At 8 PM, the sands held the day's heat close, each grain fine and scorching underfoot if you lingered too long. A low wind sighed across the dunes, carrying the sharp bite of salt from unseen waves crashing far off. Moonlight silvered the flat expanse, turning scrub brush into jagged silhouettes that clawed at the night sky. The border fence stood weathered—thick posts sunk deep into the earth, barbed wire humming faintly when the breeze tugged it. Torch flames danced in iron brackets along the camp line, spitting sparks that died quickly in the dry air. Crickets rasped from hidden cracks, the only sound breaking the stillness.
Durkenes had known this peace for years. Prosperity filled its hidden valleys—fields heavy with grain, markets buzzing under thatched roofs. No outsiders knew its name; no roads led here. Soldiers sat easily on stools of rough-hewn wood, spears balanced across knees. Their armour—plates of dulled steel over leather—pressed heavily, sweat tracing slow paths down necks and spines, pooling at belt lines. They shifted but did not strip it off.
"Oi! Change shifts now," came the general's call from the watchtower, steady over the wind, his silhouette framed against the torch glow. "Recover your sleep from last night."
"Coming, Sir." The young soldier pushed to his feet. Stool legs grated sand. He turned from the fence, facing inward toward the tents.
Soft crunch behind him—boots on loose gravel. He spun. The figure waited just beyond the wire: robes thick and dust-caked, hanging loose, mask pulled tight across nose and mouth. Blood welled fresh from a gash at the temple, tracing a dark path over the cheekbone, soaking into fabric.
He vaulted the fence without thought, wire snagging his sleeve, boots thudding down into yielding sand. Up close, the blood smelled coppery, mixing with sweat and earth. "Who are you?" His voice hung in the air. "What are you doing here? Those injuries—expl—"
The knife slid in low. It punched through abdomen and armour alike, no resistance. He staggered, knees folding into the sand. Air escaped his lungs in a wet rasp.
The figure did not flinch. Eyes flat beneath the mask's edge. Skin dry, no sheen of effort. One step forward; robes dragged a faint trail.
Fingers clamped the ankle, nails digging into the cloth. "I'll kill you."
The figure looked down. No reply. The boot heel ground the wound flat. Pressure. Release. Again.
The scream ripped out, high and jagged, cutting through cricket song and wind alike. Tent flaps whipped open. Sand flew as boots hit ground—ten, twelve soldiers rushing forward, faces tight in firelight, spears gripped white-knuckled.
The figure rose straight in white robes, front panels darkening wet with blood. The knife hung loose at its side. Black cloth hid all but the eyes—empty, fixed.
Spears levelled. The line surged, boots pounding rhythm into the sand, yells building into a roar that drowned the distant waves.
"All scum together." The words came flat. The figure closed the gap, knife rising steadily.
Vane pushed the door just enough to slip his head inside.
The manager sat behind a wide oak desk, sleeves rolled up, spectacles low on his nose, papers scattered like fallen leaves before him.
"Good afternoon, sir."
The man did not look up.
"What's good about it?"
The words were flat. Not loud. Not sharp. Just cold enough to make Vane hesitate.
He searched for a reply, but before he could gather one—
"COME SIT HERE."
The shout struck the walls and came back twice as strong.
Vane stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him. He crossed the room carefully, placed the folded papers on the desk, and pulled the chair back. The wood scraped softly against the floor before he sat.
The manager tapped the stack once with two fingers.
"What are these?"
"You remember the guard who left recently, sir?"
The manager squinted, thinking. "The one who said he was returning to his town?"
Vane's brows lowered slightly. "That's not the case, sir."
A pause.
"He's the one."
The manager's eyes widened — slowly at first, as though the meaning needed a moment to settle.
"What?"
His palms pressed flat against the desk.
"WHAT?!"
The roar traveled beyond the room. Outside, conversation faltered for a heartbeat. Chairs paused mid-scrape. Then, just as quickly, the building returned to its rhythm. They were used to storms from this office.
The manager opened a drawer with more force than necessary. He pulled out a cigar, clipped it, and lit it with practiced hands. Smoke coiled upward, filling the air with a thick, bitter scent.
He rose and walked toward the window.
From there, the courtyard looked calm. Employees moved about unaware, unaware of how close the club had come to embarrassment.
"That is… disgraceful," he said at last, voice lower now. "For a historic institution like ours."
He exhaled smoke slowly.
"How am I to explain this to the chairman?"
"It isn't that serious anymore, sir," Vane replied carefully. "We recovered everything. Quietly."
The manager turned back to him.
"You did a remarkable job."
There was no smile, but the sharpness had eased.
"I may have been… severe with you. Telling you to retrieve them or lose your position."
"It was understandable, sir," Vane answered. "It's a document no one has ever secured before. The possibility of another pyramid near—"
The manager lifted his hand.
Vane stopped at once.
"That's enough."
He returned to his chair and leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as if weighing a burden invisible to anyone else.
"You are dismissed. Continue your work. Our history depends on men who can keep their composure."
"Yes, sir."
Vane stood, bowed slightly, and left the room.
The corridor felt cooler.
He leaned against the wall for a moment, letting the tension slide off him like dust after a long road.
If only I could travel to those places myself, he thought. To stand before them instead of filing their records.
He pushed himself off the wall and made his way down the staircase.
Responsibility has its own chains.
Still… today, they felt lighter.
Everything, for Vane, returned to its usual rhythm.
By late afternoon, the tension of the morning had faded into paperwork and routine. Messengers came and went. An eagle descended onto the balcony railing with a letter secured to its leg, feathers rustling proudly as if aware of its own importance. Vane recorded the seal, logged the origin, and passed the message along to logistics without delay.
He paused only once — in the narrow courtyard between departments — holding a cup of dark coffee that had long gone lukewarm. He scattered a few grains near the resting eagles perched along the stone ledge. They pecked at the offering lazily, unbothered.
The air smelled of ink and dust and roasted beans.
He allowed himself to breathe.
Home would be lively tonight. His younger siblings would be waiting for stories — exaggerated ones, perhaps — and his mother would scold him for being late while serving him extra portions all the same.
He found himself smiling at the thought.
Let it stay this way, he hoped quietly.
Far from the city, the border did not share that wish.
Bodies lay scattered across the sand, armour dulled beneath the bright moon. The ground that had shimmered with heat now darkened in wide, uneven patches.
The man in white stood among them.
The cloth of his robe, once pale, had deepened in colour where it had absorbed too much of the day's work. He moved without haste, stepping between fallen spears and torn canvas as though inspecting the remains of something already forgotten.
Near one of the overturned tables, the general still breathed.
Each inhale sounded heavier than the last. His armour was split in places; beneath it, red had seeped through in spreading lines. He tried to rise once, failed, and instead dragged himself forward, leaving a thin trail behind him in the sand.
The assassin did not interfere.
Not yet.
The general's fingers found the edge of a table. He pulled himself up just enough to reach a scrap of parchment that had fallen beside a shattered ink bottle.
There was no ink left.
So he used what he had.
The message was short. Urgent. Written with shaking strokes.
He tied it to the leg of a pigeon kept in a small wooden cage near the supply crates. His hands fumbled with the knot, but it held.
"Go," he whispered.
The bird launched into the darkening sky, wings beating hard against the cooling air, flying toward the distant lights of the royal palace.
Only then did the assassin approach.
The general looked up, vision blurring, but there was no plea in his expression — only defiance worn thin by pain.
The blade moved once more.
Afterward, silence returned to the border.
The assassin stood among the fallen and closed his eyes.
For a brief moment — two minutes measured only by the wind — he remained still, as if offering something that resembled a prayer.
When he opened them again, they were unchanged.
His gaze shifted to a map pinned against a surviving tent post. The edges fluttered in the night breeze.
His finger traced the inked outline of Durkenes.
It stopped at the forest drawn at the edge of the territory.
There.
He lowered his hand.
And began walking.