He ran and ran until the cold had completely frozen his lungs. All he could hear now was the sickening and tired wheeze of his own breathing. How long had he been running, how much farther did he have left to run? His arms and legs felt so heavy, almost like he’d been pulling weights chained to his wrists and ankles. Weights that had been made of ice.

A jagged body of ice rose from the ground in the distance a hundred feet high before its apex disappeared into the swirling white mists of the blizzard. Like a pale and broken dagger, the structure stood there, unbowing to the winds. Hasib dashed towards it with whatever strength he had left, circling towards the other side. His green eyes gave the surroundings one last look before he fell to his knees, gasping. The chill bit at his lungs instantly and he began to choke; icy hands tightening around his throat. When his breathing finally settled, he crawled towards the gargantuan dagger and rested his back against its smooth surface. Pale mist formed in front of him with every breath.

Hasib looked around. The blizzard still raged on just as fiercely as it had since the beginning, and yet there was a strange stillness to it all. A certain peacefulness that Hasib couldn’t grasp. The wind blew, and white snowfall and flecks of ice danced in the air, while the rest of the world remained quiet. So this is what death looks like in the north. In Aarapletir, he’d thought himself to have conquered the gray sands. The white desert, however, was another beast entirely; far too wild and dangerous for any single man to tame.

Once again he was reminded that he was no longer in the deserts of Aarapletir, no longer in the safe warmth of the banditlands he’d grown up in. In the north, the frigid land consumed all who were too weak to withstand its fury, and Hasib Al-Sajjad had the unnerving thought that his time would soon be coming as well. It felt as though he were standing on the edge of a tall cliff, staring down at a shadowed valley of ice and death, and he could feel cracks of uncertainty forming beneath his boots. It wouldn’t be long, he knew, before he would fall and lose himself in the darkness forever.

But he didn’t need to wait, he reflected, all it would take is a single step to end it all . . .

Azr’afir help me, what am I thinking?

If not the cold, those things would get to him first.

It had only been one at the beginning, but then a second swiftly followed the first, and then a third, a fourth . . . fifth, and before he knew it Hasib was being hunted by a dozen of them—giants covered in fur as white as the snow they treaded on and pale glowing eyes, eyes which harbored no warmth or kindness to them. He only saw bloodlust in those terrible things as he’d stared back in fear.

Running away was the only measure he could take. As shameful as that had felt, Hasib had not lingered on it for long; his fear had outweighed the shame manyfold and he refused to end up like one of those bodies he’d so frequently seen in the streets of Isradala.

He could still remember some of the faces staring down at him with lifeless, hollowed-out eyes; iron crowns digging deep into the soft flesh of their rotting heads and their bodies hanging high on the walls for all to see, serving as nothing more than nourishment for flies. Such was the fate of those who opposed the lords of Aarapletir. The city of a thousand kings, he remembered then. What do they call it now, I wonder?

Hasib winced all of a sudden as pain shot from his left hand. He removed his leather glove and stretched out his fingers to see the brand on his palm, bleeding, burning. The brand the Devil had given him. The pain had begun ever since the blizzard had taken them by surprise but it was getting worse, Hasib felt.

As much as his hand hurt, it was not nearly as bad as the blow he’d suffered from one of those giant-monsters. His right hand fell to his side, his fingers brushing over four bloody gashes frozen solid from the cold. The surface was smooth to the touch and he felt no pain beneath the crystalline blood. He had no food on him, his bag had been lost in the chaos. If it came down to it, perhaps he’d have to eat the shard of blood to keep himself from dying of hunger. It made him sick to his stomach just to think about it.

He glanced back at his hand. There is devilry in this brand. That was certain. But even so . . . why hasn’t it yielded to the cold like my other wound?

The brand answered.

A pain like none other Hasib had ever known suddenly took hold of him. Like hellfire searing flesh, it felt as though his hand was melting off his bones. He screamed, the sound muffled out by the wind, and plunged his hand into the snow. The white ground sizzled around it and steam rose to the air like the quenching of hot steel in water. His hand quickly grew numb, but at least the pain had started to fade with it.

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When he’d pulled it out he saw that the tips of his fingers had begun turning gray and he couldn’t feel his hand at all anymore.

Yet still the brand bled defiantly.

That’s when Hasib remembered he had something to do. Something important. What was it again? He was too tired, his thoughts all in a jumble. A sudden wave of lightheadedness washed over him and his eyelids grew heavy as the thought came. His surroundings began to darken. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the tundra staring back at him in silent enmity.

* * *

He could not have said for how long he’d been drifting there, mindlessly, his eyes shut, curled up into a ball. But then a voice called out from the darkness and Hasib opened his eyes.

Is this what the savior of Aarapletir’s been reduced to: a bruised lamb lost in the snow? The voice said.

Hasib didn’t know where he was all of a sudden or how he’d gotten there, “What . . . who are you, where am I?” he asked. He couldn’t see anybody or anything around him, everything was dark, only shadows surrounded him. And that voice; who could it be? It sounded so familiar, like a memory from another lifetime ago.

Have you already forgotten? The voice echoed. Do your ambitions truly mean that little to you?

It was warm here, Hasib realized all of a sudden, the coldness from a moment ago forgotten. “I . . .” he began.

. . . have a more pressing task at hand?

That’s when it came to him; Jillian, he had to find Jillian!

But for that you must be awake and you, warrior of the gray sand, are as good as dead.

The words felt like a slap in the face, had his return already come to an end before he could reach Aarapletir? No, he wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t. “That cannot be true. I must only be dreaming, yes . . . that’s right, this is just a dream. All I have to do is wake up.”

Oh? Then do all of your dreams feel this real?

Hasib threw his head back and screamed. It burned. IT BURNED. He lifted his left hand and saw that the brand was aflame with dark twisting fires. He clutched at his wrist, and twisted over his stomach in pain. The fires danced on his palm, mocking him. “Where am I?!” he demanded through gritted teeth.

You are where souls await to be taken to their next lives, where ravenous shadows feast on the weak, where the thoughts of dead men play cruel tricks on them, and where the living have no place, the voice answered calmly. So I ask, warrior of the gray sand, if you are truly dreaming then why do you linger in such a place?

‘Warrior of the gray sand.’ The words left a bitter taste. Was he worthy of such a title? Was he worthy of anything anymore? He had made a deal with the Devil, been marked with his brand and was now forced to do his bidding as his servant. I could have stayed dead, but chose to betray my god for a second chance at life instead. There’s more devil in me than there is human. Azr’afir would never accept him, no god ever would. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” Hasib answered, at a loss for words, the pain was growing too great for him to bear. “But I have to get out of here, for the sake of the others. They have to be warned about this job . . . about Fitz.”

And what do you hope to do then, warrior of the gray sand, continue to serve your new lord? Your old band of allies rest as skeletons beneath the sands of Aarapletir, and your home is no longer the place you remember it to be. So what could you hope to accomplish? Die and perhaps this time the Devil will not take you. Die so that mayhaps this time you may reunite with your friends. Die, Hasib Al-sajjad, so that the pain may finally stop. So that it may all finally stop. Take the step, fall into the darkness, and let the flames take you and show you the path.

“No!” Hasib roared. He wasn’t ready to die just yet.

So be it then, the voice said. But you cannot reject the fire forever. We shall meet again, Hasib. Soon.

How does he know so much about me? He asked himself. But then, he realized he was no longer floating but instead . . . he was falling!

He fell for what seemed like an eternity as the shadows went racing past him. Down and down he went, before noticing an immense wall of ice and snow. There was nothing he could do to stop himself. The ground rose quickly to meet him and Hasib crashed through it. Ice and snow shattered, giving way to a realm of fire beneath. He caught just the glimpses of images as he continued to fall; memories swirling within the flames all around him, moments of his past.

He saw a bloodstained battlefield of gray sand, the raising of a thousand kilijes over bronze-capped heads, shouts raised in victory.

He saw a familiar face, with short cropped black hair, a trimmed beard, and wisened eyes as dark as his hair, “It must be done, Hasib, there is no other way.” Tariq told him.

He saw the city of Isradala beneath his feet; streets like a network of coiling and broken snakes, dark-stoned buildings with domed roofs made of bronze, thousands upon thousands of ant-sized people walking below him.

The red fires dispersed at the bottom and turned black like the flame on his palm. Pain surged through all over his body as the memories faded from view and the black fires consumed him.

And Hasib’s eyes flung open.

His surroundings had gotten darker and the blizzard still raged on. But somehow Hasib wasn’t cold anymore. Quite the opposite, Hasib’s body was scorching and he could see steam forming off his exposed hand. He pulled himself up. The brand on his palm had stopped bleeding, he saw.

He pulled on his leather glove and marched off into the tundra—he wasn’t going to die today.