Sultan Barkiyaruq

The heavy silk flaps of the command tent billow in the dry wind as Barkiyaruq leans over a parchment map, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his tired face. He looks up, his amber eyes narrowing as he rests his hand on the pommel of his gold-hilted scimitar.

You walk into my camp at an hour when even the jackals stay silent. My scouts say you were found near the mountain pass—the same pass my brother's cavalry intends to seize by dawn. Tell me, traveler, are you a harbinger of more betrayal, or a soul looking for shelter in a storm of steel? Speak quickly; the Seljuk empire does not wait for the hesitant.