Mira sat on the edge of the room that had been assigned to her. It was small, with a single narrow window cut high into the wall, just wide enough to let in a strip of pale daylight. The room was barely large enough for the wooden bed it contained. The bed was hard, its thin mattress smelling faintly of old straw and dust.

  She did not sleep much anyway.

  Whenever she did, she dreamed of her mother standing in the doorway of their old home, her face strained, her voice urgent, telling Mira to run. Mira always woke just before her mother fell to the ground. After that, sleep never returned. She would lie there crying silently until dawn, clutching the silver chain around her neck until her fingers ached.

  Your mother is with you, Fazel had said.

  She repeated the words to herself when the nights became too heavy, pressing the chain to her lips as if it could anchor her to something solid.

  Food came twice a day. In the mornings, coarse wheat bread with a thin, watery soup. In the evenings, fried meat and a cup of milk. She never knew who decided these things. She only knew the pattern.

  It was always the same boy who brought it—fat, red-faced, and breathless, as if he had run the entire way. He never spoke to her. He would set the tray down quickly, avoiding her eyes, and leave at once. Mira sensed fear in him, sharp and unhidden, and the thought unsettled her. She did not know why he feared her.

  She had no sense of how long it had been since she arrived at the camp. Days blurred together. She had not stepped outside the room since the first day.

  One day, another boy had come—a stable hand, bald-headed and restless, his mouth moving far more than it should have. He had tried to pull her from the room, his grip clumsy and uncertain. Mira had not screamed. She had only looked at him, all the rage and terror she carried rising to the surface.

  He let go.

  He left quickly after that and never returned.

  Now the room was silent again, save for the wind slipping through the window crack and the distant, indistinct sounds of a camp that never truly slept. Mira lay back on the bed, fingers curled around the silver chain, waiting for another night to pass.

  The sun dipped lower.

  Another sleepless night had passed. Mira’s tears were dry now, her eyes aching but empty. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into nothing, her mind too tired even for memories.

  The room felt older in the morning. The cracked walls, the warped wooden floor, the single window leaking pale light—it all seemed worn down, like it had given up expecting anything better.

  The door creaked open.

  It was the fat boy again.

  He carried her food and set it on the ground as usual. Bread. Soup. The smell barely reached her. But this time, he did not leave. He lingered near the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fingers worrying at the hem of his tunic.

  Mira watched him.

  “What is it?” she asked quietly.

  He muttered something under his breath.

  She frowned. “What?”

  The boy flinched, as if the word itself had struck him. His shoulders trembled. Then, all at once, the words poured out of him in a rush, breathless and panicked.

  “You—you are to be out today,” he said. “Out of this room. You’re being shifted with the other kids. They need this room for someone else. You’ve been here a week already. If you don’t come on your own, the captain will come and take you out personally—and he’s not kind.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath when he finished, as if he’d been holding it the entire time.

  He turned for the door.

  “Wait,” Mira said.

  He froze.

  She lifted her head fully now, her voice still low but steady. “Tell me something.”

  The boy glanced back at her, eyes wide.

  “Why are you so afraid of me?”

  For a moment, it looked like he might answer. His mouth opened slightly. His face twisted, caught between fear and something else—guilt, maybe.

  Then he shook his head.

  He pulled the door open and left without a word.

  The room was silent again. Mira looked down at the untouched food, then at her hands. Slowly, she reached for the silver chain at her neck and closed her fingers around it.

  Something was changing.

  She could feel it.

  Mira left the room in the evening.

  She did not want to meet anyone—least of all the captain. So she slipped out on her own, closing the door softly behind her, as if the room might call her back if she made too much noise.

  The camp felt hollow.

  Most of the men were gone. The tents stood dark and sagging, their black canvas swallowing what little light remained. She thought maybe they were out on another raid. The air was cooler now, the sun already sinking toward the horizon, staining the sky with dull reds and ash-colored gold.

  For a moment, she simply stood there, just outside the room that had been hers.

  She looked at the door.

  Her body leaned toward it without her meaning to. One step. Just one, and she could be back inside—back where nothing changed, where no one looked at her, where the walls at least did not move.

  She almost took it.

  “Finally out, huh?”

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  The voice snapped her out of it.

  The bald boy was standing a few steps away, hands on his hips, watching her with a crooked grin. He was thinner than the fat boy, restless, eyes always darting like he was looking for trouble or avoiding it—sometimes both.

  Before she could say anything, he wrinkled his nose dramatically and pinched it shut.

  “When was the last time you took a bath, anyway?” he said, laughing at his own joke.

  Mira didn’t react.

  “Come on,” he went on, already turning away. “Those stupid bastards are at it again. Smacking each other with wooden swords, calling it training. They all think they’ll become raiders someday.”

  He snorted. “Idiots.”

  Mira barely heard him.

  Her eyes were on the ground, on the dust and trampled earth of the camp. She followed because she had nowhere else to go. Because standing still felt worse. Because the room behind her was no longer hers.

  The sun dipped lower.

  The bald boy walked ahead of her as if he owned the ground beneath his feet, chin raised, shoulders loose—leading like a king escorting a subject through his realm.

  He took her away from the noise, angling toward the far edge of the camp. Beyond a cluster of scattered tents stood an old elm tree, its branches wide and low, leaves whispering softly in the evening breeze. It stood apart from everything else, as if even the camp had chosen not to disturb it.

  Farther ahead, the so-called training ground lay open and bare—an empty stretch of dirt with no tents, no shade, only trampled earth and wooden swords clacking together. That was where the noise came from.

  Farman stopped beneath the elm and dropped down onto the ground, patting the dirt beside him.

  “Sit,” he said casually, like it was already decided.

  Then, as if remembering something important, he added, “By the way, I didn’t tell you my name. I’m Farman.”

  Mira hesitated.

  The ground looked hard. Exposed. But she lowered herself slowly and sat beside him anyway, keeping a careful distance.

  “Mira,” she said, her voice quiet, almost fragile.

  Farman nodded, satisfied, then stretched his legs out and pointed toward the training ground with a crooked finger.

  “See that one?” he said. “That’s Kazam. One of the best.”

  Two boys were circling each other, wooden blades striking again and again. One moved fast, confident, driving the other back.

  “He’s beating that miserable Kamal again,” Farman laughed. “If anyone’s becoming a raider someday, it’s Kazam.”

  His finger shifted.

  “And that’s Aryan,” he said, his tone changing slightly. “Our leader. The only one I actually like.”

  Another pause.

  “And her,” he went on, pointing again, “that’s Shiva. Only warrior girl in the camp.” He smirked. “Unless you want to become one. Then that changes.”

  Mira didn’t respond.

  Farman’s finger drifted to the far edge of the training ground, where a boy practiced alone, swinging his wooden sword with rigid precision.

  “And that bastard,” Farman muttered, “that’s Changez. Arrogant as hell. Son of the commander.” He spat into the dirt.

  “You know who he’s named after, right? The king from the myths—the one who united the four realms. Thinks the name makes him special.”

  He kept talking. Complaints. Stories. Names Mira didn’t care to remember.

  After a while, the words blurred.

  The clack of wood faded into a dull rhythm. The camp, the boys, the tree—all of it drifted away as Mira stared at nothing, her mind slipping back into its familiar quiet, where voices became distant and thoughts were safer than listening.

  After a while, Mira spoke again, her voice low.

  “Where is the fat boy who used to bring me food?”

  Farman snorted, a sharp, humorless sound.

  “Oh? You want to know about that elephant of a kid?”

  Mira frowned slightly, unsettled. “He always seemed afraid of me.”

  Farman laughed and waved a hand dismissively.

  “Oh, he’s afraid of everyone. That fatsy—yeah, that’s what we all call him. His real name’s Parm, but no one uses it.”

  He leaned back against the elm, eyes fixed on the distant training ground.

  “He’s even more miserable than me,” Farman went on. “Once I asked him why he shakes all the time. He wouldn’t answer. So I told him I’d beat him like a dog if he didn’t.”

  He grinned at the memory.

  “Then he started crying. Like really crying. Told me his parents hated him. His brothers too. Said they used to beat him all the time.” Farman shrugged. “Then they all died in raids.”

  He chuckled softly, as if sharing a joke.

  “And you know what’s funny?” he added. “That idiot still loved them. Can you imagine? What kind of brainless fool does that?” He tapped his own head. “I think the gods stuffed all his sense into his belly and forgot the rest.”

  Farman laughed again, louder this time.

  “If my parents or brothers had done that to me,” he said casually, “I’d have killed them in their sleep.”

  Mira said nothing.

  Her eyes stayed forward, but her hands tightened slowly in her lap.

  “By the way,” Farman added after a moment, “I’d be afraid of you too. That look you gave me that day—ugh. I didn’t sleep for nights after that.”

  Farman kept talking, his words tumbling one over another, but Mira had drifted far from them. Her thoughts wandered back to her village—to mornings when the air smelled of bread instead of smoke, to voices that were gone now. For a while, she barely heard him.

  Then someone stepped into her line of sight.

  A boy stood near the elm tree, tall for his age, his posture easy but assured. His hair was long and dark, tied loosely behind his head, and his eyes—an uncommon blue—missed nothing. There was no armor on him, no weapons in his hands, yet he carried himself like someone others naturally listened to.

  Farman noticed him at once.

  He sprang to his feet and made an exaggerated bow, one hand sweeping low.

  “All hail our great leader!” he announced loudly. “Aryan, son of Karma, terror of wooden swords and bruised egos!”

  Aryan sighed. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady, carrying without effort.

  “Must you mock me every time you see me, Farman?”

  “I am deadly serious,” Farman replied, straightening with a grin. “Where would we be without you, my leader?”

  Aryan shook his head, clearly used to this, and ignored him. His attention shifted to Mira. When he spoke to her, his tone softened—careful, almost gentle.

  “What’s your name?”

  Mira stiffened. Every instinct told her to stay silent. Names led to questions. Questions led to trouble. She lowered her eyes, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves.

  Farman leaned in, unable to help himself.

  “It’s Mira,” he said cheerfully. “She only tells her name to handsome lads. Not to ugly pigs.”

  Aryan raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh? A pig now? A moment ago I was a great leader.”

  Farman clasped his hands together and bowed again.

  “My apologies, my lord. I only meant to help. You are the finest-looking boy in our lot.”

  Aryan cut him off with a look.

  “That’s enough.”

  Then, to Mira, “Commander Fazel asked me to show you around. There isn’t much to see, but… it won’t take long.”

  He stepped aside, giving her space rather than reaching for her or rushing her.

  “Come,” he said simply.

  Mira hesitated—then stood and followed.

  Aryan walked ahead of Mira, his broad back filling her view the way Fazel once had, as if the world beyond him did not yet exist. He spoke as they moved, not turning to see if she followed—he already knew she would.

  “This is the armory,” he said, gesturing to a low tent reinforced with rough planks. “Mostly old blades, shields we’ve repaired too many times. Good enough.”

  A little farther on, he pointed to three small wooden rooms set apart from the rest of the camp. “That’s the prison. The one you stayed in is part of it.” He glanced at her, just briefly. “It’s mostly for new kids. Some don’t want to meet anyone at first. They’re free to leave when they want—but we keep watch, just in case they do something… rash.”

  They passed a wide hall built of timber and stitched hides. “Shelter,” Aryan continued. “For storms, heavy rain, snow. Winter’s hard here, but it won’t come for a while yet.”

  Black tents stretched across the clearing, all unmarked, all the same color. “Those belong to the captains,” he said. “No banners. We don’t need them.” He pointed to two larger tents standing slightly apart. “That one’s Commander Fazel’s. The other is my father’s—Karma. They’ve been here five years now. I’ve been here since I was old enough to know my own name.”

  They walked past an open space where smoke still clung to the air. “That’s where we cook,” Aryan said. Nearby stood tents filled with pots, knives, sacks of grain, and other necessities. Beyond them, he nodded toward a cluster of quieter tents. “Women stay there.”

  At the edge of the camp were five small tents, worn and patched. Inside were wooden swords, frayed clothes, and bits of armor long past their use. Aryan crouched, pulled out a folded set of clothing meant for a girl. It was old, but clean.

  “It’s not much,” he said, handing it to her. “But it should fit.”

  Last, he led her down a narrow path to the river Satluz, which cut the forest in two like a silver scar. Small ponds had been shaped along its edge for bathing. The women’s side was hidden behind hanging sheets torn from old tents.

  Aryan stopped. “You should probably take a bath,” he said gently.

  Mira said nothing. She hadn’t spoken since they left Farman . Aryan didn’t ask her anything either.

  As he turned to leave, he paused just once. “It’s not so bad, living out here,” he said, not looking back. “You’ll get used to it.”