"It is not a good idea, Setarek," the elf disagreed.
The faint light of alabaster lamps flickered weakly in the prince's chambers, casting long shadows that seemed to dance across the carved reliefs of lotus and ibis on the walls.
The air was heavy with the perfume of myrrh and sandalwood oil, mingled with the dry, mineral scent the desert wind always carried through the half-open windows.
Setarek, Son of the Setting Sun, stood with his back to Ishara as he tied the thick linen straps securing his short travel tunic. No immaculate royal white linen, no gold or lapis lazuli—only sand-colored fabric, a dark ochre-dyed goat-wool cloak, and worn sandals that betrayed no royal origin.
On the low table beside him lay a leather pouch already packed: water in two flattened waterskins, durra bread wrapped in cloth, a simple curved bronze dagger, and a small scarab amulet—a gift from his late mother.
"I must do this, Ishara. I looked into the eyes of the man who is the son-of-God and saw madness," he said, turning to face her. "It was as you told me—when you said he had been convinced by the priestess and stopped you from killing her." He finished the knot with a sharp tug and picked up the pouch.
"At first it was hard to believe… hard to believe she was involved. She was trusted by my mother—how could she ally with the enemy? And my father… blinded by his faith. We must do this, my friend." He looked at her with hope in his eyes.
Ishara noticed he used the term the same way elves did. The elf rose from the bed and approached him.
"The home of my people is many days' travel away, Setarek, and the council has surely already acted. Even if you reach there, a human cannot change the decision of the elven leaders," she tried to persuade him.
"We have to try," he said, determined. Both suspected the elves' retaliation would be fierce. "You said you cannot travel as sand to get there… so we must go the human way."
"I am exiled. I cannot return—besides… the harphesh will prevent us from being found. It deceives anyone who approaches."
"But you have the cloak. Your exile is not like the others. You told me this—you can discern the truth, can you not?" He reminded her, smiling. Ishara regretted having told him.
"I know I had some part in your banishment, though you deny it. But I beg you. You saw how my father was… and you know your father. When they come to kill the demon, I do not want my people to die, Ishara." He looked into her eyes. "I do not want to become your enemy. My father is willing to start a senseless war."
The young elf sighed and went to the window.
"Very well. It may increase my exile to return there without permission…"
"And I may be exiled by my father, accused of betraying and disobeying him."
They both smiled.
"And how do we leave without my father knowing?"
"Leave that to me," the prince replied. "There are men very loyal to me in the army."