We hadn't even made a hundred yards before the change hit me. The land outside was dead. Trees stood like blackened bones, their branches bare. Flowers drooped, colorless and brittle. Even the grass seemed to shrink away from the hooves of Qahir's stallion.
A few miles on, the scenery only worsened. We passed the shells of buildings—charred frames sagging inward, windows like empty eye sockets. Beside the road, small wooden crosses jutted from the soil in crooked lines.
As the stallion plodded past, I caught the faint carving on one of them. Punished for Treason. No name. No date. Just the reason for their death.
"Cassian."
"Yes, sir?"
Qahir tightened his grip on the reins. "Ever been outside those manor walls before?"
"No… no, I haven't, sir." My voice faltered as I looked around again. Honestly, this wasn't at all what I'd imagined. I guess Metania was right.
Qahir glanced back over his shoulder, speaking low enough that only I could hear. "This land has been at war for centuries." He paused, letting the silence hang before breathing out a heavy sigh. "And in all that time, the Purgy have done more than fight. For years now, they've been hunting down anyone who dares speak against it—a war so old that no one even remembers how it began."
I tried to respond, but nothing came. The words stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. Did Qahir want this war to end too? I could hear it in his voice—the way desperation tangled with the sadness that always seemed to shadow him when he spoke of it. He sounded like a man who'd already fought enough battles, yet was trapped in a war he couldn't escape.
"Sir… have you always been the leader of this group?" I asked, forcing my gaze away from the graves and ruins.
"Not always," he said, the reins creaking in his grip. "Only for the last few years. My master was the one who created the Vanguard. He was strong—stronger than me."
A short silence passed before a crooked smile touched his face. "Which is hard for me to admit." He finally laughed, the sound breaking through the heaviness like a spark of his usual self.
"So what's with that girl back there?" Qahir's voice had that smug edge again, the kind he used when he thought he'd cornered me. He jabbed me in the chest with his elbow. "You in love with her?"
My face warmed instantly. "No… I mean… I like her, but I don't know about love."
He smirked like he'd just caught me lying. "That's what they all say. Give it time, boy. Wars have a way of making you realize who you can't stop thinking about."
I looked away, watching the road stretch on ahead of us. I wanted to say something back—deny it, change the subject—but part of me knew he was right.
He glanced ahead, watching the horizon as if he could see something there I couldn't. "Thing is, you don't always get the chance to tell them. Battle moves faster than words. One moment you think you've got time, the next…" He trailed off, his grip tightening on the reins. "All you've got left is regret."
His voice was calm, but the weight in it pressed on me harder than the armor on my shoulders. I thought about Yasmin—her voice, her laugh, the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention—and for the first time, I wondered what it would feel like if I never saw her again.
We marched for days. The soldiers didn't falter—no breaks, no sleep, no hint of weakness. They moved like a single, tireless machine, the rhythm of their boots a steady drumbeat against the dirt. I was the lucky one, swaying in the saddle behind Qahir, spared the ache of endless miles.
By what felt like late evening on the fourth day, the horizon finally shifted. Smoke curled in thin threads against a pale sky, and the low shapes of wooden structures came into view. Tents sprawled in every direction, stitched together like a patchwork of colors and banners. The plain was alive with movement—hundreds, maybe thousands of soldiers crisscrossing in every direction, their armor flashing in the dying light.
"This is it," Qahir said, his voice lower now, as if the very air required caution. "The heart of the army."
We crested a rise, and I could see the village proper—bigger than I'd thought, the edges fortified with sharpened stakes and watchtowers. Beyond that, the sprawl of tents seemed endless, banners snapping in the wind.
"You'd better be careful, Cassian." His tone sharpened, a quiet edge in it I didn't often hear. "The Starborne Council is here. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your eyes open. And for the gods' sake, think before you move."
He glanced back at me, holding the look for a moment longer than necessary.
"If they catch you out of line, they'll execute you on the spot… and there's nothing I can do to stop it."
We rode closer, and the scale of it all hit me harder than the miles ever could. The air thickened, heavy with smoke, sweat, and the restless murmur of thousands.
Then I saw them.
The trees.
At first, I thought the branches were heavy with banners, snapping in the wind. But the closer we came, the clearer it became. Bodies. Dozens of them. Strung up like warnings. Their armor rusted into their skin, their fingers curled like claws. Some still dripped dark red onto the roots below. Others were little more than dried husks, faces shriveled, eyes long gone.
Wooden plaques swung from their necks, the words burned into them with cruel finality: Traitor. Coward. Thief.
The stench crawled down my throat until I thought I might gag.
I wanted to look away. But I couldn't.
Because all I saw was myself.
Dangling there. Forgotten. Another body left to rot. Another nameless example for the next poor soul who stepped out of line. My chest tightened, breath sharp and shallow. My fingers clutched the saddle until they ached.
Qahir didn't slow. He didn't even turn his head. He rode steady, eyes fixed ahead, as if the dead were no more than road markers.
"This," he said, his voice low but sharp, "is what happens to men who forget their place."
I swallowed hard, but no words came.
I'd imagined war as something distant—steel clashing, banners flying, men fighting in glory or desperation. But this wasn't war. This was suffocation. A slow strangling of anyone who dared to step wrong.
And for the first time since leaving the manor walls, I realized: the war had already begun. And I was already inside its jaws.
"Company, halt!" an officer barked as we reached what looked more like a roadblock than an entrance. The guards stood rigid, hands on their weapons.
"Who requests passage?" one of the stockier guards shouted.
Qahir's tone stayed calm, but I could sense his unease. "Sir Qahir of the Black Sun Vanguard. We were summoned by the Starborne Council."
The guard stiffened instantly. "Y–yes, my lord. The Al-Zuharim al-Shams requests your presence in his chamber."
The name echoed in my mind, heavy and foreign. Al-Zuharim?
"Sir," I asked quietly, "what's an Al-Zuharim… or whatever it's called?"
Qahir turned halfway in his saddle, his gaze sharp enough to cut. "You really are new to this world, aren't you?" He exhaled through his nose. "The Al-Zuharim are what this land calls the Starborne Council—the lords chosen by the gods themselves. Each one commands a different domain of Kentaurus's will."
He shifted his halberd, speaking low enough for only me to hear.
"There are six in total. Al-Nur sits at the head—he's the voice of Kentaurus, the one who declares war or peace.
Then there's Al-Saif, master of the sword, who commands every Purgy and knight under the Najmun.
Al-Qamar watches over prophecy and judgment—he sees through lies and time alike.
Al-Nar, the burning flame, cleanses heresy and keeps the gods' worship pure.
And then there's Al-Shams… the one who summoned me. He's the keeper of the Astral Archives, the judge of the hidden laws of Luminaris. His word can absolve—or erase—entire nations."
He paused, eyes narrowing as if remembering something bitter.
"Don't ever speak your family name here," he said. "For now, tell anyone who asks that you're my son. A Qahir. Most folks around here don't know much about my line, so it should be safe."
For a moment, I just stared at him. Qahir — the man who once treated me like a nuisance — was now shielding me like I was his own blood. It didn't make sense.
When I first met him, he was all bark and mockery, swinging his halberd like it weighed nothing, calling me boy more often than my name. But now… there was something different in his voice. Something careful. Almost afraid.
Still, the thought clawed at the back of my mind.
Why was my name so important?
What did it mean in this world?
And why, every time I spoke it, did it feel like I was cursing myself?
But one thing was at the edge of my mind. Why is my name so important? What does it have to do with this world? And why is it so taboo?