“Stop right there!” A burly guard, helm slightly askew, steps forward, spear angled at Dukar’s chest. His colleague, shorter and squinting, peers doubtfully from behind. The early dawn paints their faces in a pale, uncertain light.

Dukar, heart hammering, musters a grin far too bright for a supposed legendary general. “Good morning, fine sirs! Lovely weather, isn’t it?” He waves a gloved hand cheerily, nearly knocking a basket off Puripal’s makeshift “merchandise” cart.

Puripal’s eyes widen—this is not how Bazhin would greet anyone. Before the guards can respond, Ta suddenly convulses, clutching his throat. “Ugh…hrrk… I—must… desert dust…” He staggers dramatically, one boot landing atop Puripal’s instep.

The taller guard leans in, perplexed. “General Bazhin?” he repeats, disbelief etched on his brow. “We thought—well, you vanished a while back—”

Dukar blurts, fumbling to regain composure. He attempts the Moukopl salute Puripal drilled into him the previous night. Right arm up, left leg back—only he reverses it, nearly slapping Ta across the face. Ta ducks just in time, still choking.

Puripal coughs softly, leaning towards Dukar’s ear, voice a whisper softer than silk. “Say you fought at Stone Pass. Emphasize casualties.”

Dukar stiffens, clears his throat. “You see, at… uh… Stone Pass—”

“That’s ‘Stony Passage,’ wasn’t it?” the shorter guard interjects, suspicion creeping into his tone.

Dukar’s smile freezes, but Puripal nudges him with an elbow. “Ahem,” Dukar attempts a regal tilt of the head. “Stony Passage, indeed. Took a toll on my memory and my…uh… throat.” He nods at Ta still pantomiming death by dust inhalation. “Lost good men, you know how it is.”

“Right… You sound different,” the tall guard grunts, leaning on his spear. “Quieter than stories say. General Bazhin never chatted about the weather.”

Dukar feigns insult, puffing out his chest. “Need I roar like a maniac at dawn to prove myself? The desert changes a man. Enlightens him, even. Now if you don’t mind, I must see to my—my spices!” He gestures vaguely at Puripal’s cart piled with burlap sacks.

The guards exchange a glance. The shorter one scratches his chin, eyes flickering from Dukar’s too-friendly grin to Ta’s overplayed wheezing and Puripal’s strained smile.

“You, choking boy,” the taller guard barks. “You a soldier now? What’s with this caravan?”

Ta, tears streaming (from effort, not sincerity), gasps out, “General… Bazhin… promised… medicinal herbs… lost voice in desert… oh gods—”

Dukar sweeps an arm wide, nearly braining Ta again, and smiles too brightly. “These men are loyal. We travel light, return from trials unspeakable. The Moukopl Empire deserves such devotion, does it not?”

A beat passes. The shorter guard’s eyes narrow, then he sighs. “Guess even Bazhin can mellow. Desert changes men, they say.”

With a shrug, the taller guard steps aside. “Fine, go on. But try not to… wave so much, General. You’re… making us nervous.”

Dukar hurries forward, nodding eagerly. “Of course, sirs. Good advice.”

As they pass under the city gate’s arch, Ta suddenly straightens, no trace of choking. He winks at Dukar, whispering, “Such a cute general!”

Puripal bites his lip to stifle laughter. Dukar’s shoulders slump in relief. Behind them, the guards shake their heads in disbelief.

A lone soldier, tall and broad-shouldered, weaves through the bustling bazaar. Smells of spiced rice and sizzling skewers drift in the warm air. His eyes, sharp with recognition, lock onto Dukar. He approaches, lips curving into a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"General Bazhin!" the soldier calls, voice laced with curiosity and lingering respect. He pushes aside a basket of dried peppers to stand before Dukar. "Is it truly you?"

Dukar stiffens, glancing at Puripal—who is busy pretending to select dates—and at Ta, who stands behind him, already faking a cough to cover any blunders. "Uh, yes," Dukar says, trying for a gruff tone. "I’ve… returned."

The soldier’s eyes narrow. "Returned? Huh." He takes in Dukar’s height, or rather, the lack of it compared to his memory. "You seem… shorter than I remember, sir. The Bazhin I knew stood a full head taller."

Dukar’s throat tightens. He tries to recall Puripal’s whispered advice from that morning. "Ah, the desert," Dukar says quickly. "It, uh, weighs on a man. Sometimes… it… it compresses the spine. A literal… crushing burden, you know?"

The soldier cocks his head, puzzled. "Compresses the spine?"

Ta lets out a strangled, theatrical cough. Puripal, nearby, pretends to be engrossed in the price of pomegranates, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Dukar clears his throat, attempts a stern Moukopl frown—eyebrows drawn tight, jaw set. "The dust storms," he says firmly, though his voice cracks. "They do… strange things. I’ve seen men reduced to half their height after a bad storm."

The soldier’s brow furrows. He steps closer. "If you say so, sir. What of that glorious skirmish at… what was it? Stony Passage, where you led a charge on horseback?"

Dukar’s heart races. He tries to adopt a regal posture, drawing himself up—no easy feat given his too-big boots, which feel like buckets strapped to his feet. "Ah yes, Stony Pass." He nods excessively. "We fought fiercely—arrows, spears, a nasty business. The smell of… of roasted barley everywhere." He blinks, realizing barley doesn't sound right. "I mean… blood and sweat, of course."

The soldier squints. "Barley?"

Suddenly, a squawk breaks the tension. A small, scruffy chicken darts between Dukar’s feet, wings flapping madly. Without thinking, Dukar tries to step aside smoothly—only to catch his oversized boot on a cobblestone.

He staggers, arms windmilling as he topples against a stack of clay pots. The pots clatter loudly, one toppling onto the chicken, which screeches indignantly and scurries off. Dukar, red-faced, scrambles upright, trying to salvage some dignity.

The soldier stares, mouth slightly open. "General Bazhin… you never were one for… theatrics." He glances at the toppled pots, then at Dukar, his skepticism growing. "The desert changed you more than I imagined, sir. Are you… sure you’re well?"

Dukar musters a stiff nod, fighting the urge to apologize. A general wouldn’t apologize, right? He tries the stoic gaze again, but his eye twitches. "I’m… well. Very well. Just… rediscovering my legs after traveling on horseback for so long, that’s all."

The soldier nods slowly, clearly unconvinced. "I see. I suppose hardships can reshape a man. If… if you need anything, sir, some familiar faces are still around. We… we thought you were gone for good."

Dukar tries to give a commanding grunt. It comes out like a squeak. Behind him, Ta coughs louder, possibly to mask laughter. Puripal hides behind a fruit stand, shoulders shaking.

"Good," Dukar attempts, voice dropping an octave. "Keep up the good work, soldier. I… have important matters to attend." He pivots stiffly, nearly tripping again but catching himself at the last moment.

The soldier watches Dukar go, scratching his head. Under his breath, he mutters, "The desert is really something."

A whisper travels fast through the winding alleys of Pezijil, carrying rumors of General Bazhin’s miraculous return. Dukar, half-dodging curious glances, tries to keep a low profile near a cluster of drying laundry. Puripal stands guard at one end of the alley, Ta at the other, both feigning casual interest in a pile of discarded grain sacks.

Suddenly, a figure steps from behind a wooden latticework screen—a woman, dignified and poised, her dark hair braided neatly. She holds her chin high, though her eyes shimmer with old hurt. At her side, a girl, no older than ten winters, squares her shoulders and narrows her gaze at Dukar.

The girl’s voice slices the silence: “So you finally show your face,” the girl spits, voice cracking on the last word. “You vanish for years and then—what, you think we’d welcome you back with open arms?”

Dukar swallows. He can sense Puripal tensing beside him, Ta slowly backing up, searching for an exit. “I—” he begins, trying to find a smooth lie. Words fail him. He can almost feel the girl’s glare burning holes in his forehead. “I… Things… happened.” He attempts a stern demeanor, something “Bazhin-like,” but the woman’s trembling lip breaks his concentration.

The wife’s voice trembles, low and broken: “We feared you dead, Bazhin. Or worse. Do you have any idea what we’ve endured? …Who are y—” Her voice catches, tears threatening.

The girl spits at the ground near Dukar’s boots. “You smell different. Walk differently. Your voice. Everything’s off. Why are you impersonating my father?”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Dukar’s heart pounds. With a desperate burst of inspiration, he blurts, “You’re right! I’m not… I’m not Bazhin. I’m his brother!”

Puripal’s jaw drops in silent horror. Ta’s eyes go wide as melons. The wife’s eyes flash with confusion. “His brother? He told me his brother is dead. What kind of game are you playing?”

The daughter barks a sharp, humorless laugh. “If you’re his brother, then tell me—where is my father?”

Dukar licks his lips, trying to find stable ground. “We were separated,” he manages, voice faltering. “In the desert. I—I came to settle his affairs. He asked me—”

The daughter doesn’t wait for a full explanation. With a sudden, vicious lunge, she aims a punch at Dukar’s stomach. He doubles over, wheezing. “Liar!” she screams, voice raw with hurt. “You think you can waltz in here, wearing his armor, using his name—”

Puripal tries to intervene, “Wait, let’s talk about—” but the daughter whirls, delivering a swift kick to Puripal’s shin. He yelps, hopping on one foot. Ta rushes in, arms raised, “Calm down, sister—OW!” The daughter’s elbow catches him square in the nose, making him stagger back with watering eyes.

Dukar attempts to restrain her. She twists free, flips him over a stack of crates, and sends him sprawling. It’s comical, absurd—Dukar’s boots flailing in the air, Ta climbs on a tree and doesn’t leave it. Onlookers gape from a safe distance, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Stand still!” the daughter snaps, darting forward. She’s using every dirty trick: tripping them, feinting, snatching loose objects—an old wooden ladle, a broken chair leg—and wielding them with surprising skill. Her relentless blows drive the trio back.

Puripal, face contorted with disbelief, manages to stammer, “D-Dukar—can’t you say something more convincing?!”

Dukar tries again, “We had different mothers! I never knew him well!” He ducks under a swinging plank. “He told me about you—”

“Stop lying!” the daughter hisses, tears now glistening at the corners of her eyes. With a grunt, she hurls a discarded ceramic bowl that narrowly misses Puripal’s ear.

Somehow, they break free, sprinting down the alley. The daughter gives chase, her furious footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The clatter of scattered pots and baskets follows them as they zig-zag through the narrow streets, hearts pounding.

What began as a chaotic, clownish scuffle turns bleak when, rounding a corner, Dukar glances back. He sees the daughter slow down, chest heaving. She’s not laughing; she’s choking back sobs. The rage that fueled her assault melts into raw grief.

Dukar halts, his companions nearly colliding with him. The daughter stands a few paces away, fists still raised but trembling, her voice caught between anger and sorrow. “Where… is… he?” she manages, voice cracking. “If you’re really his brother, tell me. Why hasn’t he come home? Is he… dead?”

Dukar’s chest tightens. He sees not a fierce warrior, but a weeping girl who misses her father. He steps forward slowly, careful not to startle her. “He…” Dukar’s voice is low, halting. “We were separated. I came to—to do what I can.” He knows he’s lying through his teeth, but he can’t bring himself to shatter her hope entirely.

The daughter’s eyes search his face, finding no comfort in his vague words. Confusion knits her brow, bitterness twisting her features. She spits at the ground again, though this time her lips quiver. Without another word, she turns and punches a wooden post—her fist thudding hollowly—before disappearing into the crowd.

The wife appears, lingering at the alley’s mouth. Her eyes, hollow with disappointment and exhaustion, rest on Dukar for a long, silent moment. She says nothing—no accusation, no plea. Just a look that strips Dukar’s soul, laying bare the cost of this ruse.

Then, with a trembling breath, she follows her daughter, leaving Dukar, Puripal, and Ta standing in stunned silence amidst the wreckage of their attempted deception.

…

A single lantern burns low in the corner of the dingy inn, its feeble light dancing across cracked walls and chipped wooden tables. The air smells faintly of stale bread and old regrets. Dukar sits hunched over a cup of watered-down wine, trying to make sense of the day’s events, his fingers tapping nervously on the tabletop.

A soft shuffle of boots on floorboards makes him glance up. The newcomer is an older man, lean with weathered features, the creases in his face etched by countless sunsets. His armor is old-fashioned, partially hidden beneath a plain cloak. He doesn’t loom or threaten; he simply steps into Dukar’s orbit with a calm confidence.

"Good evening, Brother," the old soldier greets. He slides onto the bench opposite Dukar, folding his hands. He raises an eyebrow. "I hear Min saw you today."

Dukar flinches, nearly spilling his drink. "Look, old man," he says warily, voice low. "I’m not sure what you think—"

The old man cuts him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "I think you owe me no titles, just honesty." His gaze drifts to the lantern flame. "You claim to be his brother. I find that... interesting."

Dukar tries to conjure a casual laugh, but it comes out stiff. "People say lots of things in the heat of a moment." He forces a smile. "It’s a big city. Bigger than it should be. We were not meant to live like this."

The man’s chuckle is dry. "True enough… Call me San Lian," he replies, inclining his head slightly. "It’s so ironic how one choice—a father fleeing, a mother’s despair, a child left behind—can alter destinies."

Dukar grips his cup tighter. Something about San Lian’s tone sets him on edge. "You’re speaking in riddles. If you have something to say, say it plainly."

San Lian smiles, not unkindly. "All right. Plainly, then: I knew Bazhin since he was a boy. After his mother ended her life—" he pauses, letting the weight of the words sink in, "—I watched over him. Later, I cared for his wife and daughter while he served far away. We shared many silent meals, many tears shed behind closed doors. I know Bazhin as well as a man can know another."

Dukar’s throat constricts. He sips his wine, trying to appear unmoved, but his heart hammers. "If you knew him so well, you’d see I’m not him."

"I see that," San Lian acknowledges softly. "You lack his scar, his manner of speech, his height. You’re trying hard, but not quite hard enough."

Dukar’s hand twitches towards the hilt at his side, then falls away. No point in threats. "If you know I’m not him, why bother talking? Shouldn’t you want me dead?"

"Because," San Lian says, leaning in, voice dropping to a hush, "there’s truth hidden even in a masquerade." His eyes flicker with something like sympathy. "You claimed to be Bazhin’s brother. A lie, yes?" He lets the question hang.

Dukar almost blurts a denial but finds himself hesitating, recalling the girl’s tears, the wife’s hollow stare. "I—maybe I was desperate."

San Lian nods, his gaze never leaving Dukar’s face. "Understandable. But here’s the twist: You might really be his brother."

Dukar’s laugh is short and bitter. "You must be mad. I’m from Tepr, no ties to Moukopl generals."

"Your father," San Lian says quietly, "Tun Zol Tseren, fled with you to Tepr when you were but a babe. Bazhin’s mother was gone, and I was left to care for Bazhin, raise him as best I could in this empire’s cruel embrace. Meanwhile, your father vanished into distant lands, carrying you along. Bazhin often wondered why his father betrayed him. He never found the answer. You may lack in scar, height or muscles, but you look like his exact copy, and you revealed you’re from Tepr before I even said anything. When Min described you, I thought it might have been the real brother, so that’s why I looked for you."

Dukar’s breath catches, a cold shock shivering down his spine. "That’s impossible," he whispers, voice cracking. "I’d have known."

"Would you?" San Lian’s smile is sad now. "If Tseren didn’t want you to know, who would have told you?"

Dukar’s eyes burn, tears threatening. He tries to speak, to form words. "He... Bazhin was my brother? That savage general who tortured me and my people—my own blood?" He presses a trembling hand to his forehead. "This can’t be."

San Lian lets him struggle, not offering easy solace. "Bazhin grew up fierce and loyal to the empire. You grew to despise it. Yet here we are, under one dim lantern."

Dukar’s laugh is jagged, almost hysterical. "This is absurd. My sister, my tribe, everything I know—how can I reconcile this?"

"I’m not here to reconcile, only to reveal," San Lian says softly. He reaches out, placing a firm hand on Dukar’s shoulder. "The next steps are yours. I don’t expect you to run into Bazhin’s arms. He’s gone now, isn’t he? The world took him, as it took so many."

Dukar’s mind reels. He wants to scream, to throw his cup, to rage at the unfairness. Instead, he inhales sharply, voice trembling. "And Bazhin’s family? What should I tell them? What are they going to do?"

San Lian’s eyes reflect a deep sadness. "Tell them what truth you can bear. Even partial truth might ease their pain. Or wait. Let time and courage guide you."

Dukar stares at the flickering lantern, at the shadows dancing on the wall. The night feels too small to hold this new secret. He tries humor to keep himself afloat. "So my grand accomplishment today: I found out I’m related to a man who made my life hell. A man I sent to die with my own hands," he says dryly, forcing a half-smile.

San Lian chuckles softly. "Life is a cruel jester, no doubt."

They sit quietly for a moment. Outside, muffled laughter and distant footsteps remind Dukar that the world goes on. He exhales, meeting San Lian’s gaze. "I... thank you. For telling me. I think."

The old soldier nods, rising with a grunt. "You might hate me later, but I’d rather you know. Light or darkness, truth is truth." He adjusts his cloak. "If you need more tales, find me again. For now, rest. You’ve borne a great weight tonight."

Dukar can only nod, his thoughts an uproar of conflicting feelings. San Lian turns and leaves, footsteps fading into the inn’s creaking boards.

Alone with the lantern’s glow, Dukar sips his weak wine, tears prickling at his eyes.

A sudden whisper at his shoulder: “Brother, you know, if you keep making faces like that, your eyebrows might never untangle.”

Dukar jerks upright, spinning around to find Ta perched on the windowsill—legs crossed, grin stretched wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. He’d swear the boy wasn’t there a heartbeat ago.

“Ta!” Dukar hisses, startled. “Were you… lurking outside this whole time?”

A soft laugh from the shadows behind Ta. “We prefer the term ‘strategically positioned,’” Puripal’s smooth voice chimes in as he steps around a corner, his posture languid, as if emerging from a leisurely stroll in the moonlight. He arches a brow, meeting Dukar’s eye. “Quite the heart-to-heart encounter, hmm?”

Dukar’s jaw tightens. He wants to lash out, demand how they dared eavesdrop. But something about their playful expressions deflates his anger into exasperation. “Why do you both always appear like this, sneaking around like cats?”

Ta flicks an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve and gives a theatrical sigh. “Cats? Brother, I prefer ‘sleek desert fox,’ if you must know.” Then, lowering his voice in mock conspiracy, “We saw you talking with that old warrior. You looked so serious!”

Puripal steps closer, the corner of his mouth quirked in a half-smile. “You’re full of surprises, Dukar. First a false Bazhin, now a secret brotherhood?”

Dukar throws his hands up, a mixture of frustration and disbelief washing over him. “I don’t have the patience for your mocking tones, tonight.”

Ta leaps off the windowsill, landing softly beside Dukar, his grin unwavering. He pats Dukar’s shoulder companionably, as if commiserating. “Cheer up, Brother. It’s not every day one discovers a secret sibling. Think of the awkward family reunions! The stilted dinner conversations! Priceless. I’m very knowledgeable in this topic!”

Puripal’s laughter is muted but warm. “What will you do now?”

Dukar presses a palm against his forehead, groaning softly. “I haven’t decided yet, can I at least have a moment to breathe?”

Ta wags a finger, refusing to relent. “Moments to breathe are overrated. You know what I think? We should celebrate. This calls for some kind of dessert, don’t you think, Forth Brother?”

Puripal’s eyes dance with amusement. “If we find any decent pastries left at this hour, I might consider it. Besides, we’ll need our strength for tomorrow’s headaches.”

Dukar musters a half-smile, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his inner turmoil. “Fine,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off a heavy cloak. “If you two insist on making light of this, at least let’s find something sweet enough to dull the sting.”

Ta pumps a fist in mock triumph. “There we go! Progress.” He gives Puripal a conspiratorial wink. “I always said he’d come around.”

Puripal chuckles, sweeping a graceful hand towards the door. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

“It’s general!” Dukar grins as they depart together, the inn’s corridor creaking beneath their footsteps.