’ve never met another so eager to listen to all I’ve seen.”

“Yes, I suppose, I uh… well, I’ve always wished to see more.”

“Why don’t you? Bond with your Tamed and continue north beyond Bana’Parvat.”

“What, no! Bond…”

Mazin bit his tongue before he let out something foolish. Panic sucked away his excitement exploding within. Fear oozed in its place, chilling him despite the warmth.

“I didn’t want to frighten you,” Ammon chuckled. “I’ve seen many dark Tamers make their journey to Bana’Parvat during my travels. Often made their long journeys less lonely ones as well.”

Mazin sank into the water, moments away from drowning himself for his foolishness. He underestimated Ammon.

“What gave me away?”

“My experience, and Tamers forget themselves. I don’t blame you, to live all your life capable of things beyond us. It’s easy to forget yourself.”

Whatever grace the Great Beast afforded him on his journey so far felt undeserved. It rewarded his foolery at every opportunity, when punishment was easier. Mazin lifted his low gaze at Ammon and waited. For the punishment he deserved, anything to lessen the hole in him. It didn’t come.

“I’m sorry for trying to deceiving you.”

Ammon rose from his relaxation, and a gust of sour guilt wafted into Mazin’s nose. The wanderer frowned and tilted his head at him, his scent shocked Mazin.

“I… Galel, that isn’t something you need to apologise for.”

Ammon’s eyes danced around the spring, avoiding him. He squirmed in the water now, opening and closing his mouth a few times. The wanderer jerked into scrubbing with frantic, impatient movements.

“Lingering in hot water won’t do us good when we return to the cold.” The man was on his feet soon after his words, eyes everywhere but on the prince. “Sleep well.”

Mazin mumbled in reply, but Ammon was drying himself and unrolling his bed nearby. He listened to his tossing and turning, the odd gruntled mutter and sip of his stinking drink. The prince freed his ruby eye from the shred of silk when Ammon stilled and buried his head deep into the warm, bubbling water.