The lute strings trembled beneath Sol’s fingers like wind across a silken veil. Her voice poured out in slow, lilting melody—rising and falling in a tongue most in the room did not speak, yet all understood. It was the language of rhythm, of cadence, of longing wrapped in melody. Her dialect curled the words like ribbons of silver smoke, singing of moonlit hills, long-lost lovers, and spirits who wept in the northern battlefields. She danced as she sang, not in the wild, uncouth way of tavern girls, but in the manner of trained court performers—each step deliberate, fluid, part of the music.

  The patrons of the leaned in like moths to a flame.

  Coins began to clink on the stage edge, a soft percussion to her ballad. A few were tossed with flair by inebriated merchants. Others were slid reverently by calloused hands that paused in awe. Even the dancers by the curtain stilled for a moment, watching the spectacle with the same wonder they once held as newcomers.

  Behind the bar, the young keeper beat his towel softly against the wood, mimicking the rhythm as he watched the performance unfold.

  "Always fascinates me," he muttered, half to himself, "what people will do for attention."

  Zion, sitting still as a statue in the soft lantern glow, didn’t look at him. “Bards feed off attention. It’s more than coin. It’s their addiction.”

  The barkeep snorted softly. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about the bards.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if revealing something conspiratorial. “I was talking about the men.”

  Zion turned his eyes toward him, just enough to show he was listening. His mug of kumus, now less full and pleasantly sour, rested near his fingers.

  Zion asked.

  The barkeep offered a small smile, eyes flicking toward a trio of older men near the stage—robes heavy with embroidery, beards dyed meticulously, eyes tracking Sol’s hips as if they were witnessing scripture.

  “You see, discretion is advised,” the barkeep said. “But most of them have wives. Sometimes more than one. Important men. Family men. But still they end up here, tossing coin at young women and forgetting all their oaths.”

  Zion took another slow sip, letting the warm bitterness settle against the back of his tongue. “Part of life.”

  “Thank for that.”

  Zion’s brow lifted faintly. “You don’t seem the sort to worship a goddess of lust.”

  the man corrected, chuckling as he wiped the same spot on the counter. “Lust is just one part of the step. Like spring before summer. But no, I don’t pray to her. Still, her blessings put the roof over my daughter’s head. I won’t curse her for it.”

  Zion didn’t respond right away. He turned slightly, scanning the room with the lazy precision of a trained killer.

  The stage glowed softly under oil-lamps. The crowd buzzed around it. Merchants raised goblets. Watchmen murmured over hookah pipes. Courtesans shifted like cats between groups.

  But the corner was empty.

  The Northerner was gone.

  “Is it a common thing,” Zion asked, slowly, “to have a true Northerner here?”

  The barkeep raised a brow. “As much as it is to have a Leonxi.” He smirked. “So no. Not much.”

  “Likely,” the man replied, his tone casual but curious. “People like that don’t wander far from the gold, and there’s coin to be made in Moudhaz. But it surprises me if he made it all the way through the continent alive. Those outland roads don’t favor strangers.”

  Zion let his fingers trace the rim of his mug. “He would make riches here,” he murmured. “Southern women flock to Northerners.”

  The barkeep laughed. “You noticed? Something about the blue eyes. Makes them look honest, even when they’re not.”

  “They’re just like anyone else,” Zion said, voice low. “There’s nothing special about them.”

  “Maybe not.” The barkeep leaned on the bar now, resting on his elbows. “But it’s like the heat here. It gets in their heads. Most of ‘em wear their pelts like they’re proud of suffering. Heat makes their skin burn red. They sweat like cursed oxen. But they never take the fur off.”

  “Stubbornness.”

  “Or pride. Or maybe virility. That Northerner looked the type. Just hope he does not break our best coin makers.”

  Zion tilted his head. “Fearing for your sacred camels?”

  The barkeep barked a short laugh. “They fall for accents and fur, then carry the burden.”

  Zion said flatly.

  “Exactly. But there’s always the witches,” he added, lowering his voice further. “Heard some of the cult can do things. Dark things. If a woman’s not ready, they say they can... purge what isn’t wanted.”

  Zion’s eyes narrowed slightly. “”

  “The God of Death.” The barkeep’s voice was reverent now, not out of belief, but caution. “A cult in the south. Old blood stuff. Frowned upon by most religions, but some women seek solace. Unwanted pregnancies, rapes... Keep it a secret as some would like to stone them to death. Call them 'Al-Seheitan' spawn.”

  “We call it out east.”

  The barkeep wrinkled his nose. “Zygorr? That’s a silly name.”

  “Name is a name,” Zion said. “Matters none if the weight carried is the same.”

  “True.”

  The conversation drifted into silence. Sol’s voice rose, sharp and elegant as glass. She had moved off the stage now, striding through the gathered crowd like a priestess of song. She spun slowly, catching the torchlight in the green of her eyes. Coins clinked against the floor, the tables, the rim of her oud’s body.

  People smiled. Some looked lovesick. Others looked awed. Some simply stared.

  Zion watched her, but not with the gaze of the others. He watched the way a hawk might watch a dancer on a distant cliff—measuring the path, the danger, the storm behind the beauty.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t drink.

  He just watched.

  And despite the warmth of the crowd, the haze of incense, the gleam of laughter, Zion sat alone—utterly, undeniably alone—in a room full of people.

  Zion leaned forward on the bar, his voice a low growl, each word carved from the same stone that shaped his bones.

  “What do you know about?”

  The bartender froze. His hand, mid-wipe over the rim of a mug, stopped cold. He didn’t lift his eyes to meet Zion’s. “Never heard that name,” he said quickly—too quickly—and turned his face to the side, pretending to arrange the stacked goblets behind him. But Zion’s eyes didn’t miss it.

  The flinch.

  The avoidance.

  The lie.

  Zion scrunched his nose slightly, drawing a long breath through it. The scent of the place was overwhelming—sweat, smoke, sweet oils, fermented milk, incense, semen and perfume all tangled in the air like a thousand threads of heat and noise. But buried beneath it, faint as a thread of silk under armor, was something else. Something mammalian.

  Pheromones.

  “You’re scared,” Zion said simply.

  The barkeep didn’t respond. He only turned his back to Zion, bending low to fetch a pitcher as a group of city watchmen loudly requested ale, their half-laughs slurred and careless. He poured with precision, filling their cups with a trained smile and then set the pitcher back down without once glancing back at Zion.

  Zion’s voice, calm as coiled steel: “Another kumus.”

  The bartender nodded stiffly and fetched the drink. Zion waited, fingers drumming once against the wooden bar. He could hear Sol’s voice echoing in the background—higher now, brighter, as the song built toward its crescendo. There were cheers, clapping, the occasional drunken shout of praise. But Zion didn’t turn. His gaze was locked on the drink as it was set down before him.

  Then, as the barkeep moved to walk away, Zion reached into his pouch. Instead of copper, he pulled free a gleaming Solarion coin—gold, bright, heavy with worth.

  He set it on the counter without a word.

  The barkeepers’s eyes flicked to it, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached for the coin.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And just before his fingers could close around it, Zion’s massive paw came down on top of his hand. Not hard—yet. The soft scrape of claws against skin sent a shiver through the man’s wrist.

  “You can bring your daughter that coin,” Zion said quietly, his eyes piercing straight through him. “But first, I must know who Mikli is.”

  The bartender swallowed. It was dry. Audible.

  “I can’t tell you,” he whispered. “It’s not wise.”

  Zion didn’t respond.

  Instead, with his free hand, he reached into his pouch again and drew a second Solarion. Another disc of gold. More coin than many men here earned in a season.

  He held it up—not threateningly, but deliberately—between two clawed fingers.

  “This is enough for a long time, isn’t it?”

  The bartender’s face twisted. he muttered. The word carried a hiss of heat. A curse, maybe. Or a prayer. It didn’t matter.

  “Think of her,” Zion said, his voice low but firm. “Not Mikli.”

  “That’s two weeks’ pay,” the man said, voice trembling.

  “I’d rather assess a threat as soon as possible,” Zion replied, tilting his head. “And I have the slightest intuition that more coin can be made with this purchase.”

  The bartender’s shoulders rose and fell in a slow, deep breath. The kind men take before they decide whether to speak or run. Zion leaned in slightly, the weight of his presence folding over the moment like armor over silk.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” the barkeep said finally. “But it isn’t much.”

  Zion let his claws withdraw slightly, easing off the man’s hand. “A stick is not a sword,” he said, “but it keeps the distance better than a hand.”

  The bartender blinked at him. “No idea what that means.”

  “It means,” Zion replied, lifting the second coin between his fingers and placing it neatly beside the first, “I’d rather hear something than nothing at all.”

  “I see.” The barkeep’s voice was steadying, but only just. “Give me a moment.”

  Zion’s eyes narrowed, golden and unblinking. “Don’t try to slip away. If you do, Mikli will be the last of your concerns.”

  A subtle tremor passed through the barkeep’s jaw before he gave a quick nod. “There’s an outhouse,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Behind the Gracious Depths. Left side, by the garden wall. Meet me there, shortly.”

  Zion nodded once. He stood slowly, his bones crackling beneath his armor as he rose. He didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he turned his head toward the stage.

  Sol danced like a creature caught between afternoon sun and song. She lifted the hem of her pale white dress, revealing the sweep of her pale legs, earning a raucous cheer from a gaggle of merchants near the front. Her dark hair spun as she twirled, her voice curling around the notes like smoke around a candle flame. Coins clinked against the wooden stage, a rain of copper and silver that scattered beneath her boots.

  She didn’t notice Zion watching. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She was a flame in her element, and the room fed on her warmth.

  Zion exhaled once through his nose, then turned toward the archway near the exit, his boots silent over the thick carpet as he vanished into the deeper shadows of the lounge.

  Outside, the evening had grown cooler. The sun above Moudhaz were beginning to go down.

  But something darker stirred beneath them.

  And Zion was ready to meet it.

  The sun had dipped just enough to throw long golden fingers across the rooftops of Moudhaz, casting thin shadows that bent across the sandstone walls like stretched memories. In the shaded edge of the Gracious Depths, Zion leaned against the thick trunk of a date tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze, pretending to be at rest—but in truth, he was coiled, still, alert. Every motion on the street, every passerby, every whisper of wind found its place in his awareness.

  The back door of the lounge creaked softly. The bartender emerged.

  Zion didn’t move.

  “Here I am,” the man muttered, his voice tight.

  Zion turned his head only slightly. “I never got your name, keeper.”

  The man winced, then shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise. Please.”

  “I understand the need for discretion,” Zion replied. “It is wise.”

  The keeper gestured with a twitch of his fingers. “Ahem, come here. Not by the door.” He led Zion a short distance along the alley, to the rear of a small stable that reeked of camel and horse sweat. From here, the street was just visible through a thin slit between stacked crates. Children ran past playing with hoops, women bartered over baskets of dried figs, and the occasional guard walked the periphery, eyes drowsy in the late light. The city pulsed on, unaware.

  “Look,” the barkeep said, voice low and breath quick, “I never told you any of this. You understand?”

  Zion nodded, arms crossed, his golden eyes calm and unflinching. “I don’t know who you are. Nor do I care.”

  “Good,” the man breathed, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his temple. “I like breathing.”

  Zion remained still. His stance relaxed, but only on the surface. Beneath the fur, his muscles were tense, his ears twitching at every sharp sound, his nose sifting through every scent the wind offered.

  “So,” the barkeep began, “Mikli is a local .”

  Zion’s brow arched slightly. “Which means?”

  “He’s the head of a brotherhood. Not the kind with temples and prayer. A band. Thieves, assassins, enforcers, smugglers... all of it. He’s a ghost to those who matter, and a god to those beneath him.”

  “Bandit leader,” Zion summarized.

  The barkeep shook his head. “No. More than that. Maybe he started as one, years ago. But now? Only the initiates still steal from coin purses. The real crew—his inner ring—they run things. Underground things.”

  “Magical things?” Zion asked, his voice now a whisper edged with suspicion.

  “Maybe,” the keeper shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. But there are whispers. Dark stuff. Blood rites, rituals in the Aklar sands. They say he talks to spirits—real ones. Not the drunk stories priests tell.”

  Zion’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”

  The barkeep leaned closer. “What I do know is he sells .”

  Zion narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Powder. Comes in little black-stone vials. It’s made from desert fox blood, crushed giant bone, and some kind of mineral dust they dig out west of the city. Near the dead winds.”

  “Dead winds?”

  “. Sand so dry it cuts the skin off your bones. The powder... it makes people see things. Horrible things. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes just madness.”

  Zion’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tapped slowly on his arm.

  “He deals in more than dust, too,” the barkeep added, glancing toward the street. “Kidnapping. Murder. Protection rackets. The coded businesses in town? Enslavers, smugglers, even the cabarets like this one—they all pay him. Or else.”

  Zion’s voice dropped. “Enslavers pay him for protection?”

  The barkeep nodded quickly. “Because Mikli makes it clear—if they don’t pay, he’ll take the business himself. Or burn it. Has done it before. He controls a spice route out to Bathat. Even heard some of his caravans made it all the way to the Silk Coast.”

  Zion exhaled slowly through his nose. “How many men?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not with his people. But enough to make folks shut their mouths. Some are real fighters. Others are just shadows and fear. You want to avoid them. Or at least... not piss them off.”

  Zion’s eyes darkened, the color of his irises sharpening with dangerous clarity. “I encountered three bandits earlier. Near the counting house. They tried to rape Sol. I intervened. Killed one. The others fled. One said Mikli would hear about it.”

  The barkeep turned white.

  “Oh no,” he muttered. “This is bad, . Very bad.”

  Zion tilted his head. “Why?”

  The barkeep glanced behind him, as if expecting shadows to form out of the sunbaked wall. “Do you know the name of the one you killed?”

  Zion nodded once. “. If I’m correct.”

  The man went silent.

  Zion waited.

  Then, the whisper. A hoarse breath. “This... is bad.”

  “Who is he?”

  The barkeep swallowed again. His voice was lower than before. Barely more than wind.

  The shadows had grown longer, stretching like grasping fingers along the cobbled edge of the alley, where stables and smoke drifted quietly into the air. The scent of dung, dust, and old hay lingered like a ghost from centuries of travelers passing through. Zion remained steady, arms folded across his chest, the golden hue of his eyes dimmed by the fading light but no less piercing.

  “Mikli’s nephew, so we heard,” the barkeep began again, his voice low and cautious, as if the very syllables might bring doom upon him. “He was reckless, arrogant. Boisterous even in silence. But Mikli—he trusted him enough to put him in charge of robbing foreigners. Especially travelers without ties. Merchants, pilgrims. Solitary people with no one to notice when they disappear.”

  Zion’s gaze sharpened.

  “He was also known for... taking women,” the barkeep added, with a measure of disgust curling his lip. “Free women. Not slaves. He took foreigner women from the counting house districts. Cabaret performers. Traders' daughters.”

  “I suppose that is a violation here?” Zion asked, his voice quiet, yet honed like a blade.

  “Yes,” the barkeep nodded grimly. “Slaves are... casted. Purchased, branded. They are a different class, undesirables by birth or blood. Captured tribes from the east, the southern savannas, even northern raiders taken during sea raids. But Shaleiko? He took free women. He stole them.”

  Zion growled, something dangerous in the way he said it.

  The barkeep looked away, his fingers tightening around the folds of his apron. “I don’t agree with the practice, but it’s ingrained. It’s part of our structure, our culture. And I’m just a man trying to keep his daughter fed. I won’t shed tears for Shaleiko—his death is a reckoning—but Mikli... Mikli will be most dissatisfied.”

  Zion turned his head slightly, scanning the rooftops. A breeze tugged at the end of his cloak. “What about the city watch?”

  “Divided,” the barkeep said at once. “Some take coin to look the other way. Some work directly for him. Others—well, others are just afraid. I’d wager some would love to see Mikli gone. And fear is heavier than justice in this city.”

  Zion’s ears twitched slightly. “He’s feared. Not loved.”

  “Exactly. But he’s not stupid. He doesn’t act in the open. He chooses likable people to represent him. Soft-faced merchants. Philanthropists. Guildsmen. That’s how he’s evaded the city watch and the Mage Academy.”

  Zion blinked slowly. “The what?”

  “There’s a royal Mage Academy,” the barkeep explained, eyes flicking toward the northern skyline, where the sun cast an orange halo behind distant domes. “Just north of the city. It’s old. Very prestigious. They answer only to the Sulif.”

  “The king?”

  “The Sulif, yes. He’s the head of the Suliphate. You won’t see him here—but his arm stretches far.”

  Zion’s tone grew colder. “Do you believe they’d act? If they knew?”

  “Maybe,” the barkeep said, hesitating. “But I doubt they’d waste their apprentices on street filth. The mages treat us like vermin, suhadik. They walk like gods, speak in riddles, and leave flames behind them. Mikli... he’s below their concern. And the watch? They’re too busy protecting the trade routes. Mikli feeds the city. The coin he brings in? Spice, powders, gold, silk—it all ends up taxed. His absence would make a bigger mess than his presence.”

  Zion’s face didn’t move. But his jaw flexed slightly.

  “And if he dies,” he said, “others rise.”

  “Yes,” the barkeep confirmed. “The head falls, the neck sprouts new ones. It’s a hydra. Some old faction, some cousin, maybe even his own lieutenants. Power never goes quietly.”

  Zion was quiet for a moment, then spoke as if remembering something once buried. “I’ve seen men like him before. When you kill them, you think it’s over. But then you see what happens in the vacuum... what fills it.”

  He closed his eyes for a breath. Not a blink, not rest. It was meditation. The flicker of memory returning. He remembered the battle—the crumbling outpost, the bodies of his soldiers strewn in the mud. The sky blackened by smoke. His closest friend, Aran’s brother, bleeding out on his sword, whispering his final words before going cold.

  And Zion had fled.

  Then, he opened his eyes again. A furnace behind them.

  “I will not run,” he said.

  The barkeep blinked. “What?”

  “I’m done with such things,” Zion said, his voice deep with certainty. “I will stay and fight. I’ll wait for his attack... and make it his last.”

  The barkeep looked as if he wanted to argue. But he said nothing.

  “Be careful,” he muttered instead. “And... don’t destroy what little we’ve built here. I know you might look down on us. On this place. But this cabaret, this bar—it keeps my daughter fed. It keeps us warm at night. You fight your fight, but think carefully.”

  Zion nodded. “I will not attack unless provoked. But I believe... I’m past being just another face in the crowd.”

  The barkeep sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead. “I see.”

  He straightened, stepping away from the wall. “I should get back to my duties. If I’m gone too long, Carmen will start asking questions.”

  Zion nodded again, but slower this time.

  “I hope you see this the right way,” the barkeep added quietly. “And... may the protect you.”

  Zion’s lips barely parted.

  “I don’t need the protection of a god of victims,” he said. “ watches me.”

  The barkeep offered no response. He simply turned and slipped back toward the lounge, vanishing among the lanterns and laughter.

  Zion remained for a moment longer beneath the fig tree, the dry breeze brushing across his face, bringing with it the smell of city heat, baked clay, and blood long since spilled.

  He would not run.

  And when the jackals came, he would be ready.