The knock on the door was soft, but precise. Saed stirred as morning light spilled across the tiled floor of his bedroom. The scent of sand and jasmine drifted in through the half-open window, the kind of scent that reminded him he wouldn't be waking in this room again at least not for a long while.
Alka's voice followed the knock. "It's time, young master."
Saed sat up without a word. There had been no dreams last night, no visions, no burning voices. Just the steady hum of silence and the weight of the day ahead. He pushed the covers aside and stood, stretching stiff muscles, then moved to wash his face in the brass basin set near the wall.
His robe waited for him, light but ceremonial, the fabric a pale gray with silver thread running subtly through the trim. It bore no sigils, no bold declarations of House Nafura, but it was unmistakably noble. He tied it shut with practiced fingers, then reached for the old blade hanging near the doorway. Its sheath was cracked, the leather darkened with age. This was no heirloom, it was his.
Alka stood waiting outside with her usual unreadable calm. "Your companions have arrived," she said.
Saed offered her a glance, then followed her out through the long corridor of the estate. The house was still. No servants whispered in the halls. His father had not appeared to bid him farewell.
He stepped into the courtyard and felt the light of the rising sun touch his face. The air was already warming, though the breeze still carried a trace of the night's chill. Two figures waited near the front gate, standing just apart from each other.
The first was a short man, dark-skinned, bald, with a closely trimmed beard and dark, watchful eyes. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze tracked everything with a soldier's caution. He was compact, but carried himself like a boulder waiting to roll.
"Faruq," he said, his voice low but strong. "I take orders, if they're good ones."
As expected from a prisoner...
Saed looked at the scythe hanging almost freely on his back, only retained by the primitive rope holding it in place.
Saed nodded. "Then I'll make sure they are."
Beside him stood a striking woman, tall, with vivid red hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Her features were sharp, her green eyes sharp even in the soft morning light. She wore practical clothing with a mace strapped to her back, and gave no bow or curtsy.
"Basima," she said.
"Glad to meet you," Saed replied without pause. "You're all blades, that's the plan. We're relying on you three's strength. To summarize : you're the knights, I'm the king."
Faruq gave a short chuckle. "That's one way to put it."
They moved to the shade beneath the archway, voices lowered as they discussed their plan. There would be no glory charges, no declarations of supremacy on the first day. They would advance quietly, let others draw attention and burn themselves out.
"The goal isn't to win battles," Saed said, "it's to win the war. We move slowly, stay unseen where we can, strike only when the return is worth the risk."
Basima crossed her arms. "And if someone targets us first?"
"Then you two will do what you do best. But I'd rather avoid that."
"We'll see," she muttered.
Faruq shrugged. "Sounds better than dying on day one."
They didn't speak much after that. The three stood in a triangle of silence, the air filled only by distant birdsong and the low groan of a turning wheel.
A carriage approached from the far end of the road.
Its frame was black as ink, glossy and smooth, pulled by two silent white horses that left no prints in the sand. It moved like a mirage, and yet Saed could feel the weight of its presence as it rolled to a halt before them.
The door opened without a sound.
From within stepped a tall, pale man dressed in butler's attire so pristine it might have been sewn from smoke. His gloves were white. His eyes were hidden behind oval spectacles with dark lenses that reflected the three of them back like ghosts. His skin was ashen, almost artificial.
"I will take you to the Island," he said.
He offered no name, no explanation.
Saed entered first without hesitation. Basima followed with a glance toward the sky. Faruq muttered something under his breath before climbing in and shutting the door behind them.
The inside of the carriage was large, impossibly so. Cushioned seats of velvet faced each other across a wide center space. There were no windows, no sense of motion once the carriage began to move.
At first, they sat upright, exchanging a few last remarks.
"How long is the ride?" Faruq asked.
The butler didn't answer.
"I don't trust it," Basima said.
"I don't trust anything," Saed replied. "That's why I'm still here."
That's why he was still here.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The cushions were too soft. The air too clean. The walls seemed to pulse faintly with a rhythm not quite natural.
Sleep arrived not like exhaustion, but like a command. They tried to fight it, but their limbs grew heavy, heads tilted forward, thoughts slowed.
And then, darkness.
"..."
They awoke to color.
A brilliant blue sky stretched overhead, far too perfect. Around them stood buildings, smooth stone, tiled rooftops, flowing fabrics hanging from posts like banners. People walked the streets. Some in noble robes, others in plain clothing. No one looked surprised to be here.
A city. Fully formed. Alive.
Faruq blinked. "This is… the Island?"
"It's not just a battlefield," Saed murmured. "It's a world."
There were trees in neat lines, a fountain nearby, a clocktower chiming faintly in the distance. From somewhere unseen, a voice rose, clear and inhuman.
"Welcome, candidates."
"Your goal is to become Emperor. All means are permitted."
"You have 14 days. Use them well."
Silence followed. No rules. No limits.
Saed looked to his companions. "We begin now."