A Knight, Müller thought, eyes narrowing.

  The woman raised her arms, turning slowly. "No need to be so tense. See? I’m unarmed."

  Müller’s gaze swept over her. "Forgive me. I don’t usually run into Knights like this."

  "I just had to see who caused all this chaos—and in less than half an hourglass," she said, dropping to the ground and folding her legs beneath her. "So… who are you? One of Lord Cliffend’s men?"

  Müller shrugged. "For now. I was hired by his vassal, Knight Benedict." He sheathed his sword before sitting. "Never even met the Lord."

  "Well, they made an excellent choice hiring you. And that oil trick?" She kissed her fingertips. "Pure artistry."

  The playful glint in her eyes vanished, leaving something far sharper behind. "Tell me… how were you certain the soldiers wouldn’t smell it? Oil’s not exactly subtle."

  Müller paused. "I wasn’t. Just a guess. Peasants don’t get their hands on oil—especially not peasants from a backwater like Drifteland."

  "A bold gamble." Her gaze drifted to the scrambling men below. "I’ve got to applaud you—outstanding work for a sellsword chasing nothing but coin."

  Müller’s brow twitched. "I try my best."

  The woman’s eyes slid back to him, the inferno glinting in her irises. "And I’m guessing you were instructed not to expose that you're a Knight."

  Müller opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a grin. "Don’t bother denying it. I know I’m right." She leaned back on her hands, rocking slightly. Shame I wasn’t built like that. One slight inconvenience, and I’m tossing orders straight into the dirt."

  "Unfortunate," Müller commented, folding his arms.

  "Still... I received similar orders." Her lips curved up in a slight smile. "Guess both Lords don't want to escalate this past a small territorial scuffle."

  Müller smirked and shook his head, refusing to comment.

  "Well," the woman said suddenly, "you should leave now. Wouldn’t want to miss the retreat."

  "Retreat?" Müller frowned.

  She inclined her head to the left.

  Müller followed her gaze. Though his view was partially blocked, he caught the telltale glint of steel at the bottom of the slope.

  "Reinforcements," he muttered, turning back.

  "Exactly." She gave a sharp nod. "If you get it, then get moving."

  Müller rose and turned to leave but paused, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "You never answered my question. Who are you?"

  "Me?" Her gaze drifted somewhere far off. "That’s right… who am I?"

  Müller turned fully to face her. "You don’t remember your name?"

  The woman waved a hand dismissively. "Of course I do. That was for me, not for you. Understand?"

  Müller didn’t, but he let it go. "Then what is your name?"

  She turned to him, a wide smirk lighting up her face. "The one and only Romanova… Knight Romanova."

  Müller took a step forward, starting his trek. "Never heard of you."

  "Well, I’ve heard of you, Knight Müller," Romanova called after him, watching him walk away. "And who knows… before this little scuffle ends, we might become very close."

  Müller paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Perhaps."

  Romanova grinned. "Imagine a first meeting like this." She spread her arms wide as if embracing the world itself. "Fires raging below, screams riding the wind, the choking fetor of blood."

  She drew in a deep breath, eyes rolling back in ecstatic bliss. "There’s no perhaps about it. It is meant to be."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Without another word, she spun on her heel and leaped off the rocks, vanishing into the burning camp below. Her final words lingered in the air.

  Müller sighed, relief washing over him. Finally, she's gone. He scanned the camp to confirm.

  But as his gaze swept across the smoldering ruin, his brow creased. "Where did all the soldiers go?" he muttered, eyes darting from one end to the other.

  He knew this wasn't part of his orders, but he'd never been able to resist an intriguing mystery, especially one solvable without risk to his life.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing slow, steady breaths. Gradually, his irises began to glow, flooding with blazing gold.

  Pain throbbed behind his skull, but he endured it, peering through Tentsui’s eyes.

  The flames still raged below, painting scenes of stomach-churning horror—men caught in the throes of death, screaming as fire melted flesh and boiled blood. Friends abandoned friends, desperate for survival, while the rare few clung to each other, defiant even as the flames took them.

  Yet for each body, Müller could see, there were just as many missing—hundreds... gone.

  But as he watched, a pattern emerged. Instead of fleeing toward the slope, most surviving soldiers pressed deeper into the flames, all heading for the same point.

  Most never made it, collapsing before they could reach their destination. But a handful did, and without hesitation, they leaped into a fire burning near the camp’s center.

  Müller’s eyes narrowed. He turned away, the glow in his irises dimming. Above him, Tentsui swooped down with a sharp cry, landing gently on his shoulder and rubbing its head against his neck.

  He stroked the underside of the bird’s beak, smiling faintly. "You did great. Good job."

  Tentsui purred softly in response, leaning into his hand.

  With that, Müller resumed his climb, a guiding hand tracing the rock face as he moved up.

  The sun bore down, heat prickling his skin. He grunted, hauling himself onto a ledge, only for the sharp scent of burnt wood to invade his nose.

  Müller waved at the smoke, but the smell clung stubbornly, curling in his nostrils like a ghost that refused to leave.

  Damn, this smoke. His lips curled in irritation. I shouldn’t have used fire. There were other ways.

  His vision blurred at the edges, yet somehow, his thoughts sharpened. Like his mind was surfacing from beneath deep water.

  He turned to press on—

  And froze, hand braced against the rock.

  Wait. Burnt wood? That doesn’t make sense. The bluff hadn’t held enough wood to have the smell present. He should be smelling burnt flesh, charred cloth, and blood.

  His hands fell to his sides, realization dawning.

  This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here. This was… long ago. Long before—

  Müller’s eyes cracked open, the memory dissolving like smoke on the wind. A brown canvas filled his vision—the stretched covering of a wagon.

  The wagon jolted hard, his body bouncing against the rough wood as the wheels clattered across the uneven ground.

  His fingers twitched. His hand dangled outside, heated from the burning sun. At some point during sleep, his arm must have slipped free.

  Grimacing, Müller pulled his hand back inside, groaning softly as he pushed himself upright.

  “Müller, you’re awake. Good—saves me the trouble.”

  Müller turned toward the voice.

  A rough-looking, crazy-haired man sat on the opposite side of the wagon. Like Müller, his body jolted with every bump, yet he didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he looked right at home, a well-worn pipe dangling from his mouth, its smoke curling lazily through the air.

  Müller waved a hand in front of his face. I should have known.

  Of course, the smoke was his doing.

  Turning away from the man, Müller shifted his gaze to the wagon’s open back.

  A vast expanse of sand stretched before him, rolling dunes that reached toward the distant horizon. Shimmering heat waves danced in the air, distorting the edges of the landscape.

  A warm breeze slipped through the canvas cover, offering a slight reprieve from the desert’s acrid heat.

  Müller exhaled deeply, trying to calm his unsettled mind.

  “It wasn’t a peaceful rest, was it?”

  Müller groaned inwardly and turned back, glaring daggers at the man. “No. It was comforting.”

  The man took a slow drag from his pipe, exhaling a thick plume of smoke. “Hmm, could’ve fooled me. Your face told a different story.”

  Müller didn’t answer. His gaze drifted around the wagon, skimming over the crates and baskets piled inside—searching for anything to hold his interest.

  “You’re a strange one.”

  Müller eyes twitched. He took a calming breath before turning back. "Strange?"

  The man’s head shifted, the smoke swirling about his body. His gaze dragged lazily over him, from his blonde hair to his deep blue eyes.

  “You’ve got the look of a Blackwoodian,” he said, pipe bobbing between his teeth, “but you carry yourself as one from Islecrest.”

  He pointed the stem of his pipe at Müller’s legs. “That sitting posture—legs together, heels under you—no one but an Islecrester would sit like that.”

  He let out a booming, grating laugh. “Far too uncomfortable for us mere mortals.”

  Müller stretched his legs, then rose to his feet, bending low to avoid the wagon’s roof.

  The man’s gaze followed him. “Where are you off to?”

  “Relieving myself,” Müller muttered, pulling the flap aside. “I won’t be long.”

  “Why not wait?” the man suggested, taking a deep drag from his pipe. “We’re almost there.”

  Müller froze, turning back. “What?”

  The man blinked in mock surprise. “Didn’t I tell you?” He slapped his forehead, then slightly lowered his head. “My apologies, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

  Müller gave a dismissive wave, stepping outside the wagon. Grabbing the edge of the roof, he hauled himself up.

  He raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the sun’s glare.

  At first, all he saw was endless sand—but slowly, a city shimmered into view, rising like a mirage from the horizon. It glistened through the desert haze, dark and sharp against the sky.

  The man poked his head out beside Müller, pipe still clutched in his teeth. “Never been here before, have you? Well then—let me be the first to welcome you to Deshan, the Obsidian Jewel of the East.”