Mazin gasped awake with his mouth turned into a desert. His lips torn, tasting of blood, snatching at his tongue whenever it dared to wet them. It stung more than the slice on his forearm. Blood, so much blood, spraying, washing over him. Flayed limbs, gaping chests, wailing death.

No!

The prince wept and dug his stiffened fingers into the lush ground. No more death, he ran and ran and ran, there was no death here. Not by his hand. He didn’t relinquish the grass and soil from his tight grip until his mind gave him peace.

His jaw was tight, yet nothing compared to the absolute pounding running through his entire body. Mazin groaned at the mere effort of lifting off the albeit soft ground. He trembled as he fisted the grass beneath him and flipped over onto his back.

The sky above was gloomy. Night’s darkness kept its hold, but the slow rise of morning approached. Subtle sounds of waking, whispering songs of lesser beasts. He shuddered when a moist gust ruffled its way through him. Mazin sat up, abandoning the cloudy blanket stealing away the dark beauty of the fading night sky.

A glint to his left caught his eye, unencumbered by the silk patch that spared the world of his ruby eye. It was his khopesh, disfigured from his work. Dark bulges of congealed blood and flesh. Not unlike the hardened plates that ruined his gloves. Mazin stifled a gag and shut his eyes, begging for the flashes in his mind to cease. He ripped the gloves from his hands, but the blood seeped through.

The blood dyed his palms maroon. Mazin’s chest tightened, he rubbed his hands together before the trembling took hold. The friction almost set his hands ablaze, yet the stains refused to fade. He fought back tears and turned to rubbing his hands on the moist grass when panic set it.

Clean hands did little to ease the torture his mind exerted upon him. He wrapped his arms around his legs after curling into a ball. Mazin glanced at his khopesh, then shuddered. He glanced at his tossed aside bag towards the right and almost reached out for it. Instead, the pocket of grass he sat upon between the roots became the softest mattress in the world. The prince was quick to put his back to the khopesh. Sleep dragged him away just as the first of the sun’s fire crept over the horizon.

Prince Mazin jerked awake with the morning light in full effect. His eyes felt hollow and raw, nothing compared to the throbbing rushing through his entire body. His limbs regained their previous fatigue, refusing to move even as he willed them to. He groaned when he broke the initial stony stiffness. Bones churned against each other, screeching imagined noises until he trusted they were back to their usual mobility. All while grinding his teeth at the slow burning pain.

He sat up and took in his surroundings once more with the aid of sunlight, which surprised him, considering the rising briskness. The rolling lush plains of healthy green stretched far and wide all around him. With the odd towering tree sprouting on each horizon. It was quiet here, far from any road or life filled structure.

Mazin turned around and eyed the dead tree sheltering him. A ghost tree, but tired and chipped, drained of all its mystical beauty. Its winding limbs were sickly pale and patched with rot. The overhanging branches were thin and leafless. A poor imitation of the few ghost trees he had seen.

His stomach rumbled, and his bag beckoned. There were a few soggy pieces of dried meat. The tedium of chewing only worsened his hunger. Mazin groaned to his feet, stretching the tightness from his bones. He dug into the bag and tore a sleeve from an old shirt for his eye.

The bag was damp against his back. He tightened the straps and resumed north, with the sun on his right shoulder. A glint stilled his feet, his stained khopesh in the grass. It seemed so easy to turn around and leave it there. Forget about the murder on it, pretend it never happened.

No, Mazin would not compound the shame by insulting Ma's gift.

His heart quivered when he knelt over it. He whipped out the torn shirt and a water-skin from his bag. With another torn sleeve, he scrubbed at his drenched blade. Mazin scrubbed with vigour and the dried blood eased off. Even the redness burrowed into the grooves of the script carvings faded. Master Roole deserved a word of thanks for his handiwork.

Mazin bit back at his disgust when he strangled the fine leather wrapping around the khopesh hilt. With it sheathed on his waist again, he felt somewhat restored. He forced his bag on and began his journey north once more, at a brisk jog.

Midday arrived without warning. The heat never grew from the morning’s strength. The expected winter chill was not around, at least. There was no road, only lush grass and sparse darkwoods. Not that he would return to a road if he saw one. Any road was far from his mind.

It was quiet, and he only had his mind to contend with. A simple battle now. With the peace surrounding him, his mind focused on suppressing the betrayal deep in the recesses of his mind. He already forgot Ammon’s face. His stink and voice refused to leave him though, and the blood. So much blood spilled.

Mazin shut his eyes and quickened his jog. He tasted moisture in the air, more than usual freshness in the Dhaar. Distant rumbling hastened him. His eyes burst open in search as the slow greyness stretched its vast fingers over the clear blue sky. The breeze turned into a chilling wind, dragging the rain closer. Shelter. While he sprinted, his eyes jumped around, studying the tight-knit formations of darkwoods.

The groves were unappealing, but the approach of thunderous rain whittled at his pride with every rumble. The blazing midday sun was short-lived, quickly overtaken by rain clouds, failing to shine its yellow light. It drummed in the sky now, to match the race in his chest. A sky born crack like the largest of whips stilled him. Then came the cloud’s tears. Large globs splashed down onto his face, cooling him while the sky grumbled.

Mazin watched and listened, waiting for the crack to return from the darkness above. His hood remained around his neck, blotched by blood and soaked by his sweat. The rain cleansed with its forceful fall. Each droplet a two fingered slap on his exposed flesh.

The thunder clap came, cracking in the greyness above. Mazin managed a smile. He rushed to the closest grove of darkwoods and dove for the driest ring around the trunk. Before the rain seeped through his stained clothes. He shook himself dry and collapsed against the trunk, his knees close to his chest, and arms around his shins.

A moment became a wait, the pause turned laborious, his break was an agony. The rumbling ceased, the cracking whip rolled and stored away. Left alone, with the heavy rain thumping rhythmically on his wooden and leafy shelter. Mazin whipped out his raggedy cloak and wrapped himself with it. A shield against the whistling chill upon his shelter. Had the sun set? The darkness made the question difficult to answer.

An unwelcome guest greeted Prince Mazin, aided by the calm that the rain forced on him. No amount of restlessness saved him from the memories creeping back into his mind.

No!

Blood sprayed onto his face.

No!

He gored a gaping hole in the archer. His bare hands, without a spear. Tearing and grabbing, snapping the bones after rending her flesh apart with his claws.

“Please,” Mazin said aloud as he curled into a ball on the dry grass, opening his eyes to the rain and darkness swarming around him.

The rain drummed; his mind refused to give him peace. He had nothing else to do but to remain a ball and cry.

Mazin awoke in the void in a ball. It took him a second to realise he was there. The unyielding darkness made the horror of his handiwork unavoidable. Whispers turned into haunting cackling. A blanket of noise suffocating him, refusing to cease their mockery even as he curled into a tighter ball.

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The ever-watchful eyes of the void were piercing, judgemental, hammering away at him. His fine hairs rose on his neck, others became more than obvious. There were other whispers amongst the blanket, snickers.

“Get up.”

It sucked away the cackling whispers, forming into the dark Bagha. Mazin flinched as its command hammered all around the darkness.

“Up!”

From his knees, he rose by the will of the dark Bagha’s command. Hurled up by its voice, forced to look into its glimmering ruby eyes. He craned his neck up, then rose to his feet, clearing his throat to wash away his shame.

“You have made great ground, boy. Bana’Parvat may be a week away. If you are fortunate to avoid the snow.”

“Avoid?”

“We cannot linger. The hour is late, and the hounds nip at your ankles.”

“Wait what hounds, who?”

The dark Bagha didn’t wait. Mazin stood alone with his echoing words. They disappeared, and the whispers scattered back into the void.

The swarming whispers rose in strength. Ammon was following him, that’s what the Bagha meant. It had to be. He clenched his fist at the thought. It was the wanderer’s whining that returned his anger.

Mazin returned to reality with his chest ablaze, his palms stinging and body ready for work. It was still dark beyond the shelter of his darkwood, not from rain clouds. Night fell, but that wasn’t on his mind at the moment.

He forced his sheathed khopesh back onto his waist, and his soggy bag on his back. Eye patch tightened; hood raised from around his neck. He stepped out into the chill. The sky wept, spitting, gently cooling his bubbling anger.

The prince resumed his journey at a brisk pace, enjoying the spray. Stars were few, hidden behind blotches of grey clouds. A biting breeze, worsened by his rising speed, sliced through his ragged clothes. It froze his joints, slowing him down, but the threat of Ammon drove him. Not even the slippery grass would stop him now. The possibility of seeing Ammon again, Mazin feared what he would do.

Late night became early morning, dragging the drizzle along with it. The sun was late in shining its light, for the gloom remained, even if it was a dryer gloom. Pale blue glowed amongst the darkness above, brightening only the eastern horizon. Where, for the first time, he made out homes and farms shadowed in darkness. Not even his Tamer eyes made out whether there was life within. For some, he wasn’t sure if they were still standing. It was possible they were towering piles of rubble. He was glad there was no destruction in the air, no death and ashes for him to suffer.

His surroundings turned uneven. Mounds bulged from beneath the lush grass, forcing him to scale them or circle around. It wasn’t long until the mounds grew and his thighs screamed with every climb. When the cloud broke, he circled them, allowing a mediocre midday sun to prick at his sweating neck. Nowhere near what he suffered down south, but his fatigue worsened it.

At least the darkwoods were still present, though most would force him to climb for shelter. There was no chance of avoiding it now, his growling stomach the final straw.

Prince Mazin scaled a shaded mound and collapsed with a sigh against an ageing darkwood tree. The edges of its dark viridian leaves decayed into a dry brown. They withered to dust against the gentle caress of his fingers, while he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. His thighs kept moaning, even as he shook them into calmness. He expected little when he dug into his bag.

Mazin leant back and took in the soothing quiet with his eyes lowering. The whispering breeze shifting branches and brushing leaves, the faint chittering of insects hiding in the lush grass. The odd howl from lesser beasts threatened to break his peace. They often won flinches from him, but he kept his heart calm.

It was a fleeting peace, thanks to his mind. A snapping twig, at first sounding close to his ears as loud as thunder, exploded his limbs into action. They burned with anticipation. His right hand rushed for the leather wrapped hilt of his khopesh, while his left rushed to cover his ruby eye with the lowered patch. Mazin was on his feet, khopesh half drawn against the wind.

His heart raced even as his eyes confirmed his paranoia. He snatched his hand away from his blade and forced it into a fist, before his rashness did something worse. Mazin tainted his spark of panic into frustration as he stomped down from the hillock to continue his journey north. Still chewing the last morsel of soggy, tasteless meat. He sniffed the fresh air after reaching flat grass, reassuring himself there was nothing rancid. Then he kicked his boots into a jog.

The midday sun sailed its way towards the western horizon. Grey clouds encouraged its departure with their return. He appreciated the warmth, even if it meant his skin wept profusely. It was taking him some time to become accustomed to the frequent cold of the Dhaar Province. The dark Bagha warned of the snow. It seemed more a threat now. If snow slowed him as well, he feared the chill it would bring.

Living in the capital so far south from the Dhaar spared him the influence of snow. All he knew of it were Ma’s complaints and the stories from traveling musicians invited into the palace. Frozen white rain, gentle when falling, yet harsh when clumped together. Ma thought it worse than sand, freezing to your touch, and draining to trudge through. Still, he was curious.

It was dark before he noticed. The growing gloom dulled the cacophony of fiery colours that should have splashed across the western horizon. The temperature dropped with the sun, but his speed spared him the worst of it. He enjoyed the waking grunts of distant beasts, the wild hunters of the night, as well as the trickling of flowing water.

Mazin drained his water-skin without breaking stride. He wouldn’t dare it in the Sank’Ta. Water was scarce. There was no worry in the Dhaar. The very air he breathed moistened his tongue, and there always seemed to be water nearby.

Night fell, and the mounds shrank in size. Darkwoods were few, and the rare ghost tree caught his attention. The night was bright. Lights flickered in both the west and east, slowing his pace and pricking up his fine hairs. The shadowed homes cautioned him.

Prince Mazin slowed to a stroll. The night sky rumbled above, and the serene music of flowing water beckoned. His eyes never left the brightened homes in the distance while he approached the closest spring. Even as the ground rumbled beneath him, he watched the homes. He strained his ears for anything that would give him reason to flee.

Night’s chill seeped through his clothes and flesh now that the adrenaline of his pace withered. He fought against shivering and jogged into the warm embrace of the enclosed hot spring. Mazin oohed when the warmth shielded him from the cold. A ghost tree grew at the head of the largest pool, its pale silky leaves caressed the clear water below. Large moss swarmed rocks and darkwoods formed a natural wall around the many pools and he soon forgot about the torch lit homes.

He knelt before the coolest of them, but yelped when his reflection stared back at him. The boyish man was gaunt faced and blotched with blood. His curls were oily and chaotic, knotted and hardened by dried blood. Fuzz darkened his chin and patched his cheeks, while his ruby eye glowed in the crystal water. Mazin couldn’t look away. He hardly recognised himself in the water.

“About time boy.”

Mazin jumped again when the guttural harshness invaded his mind. His eyes knew where to look. The dark Bagha emerged from a cloud of shadows behind the ghost tree. Piercing rubies amongst blackness streaked with silver. It peered down at him, subtly dishevelled.

“An overdue bath.”

Mazin didn’t appreciate the humour trickling in with the Bagha’s words.

“Where were you? I needed you!”

It growled at him, lowering as if to pounce. Mazin stood his ground on his knees, refusing to back down. The dark Bagha bared its overgrown fangs at him, and a blink later, the silver striped dark beast was an arm’s reach away from Mazin. The beast won; the prince shuffled away. He suffered a gust of moist air, exploding horrendous bad breath with hints of aged blood.

“Do not bite the paw that feeds you, or it will cease its kindness. I am not your Tamed.”

Mazin turned away. There was nothing he could say. He suffered threats from Ma when she tried to control him and Zaki. The others came from the odd brute they stumbled upon in the streets of Bil’Faridh as children. This was beyond those. He never thought a beast would harm him.

“You are being watched and followed. Bathe and rest, you cannot tarry.”

“By who?”

The dark Bagha merely blinked at him. Mazin rushed out of his ragged clothes and sank into one of the warmer pools. Heat seeped into his flesh, tendrils of warmth weaved through and around his knotted muscles. An idea filtered through his mind. He turned towards the now lounging Bagha, its enormous torso rising and lowering with every deep breath.

“Were they Bannerless, those brigands?”

“Bannerless, bandits, clan’s folk, you are all the same, no matter the colours you wear.”

Hardly an answer. Still, he found some solace, and the heat did its work, relaxing his limbs. Mazin scrubbed, detangled his hair, and scrubbed again, until the blood melted away.