2 Months Ago

The desert sun seared Sansir’s eyes, if not his skin. Smoke carried on the weak breeze, clawing at his throat and burning already sore eyes. There were a few cries in the distance, the sounds of begging, crying, and damnation.

Sansir knelt on a dune, hiding from the ash behind its peak. He watched a scorpion crawl across the sand in front of him. It hadn’t yet realized the shade was too cold, though it would soon. Rubbing his hands in the cool sand, Sansir felt it catch and coagulate on his stained fingers.

Methodically, a bit of sand at a time, Sansir rubbed his hands clean. As clean as they got out of here. Soot still stained his fingers and crusted blood clung to his nails. He tried not to breathe too much of the air in, focusing only on the surface smells. Not on what lay beneath.

The too sweet smell of burning pork. Or something like it. Sansir grimaced and turned his attention back to the sand, back to the scorpion.

It had stopped now. Slowing down, it had finally discovered a horrible truth. Even as it shifted, movements slowed further, the tail and piercer drooping lower and lower. Bits of water dewed on its carapace. Then those froze over as well.

Flicking the scorpion with a finger, it broke in half and tumbled down the dune. The sound would soon melt its frozen corpse and something would come and eat it. Despite its barren appearance, the Ankirian desert was full of life.

“Sansir!” Commander Tulaiha called. Sansir straightened. There was no point in hiding. Ankirians were better trained in their tether-sense than Elusrians, and even among them the commander had few peers.

“Commander,” he replied, saluting briefly.

Commander Tulaiha was a short woman, and Sansir thought she might recent him for towering over her. Then again, her expression towards most people was mild antagonism. Her cold orange eyes almost begged for a fight. Anyone who actually took her up on it would learn to regret it. Or die.

“Hiding from the job again?” she asked. Commanding a fourth of the Sleeping Sons, Tulaiha was not just a fierce warrior but also a raging bitch.

Sansir smiled at her, having learned the hard way not to take her words to heart. “The Purists need killing,” he answered. “I understand that, sir. I’ll fight.”

“But you won’t actually kill.”

“I won’t murder in cold blood, sir.”

Tulaiha snorted. She nudged his Cloak with her tether-sense. Twitching an eyebrow, Sansir retrieved his Concept from the Discipline. A bit of the chill went out of the air, but it was still a far cry from the blistering desert air.

The Commander’s shoulder squared and her shoulders straightened as she stepped into his bubble. Refreshed, Tulaiha reached into her layered uniform. It lacked the formal rigidity that Sansir had grown used to at the academy, but was much preferable in the hotter weather. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.

“Is this it?” Sansir asked. “Sir,” he added belatedly. Ankirian military valued their hierarchy highly, and the tradition had remained true for the Sleeping Sons, even if they no longer worked for Ankiria.

“It is,” Commander Tulaiha said, slapping the paper into his palm. “Now get out of my sight before your bleeding heart sprays itself all over the rest of us.”

“Sir,” Sansir said, glancing down at the paper. “This is just leave, right?”

She nodded. “It is, soldier. But I’d hope we’d be on another job when you returned. The Purists won’t wait, and the war certainly won’t.”

Sansir nodded.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“So long, Soldier,” Commander Tulaiha said, a strange tone in her voice. “Dismissed.”

Sansir thought he almost saw empathy in her eyes. An emotion other ruthlessness and anger. He shook his head and turned away from her. He heard her footsteps in the sand as he oriented himself.

Sansir didn’t have the strongest sense of direction, even when he wasn’t traveling over bland wastelands, though he was fairly sure his location was somewhere to the northwest.

###

When Sansir had first started traveling with ice, he’d quickly learned it was highly unpleasant. Even Master Orulf’s most comfortable methods left the tethered freezing and occasionally shaking.

When Sansir had first crossed the border into Ankiria, felt the heat and seen the deserts, he’d thought the solution had been revealed. The cold was only a problem because Elusria was so damned cold. He’d been foolish and naïve.

A flurry of ice and snow carried him forth, racing across and jumping over dunes, traveling at speeds that left even the fastest horse panting and jealous. In Elusria, he would’ve been better dressed to handle the cold. His Ankirian uniform wasn’t tight enough to shut out the smaller bits. Flakes and chips of ice slipped past his clothes. They melted and soaked his pants, which only froze again under the constant barrage he was putting them up against. When he finally took a break, the air was so hot it would sear him before heating him up fully.

Sansir had spent many long hours glaring enviously at the obsidian and light tethered as they traveled. Watched as the warp tethered leapt forwards in leaps and bounds. Shared looks of pity with the other ice tethered. Ice was, thankfully, the second-most common element, so he had many people to commiserate with.

The only people that seemed worse off than he were the smoke tethered. Most of the ones capable of travel had invested in the Body Discipline, and many of them looked ill by the time they finished their trek for the day. Sleeping Sons set a punishing pace, so Sansir was a little more relaxed on the home route.

He’d been a little off and spent half a day traveling over rural roads to reach his destination. The Elusrian outpost. The place farthest from the Elusria City that could truly be called a part of the country.

Sansir stopped in front of the stronghold’s outer wall. He dug through his bags with numb fingers until he found his marks of office. Once revealed, he was quickly let through and towards the General’s personal chambers.

Sansir couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as he saw Idrees standing in the General's entryway.

“Sir,” Sansir said, saluting crisply.

“At ease,” Idrees said without looking at him. Instead, he looked out at the window overlooking the garden.

Sansir grit his teeth as he saw what the Second-In-Command was looking at. Asmar, the General of the Sleeping Sons, what was once Ankiria’s highest trained special force, was playing with his children. A slight tick pulled at Sansir’s eyes, and he forced himself to turn away.

Instead, he glared at Idrees and offered him the letter. “You earned your leave, then?” Idrees asked, turning to Sansir. He didn’t move to take the letter. Their eyes met, green on green. Sansir knew his were flashing with hints of faded power at that moment, power not quite awakened.

Idrees’ were calm and serene, though he hadn’t tapped from his tether near as much as Sansir had over the last few weeks.

“I did,” Sansir said.

Idrees accepted the envelope. He took the time to read the letter. If Sansir knew him right, he would read each letter twice to make sure he completely understood the purpose and reason behind each selection.

They were quiet for a long time, Sansir feeling the desire to leave the building rising with every second. Idrees seeming at ease in the silent tension.

“Sansir?” A new voice, deeper, richer, smoother than Idrees’. Far more welcoming, though it was far less welcome.

“General,” Sansir said, turning Asmar al-Firman. The General was a bald man, and towering, standing taller than a barricade and wider than a shield wall. Sansir himself was stood only a hair above the man, though he didn’t come close to his physique otherwise.

His orange eyes carried a gentle inquisition and charisma that made Asmar a genuine and disarming man. He’d also trained for the first twenty years of life to be the bodyguard of the King of Ankiria. Though he was only a Lancer, Sansir had never seen another person wield a Discipline with such skill and ease.

However, Asmar al-Firman was well into his fifties, and hadn’t been a bodyguard for longer than Sansir had been alive.

“Is this that leave Idrees was talking about?” Asmar asked, putting a warm hand on Sansir’s shoulder.

Sansir endured his touch and nodded in a single controlled motion. “Yes, sir.”

“Six months,” Idrees finally said, which only seemed to enhance the tension.

“Six months? Why so long? Do you dislike us that much?”

Sansir shook his head. “I’ve got word that a friend of mine might be coming home for the first time in a long time. Besides, it’s been too long since last I visited my home.”

Asmar smiled familiarly at that, his dark worn skin stretching easily into the expression. “Ah, family. What is more important than that?” he gazed out the window at his own sons play fighting. He was old for a dad of children their age, but rich enough that he could’ve had them at any age.

Sansir turned to Idrees. “Am I granted my leave?”

Idrees peered at him for a long time, then nodded. “You are.”

“I wish you well.”

“You too, sir,” Sansir strode out of the room before he did something he might regret.