"Raised from childhood to worship both Khalid Atar and the sword. How can one expect them to be anything but ruthlessly efficient in his service."
- Mansur Adham, Atarvani

Acrid black smoke burned at Isham's nostrils as he cowered in the corner of the room. The sounds of his choking breaths filled the small space, echoing amongst the crates of foodstuffs that were meant to see House Salmalin through months of siege. Now, however, they existed only to hide House Salmalin's youngest heir, Isham.

Small, soot-stained hands tugged the finely-made tunic upward to cover his nose as the smoke broiled thicker through the crack beneath the door, its intensity now suffocating. Isham choked, gasped for breath, and choked again. The desperate attempts to cling to life fought with shamed, fearful sobs that beckoned him to surrender to death. Tears skated down his blackened face, now a web of clean skin amidst the dusting of soot.

The fortified house shook at the sound of a muffled crash as if struck by some giant hammer. Isham pulled his legs up to his chest and clasped them round with his young arms. Again, the distant, dark sound sent the foundation of stone into a groaning complaint. A warning shout, an order, then the roar of a hundred armored men raced past his door like some great stampede rushing toward the sound of danger rather than away. The noise of their passing had hardly diminished when the foundation shook again, this time violently and with a thunderous explosion to herald it.

In its wake, the sound of steel crashing on steel a hundred times over invaded the small room and Isham's ears--the cacophony of clanging, waning only with the strangled yell of a man shrieking his final breath. The gasps and shouts of dying men overtook the sharp crash of metal against metal until there was little of either--the short-lived battle was over. What replaced it was more terrifying and chilling than anything Isham had ever heard: the dull, ominous thudding of bootsteps down the hall, unhurried and confident in their deadly purpose. The hallway outside cast a faint light into the room from the crack beneath the door. Horrified, Isham watched the play of light and shadow upon the stone that the treading soldiers made. One by one they passed, their cadence slow. The train of men had almost disappeared when the last stopped before the door.

Isham's heart roared into a stampede of its own, pounding fearfully in his ears as he watched the frozen pillars of shadow on the light-splashed floor. In a peal of squeaking, the latch to the door turned, then turned no more when its lock forbade it. The mechanism squealed softly again as the hand that turned it surrendered to the lock. Isham dared to steal a breath, but it soon left him when the door exploded open in a shower of splinters. Isham slammed his eyes shut as the brilliant light of the hallway invaded the dark room.

That light was eclipsed quickly thereafter as a foreboding figure stepped in, casting the small room once again into darkness. The visage that stood before Isham could not have been more terrifying than were it Khalid Atar himself. The frame of the door barely cleared the top of the man's blackened helm, a helm that masked the entirety of his head save for a T that allowed the burnished coals of his eyes and hawklike nose to be discerned. A haik, as dark as a raven's hollow call at night, shrouded most of his powerful figure; yet here and there, gaps and rips in the garment allowed the steely scales of the brigandine to shine through. Half-hidden amidst the voluminous folds of the haik, the visage's hand held a nightmarish, curving falcare.

In the ensuing fateful silence of his arrival, the sheath of blood clinging to the falcare's surface began to slough away, droplets falling off the steel blade to collide against the rough, stone floor in sickening red splatters, pooling. The loose haik surrounding the horror rippled as he stepped forward once, then again. Isham's body surrendered to uncontrollable sobs and terrified wailing even before a large hand reached out to snag the collar of his tunic and rip him from his haven. Silently did the nightmare leave the room, Isham swaying helplessly from his grip.

The hand of fear ripped agonized cries from the young boy's throat, cries that fell on ears that did not hear them. The black-clad warrior strode through the hall with its burden as silent faces watched the passing. Faces covered in masks of blood, faces that looked on with lifeless eyes. A myriad of them lay strewn around the hallway and the entrance foyer where the imposing door to House Salmalin lay, rent at its hinges. Other dark nightmares stalked the grounds of a once mighty Clan, their hands full of similar burdens: young women and boys being herded out into the courtyard. Isham's imperiled shrieks joined theirs in a chorus of agony, yet the warriors of Khalid Atar heard not a one.

Isham's eyes burned painfully as the blinding light of the sun filled his gaze. Although the clean air of the courtyard was a merciful blessing, the scene arrayed before his young eyes was not. In opposite ends of the walled courtyard, small groups of boys or young women clung to each other under the unfeeling gaze of the Agni-Haidar warriors. Their pained shrieks and screams rang throughout the city, but earned them no reprieve. Isham's captor delivered the young burden to the collection of boys of an age as he, their faces tear-streaked mirrors of his own. Once free of the stern grip, Isham sought refuge in the middle of the huddle, but that was a treasured place whose current occupants were loathe to surrender to anyone. He remained outside, naked to the events unfolding before him. It was only then that he saw him.

A once strong, proud man now lay helpless and weeping before the stone steps leading into the House. Father. His fine clothing was rent, torn, and soiled by both dirt and blood. Standing to either side of him were the familiar dark figures of Agni-Haidar warriors. One reached down to tangle its fingers in the matted hair of the Warlord. With a vicious jerk, Isham's father's head was pulled upright to witness the scene before him. A line of men, women, and older children kneeled opposite him. Their faces sported masks ranging from blinding hatred and seething fury to pitiful groveling and pleading. Behind them, a dark figure stalked, his falcare held almost carelessly in one hand. With the sound of a hundred tortured gasps to greet the gesture, the warrior hefted the blood-stained sword. It glimmered momentarily in the sunlight before streaking downward. The agonized wails that erupted nearly choked out the sickly sound of Isham's eldest sister's head being severed clean from her body.

Isham's throat longed to scream in horror, but he could find no breath for it. In its place erupted a disbelieving, choking gurgle. His father, however, roared in dual fury and torment. Finding some reserve of strength, he struggled against the bonds that held him, but at a merciless shake of the fist knotted in his hair, he grew still, surrendering himself to agony and fate.

The stalker's blade flashed again and the scene was repeated as the head of Isham's grandmother rolled beside that of her granddaughter, their blood mixing in a pool before the thirsty ground soaked it in. His father screamed again, and this time Isham could voice no sound in answer. As the bodies slumped against the blood-washed stairs, headless, the strength of Clan Salmalin's Warlord left him. When at last his first wife's body fell to the Agni-Haidar's blade, he had no reserves with which to call upon and denounce his fate, or even weep at sight of his wife's head rolling toward him, her lips locked in a plea that was never voiced.

With a flickering gesture of the stalker's blade, the two guards hefted Clan Salmalin's Warlord to his feet and dragged the near-lifeless body away. At this same gesture, the warriors penning in the boys stirred. They began to herd them away with the butts of their spears. Isham's little body quivered with terror, rigid. Even when a wooden shaft lashed him across the back, he did not move save to stumble to the ground, near-lifeless as his father. Another hand reached down to snare him by the scruff of his tunic and carry him away. Isham did not resist, yet he could also not help but watch the once great House of Clan Salmalin burn in the wake of his passing.

"It is said by our metalshapers that the hottest fires forge the best metals. If that is so, then the fires used to forge the Agni-Haidar burn and sear more fiercely than any other, for their temper is a nightmare to behold."
- Khalid Jumai, last Warlord of Clan Ahkbar; spoken days before he declared himself against Khalid Atar. Clan Ahkbar did not survive the insurrection.

The burning consumed Isham wholly; his ears did not catch the methodical drumming sounds of the Janizar's boots as they strode down the dark stone corridor; his muscles did not complain at the Janizar's iron grip digging into the flesh of his neck. He burned. Like a wooden memory floating on the pool of his mind, he could not sink the remembrance of the marking. A quill of magical fire had traced its tip along Isham's back, searing flesh and staining it an inky black. The designs of the branding instrument stretched on infinitely, leaving Isham to writhe helplessly in a vice of pain. He suffered until his tears had drained him fully and he could bear it no more. The abyss of unconsciousness claimed him until he was reawakened by the sensation of the Janizar's fingers digging into his neck, carrying him like a wounded cub.

The hollow, morbid sounds of the bootsteps stopped at a plain, wooden door. No lock was freezing the latch outside, yet the solid door spoke of hopelessness and imprisonment. With a thunderous crash, the door was smashed open against the interior wall and Isham was hurled toward the room's stone floor with a heave. The impact with the floor sent ripples of pain throughout his young body to rival even that of the lingering burning of his branding. The room was plunged into near-darkness with the clang of the door being swiftly closed. For long moments, Isham merely lay stretched out along the cold stone floor, already sapping warmth from his half-clad body. The sobs shook him and tears began anew. Tears for the memory of his family, slain by the Agni-Haidar. Tears for home, the memory of which taunted him mercilessly while he lay in lonely confinement.

Such thoughts fled his mind at the touch of small hands that sought to smear his tears dry. A pair of hands grasped an arm as still another pair did the same with opposite limb. They pulled him to his feet. The touch of childlike hands shocked Isham, so much so that breath left him for a time. When he regained it, Isham cast his gaze across the length of the room, and his eyes widened at the unexpected sight. The eyes of fifteen children caught the faint light of dual candles as they returned his gaze. All silent in both speech and action, they simply watched as if a captive audience. When Isham opened his mouth to address them, he found a hand quickly placed over it, urging silence. The owner of the hand shook his head violently, then turned toward the interior of the room as if to lead Isham away from the door. When the young boy retreated, Isham's eyes widened once again at the sight of the marking on his back: ebony wings curled up and around the bottom of a brilliantly flaring sun, as if cradling it, before its tips turned away and stretched outward. The label was well-known amongst the Varati; it was a symbol of Royal property, the Amir-al's property.

Isham had no time to consider if it was the same marking he himself had been branded with, for the boy's tugging grasp pulled him into the room. They kneeled upon the stone floor in total silence and pulled Isham down with him. With a few directions, Isham was seated in a similar position, kneeling toward the candles' nook in the wall.

Isham stared directly at the light and blinked away the pain that it caused, even dim as it was. When the blinding illusion passed, he could see the nook clearly: two towering candles sat astride a bronze statuette. The candlelight warmed the bronze skin of the figure and set it aglow. The motions of the flickering flames played across the statuette's skin, seeming to breathe life into the powerfully-built bronze man. Behind him, inky black wings stretched skyward as if to propel Atar towards the heavens, spearheading the Varati assault to wrestle power from the feathered ganikas of the sky. It was Khalid-Atar, the Varati God-King. The child beside him watched, mesmerized by the dancing light upon the statuette. Soon that same action caught Isham's gaze, so much so that the pain of his branding faded, and sleep managed to overcome him like a blessing.

Morning was announced with the thunderous crash of the door; however, rather than the darkly-shrouded Janizar that brought him, Isham watched as an old man garbed in a pristine white haik entered. White hair as brilliant as that of his garb cascaded loosely over his shoulders. He strode toward the front of the room, his right hand holding a wooden cane. The students of the room looked on mutely. When at last he stopped, he spoke. "I am Javier. You will not speak unless I require it of you. You will not do anything unless I require it of you." He stirred again, moving to stand before the first boy, "In the name of Atar, your name is now Jaimizal. You have no other."

The young boy's lips parted, "But Imphadi, I...."

He never finished the sentence for Javier smashed the cane across his jaw, sending the boy sprawling into the corner with a torn face. Yet the older man did not leave him with this; he pursued and rained vicious lashes upon the prone, shrieking figure. When the lashes abated, Javier said only, "I did not give you permission to speak." He abandoned the bloody child and approached the next and christened him with a new name. The child said nothing, yet Javier smashed the cane across his chest. When he cried out in agony, a new beating ensued. Thus, in the fires of pain and agony, each boy was rechristened in the name of Khalid Atar.

"Now! Sit and listen, for I am going to recite to you the deeds of the Amir-al. If you cannot repeat to me exactly what I have said when I have finished, you will be punished." He assumed a seat at the fore of the room, the white robes languishing about him voluminously. He barked an order--"Quickly!"--that forced the boys to struggle to sitting positions, still nursing the wounds that leaked their blood. For those who lay helpless in the corners of the room, unable to attend the lecture... they were punished.

Rahman's eyes snapped open to view the nook housing the statuette of the Amir-al, his King and God. Once, when he was still called Isham, he had looked upon that depiction with fear, yet now he revered it. It was morning, and soon he would hear the footsteps of Javier echoing down the hall as he strode to their door.

Glancing at the others around him, he noted their eyes opening as well. Only twelve remained out of fifteen. Those that were no more could not bear the training or were killed because of it. Harun lost his mind in the few weeks after his induction. He had lain in the corner weeping and shrieking, refusing to do anything save that. Even Javier's cane could not encourage him otherwise, and it was only when that cane delivered Harun his deathstroke that the shrieking ended. Achmed and Hamal were killed in a spar, beaten so badly that their lifeblood drained from their body in a torrent until none remained to escape.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and soon the door crashed open. None stirred at the vicious interruption, though Javier's eyes sought for the slightest motion. There was none. The older man, two years older than when Rahman had first seen him, strode to the front of the classroom and sat, placing the cane across his knees. One gnarled hand stretched outward, its fingers snapping clearly as he barked, "Spar!"

In the moment that followed, the seven-year old hand of every boy jerked toward the wooden falcare at his side and snapped it free of its sheath in a chorus of singing sounds. Reflexively, Rahman turned to his right and crouched, slashing horizontally at Uthman's midsection in a form called 'Dipping the Stream.' Uthman countered with a furious, overhand parry, 'Landslide buries the Snake.' The dance of forms continued. Those who were lucky found corners in which to back themselves. Yet those who did faced the greatest numbers of adversaries: corners were prized positions and always hotly contested. The cacophony of smacking wood drowned out the sounds of boys falling, most from head blows struck by opponents while their backs were turned. When they did fall they endeavored to rise, for nothing save unconsciousness would be an acceptable reason to remain aloof of the sparring, and even unconsciousness was a disgrace. An unavoidable disgrace for all but one, because only one could remain standing at the end.

A block struck Rahman's head at its temple, showering his face with a web of his own blood. He staggered, the blackness of unconsciousness threatening to swallow him whole. Blindly, he whirled toward the unseen attacker and lashed out with 'Vine of Knives,' a form that slashed at an enemy's head, then rounded downward to slash at the knee to hamstring or leave him without the whole of his leg. The first stroke found nothing, but the rounding slash to the leg caught his attacker and toppled him. Uthman waited until Rahman was weakest, and then crippled him with 'Lightning from the Heavens.' Blackness became his world.

The fetid, burning scent of smelling salts filled and angered his nostrils, enough so to rip him from unconscious slumber. A hand clenched around the sword still lying in his grip, but if salts were used to revive him, it was over. He quickly regained his feet even as dizziness and nausea threatened to wreck him once again. Yet he stood rigid with the others, awaiting words from Javier.

The older man surveyed them, all with blood trickling down their bared chests or with limbs hanging at odd angles. He seemed not to see the destruction, and with one word he sent the room into an angry storm of movement once again: "Unarmed spar!"

It began anew.

The full battle armor made a poor fit for his ten-year old body, but Rahman did not to feel it. He did not feel the burning of his feet within boots as he ran. He did not feel the wrenching pain of his broken forearm. He simply ran. The other boys of his star ran tightly in a group, all in armor, and all carrying staffs longer than they. With long, almost sprinting strides, they began on their twelfth league of the run, but a word from Javier interrupted them. "Spar!"

Abruptly they halted and whirled, each choosing an opponent. There were no corners here, nothing to press oneself against to reduce the chance of a strike from behind. A furious clatter erupted as staffs struck one another with merciless intensity. As Atar would have it, Rahman found himself facing Uthman. Not giving the other time to set, he jabbed towards the ground, then swung his staff around to catch Uthman's outstretched knee, hoping to smash it. Uthman, fine with a blade in his hands, was not so proficient with a staff. He blocked neatly but could not form an attack of his own. Rahman pressed and soon had him disarmed. Just when as he was ready to smash the butt of his spear into Uthman's jaw--such as could be seen under the helm--Javier's voice cracked sharply. "Stop!"

Rahman froze as instructed and relaxed only when Javier gave the command to do so. The older man's eyes searched the star of students before settling upon one: Armok. "Why do I force you to fight one another?" Armok's eyes widened, as did those of all the students of the star. This question required an answer and none had spoken in five years.

"You may speak," Javier assured.

To this, Armok flexed his mouth as if to make a sound, but nothing came forth save for a groaning croak. He tried again and was more successful, "I do not know, Imphadi."

The older man regarded him cruelly, then barked, "To fight as a star, you must know the strengths and weaknesses of each man in the star. Now you know."

Rahman felt the cold length of the falcare newly placed in his hands. His own. His eyes marveled at its perfect curves and sinuous, deadly grace--so much so that he almost failed to hear Javier's words addressing him: "In the name of Atar, receive this gift and become Janizar of the Agni-Haidar. As you are the sword and servant of Amir-al, so it is sword and servant to you. ".

Unconsciously, Rahman's fingers caressed the golden lion pommel before he quickly reversed and slid the blade back into the sheath. "May I breathe my last breath in his service," he whispered reverently.

Javier nodded at the formal answer before stepping aside to stand before Uthman. Placing a sword in his hands, he repeated the same words, though Rahman was little aware of it. On his back he felt his brand, its magical curves and lines undistorted by the twelve years of training and growth. The property of Khalid Atar. His fingers reached to stroke the lion pommel once again, the touch eliciting a wave of pride that almost threatened to suffocate him with its intensity: not just property, but Agni-Haidar. The only true warriors of the Amir-al.

"The Agni-Haidar. They are the fiercest warriors breathing, yet none should deceive himself by saying they fight for Khalid Atar alone. Raised and trained together, they fight just as fiercely for one another as for Atar himself. They say they have no clan, but Agni-Haidar is their clan. To fight one is to fight them all."
- Sohrab Ummayyid, Nayaka of clan Ummayyid

He stood tall in the marshwater, a shadow among the reeds. The inky black haik draped neatly from his shoulders and plunged downward towards his boots though they never reached them--the stagnant water claimed the hem of his haik and forced it to float haphazardly atop the soiled water's surface. That same water filled his boots, the feet inside long since cold and wet. The marshwater, fetid and wretched in smell, was only faintly abated by the constant drizzle that had persisted throughout the day.

Yet even this nauseating stench did little to distract him. Rahman's dark gaze searched the reeds before him, expecting them to yield at any moment to a blade or bolt. The remnants of Clan Ummayyid had fled from their Vara at the smallest hint of an onslaught by the forces of Atar. The retreat gained them only a little reprieve. A moment to breathe and search futilely for a means of escape. Doom still stalked the Ummayyids, and was edging closer. Doom in the form of ominous, dark shrouded figures: The Agni-Haidar.

Rahman stepped forward; the reeds before him and the water beneath parted with sluggish reluctance. His gaze lingered on the dense reeds to the right and regarded the opposite side little, for he knew that Uthman strode behind him and was giving that direction his full attention. The pair were in the fore of the star, the formation condensed for movement in the thick swamp. To either side and behind strode four other pairs of Agni-Haidar, each brandishing their falcares and hand-crossbows. A rusty-colored swamp pheasant burst into the air some distance ahead, and its launch preceded others, a flock whose members sought the safety of air. The Ummayyids were nearing, seeking a desperate measure to escape their entrapment.

Insects, oblivious to the imminent crash, buzzed and chirped as if to mock the tension in the marshlands. Yet even they fled or took to the air as the reeds to the fore of the star exploded to yield several score of Ummayyid House Guards, the elite of their number.

The water before them churned furiously at their charge, so much so that a wave preceded them and rolled towards the outnumbered forces of Atar. The solid, rough voice of the Kaimakam barked through the night air, carrying a single word: "Condense!" and at the command the stars to the front backpedaled inward into tight knots of black. Rahman and those to the fore hefted their hand crossbows and fired once before abandoning the ranged weapon in favor of the falcares. Like black swampflies streaking through the air, the small bolts met the onrushing Ummayyid guard and downed many of the fore guards, their necks and faces ruined. Those Ummayyid guards in the back trampled their wounded brethren in desperation to reach the Agni-Haidar before their advantage in numbers was whittled away.

The wave of red and gold Ummayyids crashed onto the black rocks of Atar's forces. Rahman's blade whistled through the damp air; 'Dove takes Flight' tore the throat of one guard while 'Snake in the Reeds' severed another's leg at the knee. Behind him, the interior circle continued to wield their hand crossbows. Darts rained in upon the thick waves of red and gold, seeking out the faces and throats of their soldiers with telling effects. The knots of Agni-Haidar held, yet the Ummayyids were forcing their way between the stars despite the horrendous price of such fleeting freedom. The Kaimakam barked harshly again--"Break!"--and at once the interior lines of each star abandoned their ranged weapons and jerked free their falcares. The number of Atar's blades were doubled with a chorus of steely hisses. Those in the rear moved forward and stood beside the men whom they had just before protected with their crossbows.

Uthman stood beside Rahman and wielded his blade with a precision frightening to behold. Ummayyids fell to the blades of the Agni-Haidar in droves, and none of Atar's soldiers ravished the ranks of the Ummayyids as Uthman did. The water around his feet turned even blacker with the blood of his enemies. The foam kicked up by his legs shone pink.

Still they came, their numbers greater than suspected. Like a mob, their sheer numbers pressed in on the rocks of black and forced the Agni-Haidar to backpedal. Uthman stood as if a pillar, oblivious to the pressure, forcing Rahman to remain at his side, although Rahman's wounds were accumulating. A heavy gash stood open on his thigh and the blood trickled down his leg in an elongated web of red against the black of his garb. The brigandine, of the finest make as can be found among the Varati, protected him from the edges of the swords now crowding him, but it failed to greatly hamper the blows' crushing force. Cracked and broken ribs ached as did a nearly ruined shoulder, and yet he fought on as ruthlessly as Uthman, if not so skilled.

A disbelieving cry erupted amongst the clanging din of battle. "Jaimizal... Jaimizal is killed!" A muted sense of shock settled upon the star like a cold fog. Even as his blade rent the armor and flesh of those who opposed him, the face of the young boy who was named first in the star--the face of the boy who had grown into a man alongside Rahman--would not flee from his sight. The visage haunted him, begging vengeance. The stark coldness of his demeanor was cast aside as rage filled him with its terrible, burning fire. Torn from his throat was a growling cry: "Jaimizal!"

It was echoed amongst the others of his star, and even carried beyond to the other stars. An unknown fury was unleashed, and the blades of the Agni-Haidar wrought a terrible vengeance upon the Ummayyid guard. Blinded by a lust to utterly destroy the red and gold soldiers, the black-clad warriors of Atar pressed forward despite the numbers facing them. Pressed forward and felled those too slow to escape the slaughter, until none remained standing. Still seething with a rage, Rahman saw the half-sunken bodies of Atar's enemies, saw the rich red texture of the water surrounding his boots... and his rage was sated. A victory for Atar. May his wings shelter Jaimizal and may he be reborn Agni-Haidar to serve again.

Kaimakam Rahman dwelled little upon the memory of his fallen friends, yet now and then it haunted him still. It haunted him now as he stood in a pool of moonlight, gazing out the window at the courtyard beyond. There, half-buried in the center, stood a wretched thing: his arms and legs had been shorn at their midjoints, his eyes and tongue removed. Once it had been the proud figure of a Kaimakam, a figure that Rahman had known well. Now, however, he was loathe to acknowledge the thing as even an acquaintance. The Kaimakam had failed the Amir-al.

Assigned to protect the concubines of Atar, this man's attention waxed when it was needed most. An assailant marked a concubine's shoulder, missing her heart with the luck of the Amir-al only. The assailant was slain, but the concubine had been accosted still. He had failed. Rahman shed no tears when ordered to plant him in this fashion. He felt no pity for him, only fury. He was Agni-Haidar and he had disgraced them all, disgraced the memory of his brothers who had fallen, by failing in his duty to Atar. Rahman had shorn the limbs off himself and had watched as he was planted. Anyone passing the thing would be invited to spit or assail him as they wished until it finally died.

As Kaimakam, he was allowed to keep a household. A household, like the Agni-Haidar themselves, were property of the Amir-al if not branded as such. Many of the consorts of the Agni-Haidar officers were captives and raids, returned to Atar to be dealt with as is his pleasure, and as a reward for service, the Amir-al doled out many of such captives to the officers to be their concubines or servants. This thing's household had been punished for his disgrace: the servants and concubines were taken to the Ganika house and sold, and the children were slain before the man's eyes were forever shut. Rahman prayed that the thing lived a long time to wallow in his shame for his failure.

Tearing his eyes from the moonlit scene, Rahman now regarded the two women sleeping upon his pallet. They were his own consorts. One was newly with child. Again he prayed silently to Atar, this time that he should be graced with a son. A son whom he would give to the Agni-Haidar, to be renamed in Atar's name and placed in his service. The son would forever forget his father by birth and live only to serve Amir-al.

Perhaps not forget entirely.

Long-hidden in the recesses of his memory, Rahman could still see the once proud house of Clan Salmalin burning in the wake of his passing, his family slain on its steps and robbed of their noble blood. The Warlord of that Clan had suffered the same fate as the thing now lying half-buried in the courtyard. Planted in disgrace. Rahman almost writhed with disgust at his father's rebellion against the Amir-al. Hopefully, he had lived long with that shame before dying.

The dark gaze of the Kaimakam turned to the window once more, not to regard the pitiful wretch in the courtyard, but toward the moon which rode brilliant and high in the night sky. If his future son survived the training and remembered the father of his birth, it would be an honorable memory.

"May I breathe my last breath in his service."
- Formal response of a newly-ranked Janizar to the Master at Arms upon receipt of the lion's-head sword, the symbol of the Agni-Haidar.

*Written by Faisal@Aether
*Edited by Rabi@Aether

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