Bailord sat at the center of the long table, perfectly composed, his fingers slowly stroking his thick white beard. Many believed he was the true power behind the Empire.
"We are not here to trade insults," he said evenly, "nor to waste time on childish arguments."
The room fell silent.
His sharp gaze shifted to Zayn.
"Did your vision show you where the crown lies?"
Zayn tilted her head slightly, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.
"Not clearly…" she replied, "but yes, my lord ."
A faint scoff escaped from Ezra's side of the table, but he wisely kept his mouth shut this time.
Zayn cleared her throat, drawing every eye back to her.
"It's buried," she continued. "Deep inside a cave far from any known route. The sand has long swallowed the entrance. You could walk past it a hundred times and never know it was there."
"Hm."
Bailord nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he absorbed her words.
"Then this is no longer speculation," he said. "We will need to mobilize a search."
"I agree," one of the officials added, leaning forward.
"Perhaps Aarav could be of use."
Ezra's voice slipped in, his brows lifting slightly.
"He's been gone for nearly five years now," Zayn cut in, her tone edged. "You cannot summon him like a servant and expect him to answer."
"That will be all."
Bailord's voice ended the exchange before it could grow.
"You are dismissed."
Chairs shifted. Murmurs returned as the officials rose and began filing out of the hall.
Within moments, the room was nearly empty.
Bailord remained seated.
Then, with a single clap, he summoned a guard.
The man appeared almost instantly.
"Yes, my lord?"
Bailord didn't hesitate.
"Send for Ser Matteo."
The grand hall had emptied, leaving behind a heavy silence where heated voices had clashed only moments ago. The faint echo of departing footsteps had long since faded.
Bailord remained seated at the center of the long table, unmoving, his gaze distant — as though he were still listening to ghosts of the conversation.
The tall doors opened with a low creak.
Matteo entered without hurry.
There was nothing loud or flashy about him, yet his presence filled the room instantly. He moved with quiet, lethal precision, measured steps, straight spine, and a steady gaze that missed nothing. Commander of the Imperial soldiers. Matteo Rydberg.
Feared not for cruelty, but for his cold, unrelenting efficiency.
He stopped a few paces from the table and offered a respectful nod.
"My lord."
Bailord gestured lightly with two fingers. "Come."
Matteo stepped closer, stopping at the edge of the table.
"There's a matter that requires your attention," Bailord began, his voice low and deliberate.
Matteo remained silent, waiting.
"A crown," Bailord continued, "buried deep beneath the sands. Hidden in a cave at that time, the desert has long swallowed it."
Matteo's expression didn't change, not even a flicker.
"And you believe this?" Matteo asked calmly.
Bailord rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate. "I believe the desert has grown far too restless to ignore any possibility."
He crossed to a side table and unrolled a large parchment map, smoothing it flat with both hands. The detailed markings of trade routes, territories, and shifting dunes sprawled across the surface.
Matteo stepped beside him, eyes already scanning the document.
"It is said the entrance is buried," Bailord continued, gesturing vaguely over the map. "Swallowed by sand long ago. You could walk past it a hundred times and never know it was there."
Matteo's gaze remained steady on the parchment.
"Then we are searching for something that cannot be seen," he said.
Bailord allowed a faint, humorless smile.
"Which is why I will not waste an entire army on it."
He tapped a single finger against the map.
"You will take a small unit. Matteo glanced at him. "How small?"
"Enough to return with answers," Bailord replied. "No more."
A brief pause settled between them.
"I want a test run. Trace the outer regions. Follow the storm paths. Observe everything. Then return."
Matteo gave a single, crisp nod.
"Understood."
"And Matteo—"
Bailord's voice stopped him before he could step away.
"There is something else."
Matteo turned slightly.
"If this crown exists," Bailord said quietly, "we must find it before anyone else does. Especially before those who still believe the desert chooses its rulers."
Matteo held his gaze. For a moment something unreadable flickered across his face, then it vanished.
"It will be done," he said.
Bailord watched him leave. The heavy wooden door of the hall scraped against the stone floor as it swung shut behind Matteo.
*****
Yasmine lowered her bow after her final shot, the string still humming in the warm air. She was excellent with a bow, deadly accurate but swordsmanship had always been her weakness.
Wiping sweat from her brow, she decided to take a walk across the dunes to clear her head before returning to her grandmother's house. The late afternoon sun painted the sand in shifting shades of gold as she let her mind wander.
In the distance, movement caught her eye.
A group of men was crossing the dunes, their silhouettes sharp against the horizon. They didn't belong to the northern tribes. She could tell by the way they moved — too stiff, too deliberate, as if the desert itself was foreign to them. They made no effort to blend in. Travelers, perhaps. Or something else.
Curiosity stirred. Yasmine followed at a careful distance, keeping low behind the curving dunes and watching their every step. They appeared to be searching for a place to camp for the night.
Finally, she stepped out into view.
"Young men," she called, her voice steady and carrying easily across the sand. "You look lost. Where are you headed?"
The group halted and turned toward her. One of them tall, broad-shouldered, with a wary glint in his eyes let out a short scoff.
"We're not lost," he replied. "We're from here."
Yasmine studied him for a moment, unconvinced.
"I know my people," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for lies. "And you're not one of them."
"Ah! You sure do," another man chimed in—Matteo, who hadn't been with the rest of the group at first. He stepped forward. "We aren't from around here. We're just passing through, and with the sun setting soon, we're trying to find somewhere to rest for the night," he explained.
"I can help," Yasmine said, sizing them up with a keen eye. "I know every corner around here. But… how much money do you have on you?"
"Will this be enough?" Matteo asked, holding out a small bag of coins.
Yasmine took it, weighing it in her hand. "Quite a small bag," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Ah, but these gold coins will do. We can work with this. Covers for food and lodging, too."
"So… where are we going?" Xavier, Matteo's sharp-eyed right-hand man, asked, not masking his skepticism.
"My home," Yasmine said, pointing to herself with a small, confident smile.
"Now, off we go," she signaled with a flick of her hand, turning and leading the way.
Matteo, Xavier, and the others exchanged glances, their confusion written plainly across their faces. What kind of woman invites a group of strangers into her home? Yet, despite their hesitation, they followed her. Not that they had much of a choice.
The walk was quieter than expected.
No chatter. No questions. Just the sound of boots pressing into sand as they followed behind her.
At first, Xavier thought she was joking.
"Is this your home?" Matteo muttered, squinting against the glare. His eyes raked the flat nothing stretching out before them.
Nothing.
No walls, no guards, no fucking building that said someone like her lived out here.
Then he eased up on the pace.
"Wait a second…"
It was barely there. You could blink and miss it. Just a wrongness in the sand, a place where the dunes didn't quite line up right. As they got closer, the shapes started crawling out of the ground.
Low clay huts, beaten smooth by years of wind. They didn't sit in the desert — they looked like they'd grown out of it, half-buried and forgotten on purpose.
Xavier's face tightened.
"Hidden."
They walked all the way in, and the empty feel cracked open.
It wasn't one hut. It was a whole damn setup.
Off to the left, wooden posts stuck up out of the sand. Some were wrapped in old rags, faded and stiff. A couple split right down the middle, clean cuts from something heavy and fast. Not for show.
Targets.
A few steps more and the ground changed under their boots. Too flat. Too packed down. Like something had been stomping the same circle for years.
Matteo stared at it, jaw working.
Training ground.
"This woman…" one of the men muttered under his breath.
Closer to the hut, a low stone hearth sat black with years of use. The smell of old smoke still hung in the air, tangled with something sharp and green, dried herbs swinging lazily from a line in the breeze.
Someone didn't just survive out here. They lived.
Xavier's eyes kept scanning.
No guards.No walls worth a damn.
And yet the silence itself felt like a warning. Like the place had teeth, even if you couldn't see them.
Matteo stayed quiet, taking it all in—the worn targets, the packed training circle, the way everything looked half-swallowed by the sand on purpose.
Finally, he looked straight at her.
"You built all this?" he asked.
Yasmine didn't answer right away. She just kept walking ahead like the question was stupid.
"You're welcome," she said, dry as the sand under their boots.
She pointed toward the back of the hut with a small tilt of her head.
"Go round the back. There are benches. Bring one out and sit." She said as she exited their presence
Before the others could move, Matteo stepped forward.
"I'll get it."
He circled behind the hut. The air felt cooler there, heavier with shade. The wind died down to almost nothing.
Yasmine was already waiting.
She stood beside an old woman tending a low fire, adjusting the wood beneath a pot that simmered softly. The scent of herbs drifted through the air.
Matteo hadn't meant to listen.
But he didn't leave.
"You have visitors," the old woman said calmly, as if she had sensed them long before.
"Yes," Yasmine replied, a small pouch of gold dangling from her fingers. "Travelers. They'll be staying for a while."
A soft hum.
"Then I'll make more soup," the old woman said, stirring. "How many?"
"Seven men," Yasmine answered, then paused.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward where Matteo stood.
"Although…" her lips curved slightly, "the one standing there looks like he eats properly. Let's say ten."
Matteo almost smiled.
"Then we'll cook for ten," the old woman replied easily.
Matteo stepped forward, no longer pretending.
"Good evening," he said, giving a slight bow.
The old woman looked up at him.
Her eyes were sharp, taking him in fully—his height, his build, the quiet control in the way he carried himself.
Then she nodded once.
"Well-mannered too," she said. "Good. We don't get many of those out here."
She gestured toward the stacked benches.
"Take two."
Yasmine turned slightly, already walking off.
"Try not to break anything," she added over her shoulder.
About an hour and a half later, the food had been served.
The compound felt different now—warmer, alive.
A low fire crackled at the center, a thick log set carefully in place to hold through the night. Not far from it, Yasmine had already set up a large tent, its fabric stretched firm against the wind.
Everything was prepared.
As though she had done this a hundred times before.
She returned shortly after, carrying folded clothes.
Seven sets. Clean. Simple. Along with towels.
She dropped them onto a nearby bench.
"Eat first," she said. "Then you can wash up. The bath is behind the stone wall, past the hut. You'll find it."
"You're not eating?" Xavier asked, glancing at her.
"I am," Yasmine replied lightly. "Just not with you. With Yeye."
"Yeye?" Edward repeated, brows lifting.
"That's what we call grandmothers in the North," she said, already turning away. "You'll get used to it."
And with that, she disappeared into the hut.
The men exchanged looks.
"She just… has clothes ready?" one of them muttered.
"For men," Edward added quietly. "Seven of them."
Matteo exhaled softly.
"I noticed."
"Something's off," Edward said.
"Maybe," Matteo replied.
His gaze shifted toward the hut.
"Or maybe she's just prepared."
"This smells good," one of the men said, already reaching for the bowl.
It tasted better.
Rich. Warm. The kind of meal that settled deep.
The conversation faded quickly. One by one, they fell silent, focused only on eating. The meat was soft, the broth perfectly spiced.
For a moment, the desert didn't feel harsh.
"God…" Edward muttered after finishing, wiping his mouth. "We've never eaten like this at the empire."
"Last time I had something this good, I was a boy," Xavier added.
Matteo stood.
"Enough," he said calmly. "Clear up. Then get some rest."
They obeyed.
The bath area sat just as Yasmine had described—behind a curved stone wall, partially hidden from view. Water had been stored in large clay containers, cool to the touch.
One by one, they washed.
Changed.
Folded their uniforms neatly, setting them aside.
Four of them turned in early, disappearing into the tent without protest.
But Matteo, Xavier, and Edward remained outside a while longer.
The night sky stretched wide above them, heavy with stars.
Quiet and Still.
Eventually, they too retired.
Not long after, the compound fell silent. The door to the hut opened softly.
Yasmine stepped out.