Chapter Text
The scorching desert sun beat down on Kaveh’s back as he stood before the colossal construction of wood and metal. Its skeletal frame and monstrous body dominated the sandy landscape. This was his latest creation, a battering ram aptly named “Dunesplitter”, designed to crack open the fortified walls of the enemy stronghold, Aaru.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, leaving a glistening trail in the dust coating his face. A guttural chuckle escaped his throat, a humourless sound lost in the din of hammering and clanging that filled the desert air. This wasn’t a creation, not in the truest sense. It was a weapon, a harbinger of destruction, and its very existence gnawed at him.
“An impressive sight, isn’t it?” boomed a voice behind him. Kaveh turned to face Darius, the gruff general of his desert legion. The man’s thick beard was dusted with sand, his weathered face etched with battle scars, each a testament to the years spent waging war against the eastern kingdom of Haravatat.
“Indeed,” Kaveh replied, his voice flat. He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the monstrosity before him. Darius placed a heavy hand on Kaveh’s shoulder.
“You’ve done it again, Kaveh. This Dunesplitter will be the key to our victory. Aaru will fall, and Haravatat will crumble under the might of the great desert!”
Kaveh forced a smile. He knew the importance these victories held for Darius and the other soldiers. Their families were safe within the fortified walls of their capital, Temir, thanks to their relentless war effort. But for Kaveh, every victory felt like a personal defeat.
A wave of bitter nostalgia washed over him. He closed his eyes for a moment, transported back to a time before the war, a time etched with happier memories.
The bustling marketplace of Temir was a symphony of sights and sounds. Young Kaveh, barely ten years old, weaved through the throngs, his keen eyes searching for his father. He found him amidst a group of merchants, animatedly bartering for a spool of rare silk.
His father, a renowned astrologist, was a man as passionate about his craft as Kaveh was about his artistic pursuits, inspired by his mother’s creations. Every spare moment was spent sketching sky maps and charting stars, with people flocking to his home for star readings. Kaveh would sit at his feet, mesmerized, absorbing the intricacies of the night sky.
He reached his father’s side, tugging at his sleeve. “Papa,” he whispered, “can we go home now? I want to show you the new sketches Mama and I made.”
His father smiled, his warm eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course, Kaveh. Let me just finish this…”
His voice trailed off as a commotion erupted near the market entrance. Kaveh huddled with his father, burying his face in his clothes as his father held him close. A group of soldiers, their faces grim, were pushing past the crowd. A hush fell over the marketplace.
“War has been declared,” a soldier bellowed. “Haravatat has invaded our borders. All able-bodied men must report to the main town square immediately.”
Panic surged through Kaveh. He looked up at his father, whose smile was replaced with a grim expression.
Days blurred into weeks. His father, despite his age and profession, was deemed fit for duty. Kaveh watched him as he marched off with a detachment of soldiers, their faces resolute under the scorching sun. Every day, Kaveh waited for his father’s return, clinging to the hope that he would walk through the door, tired and battle-hardened, but unharmed.
Weeks turned into months, and the news grew grimmer. Kshahrewar held strong, but the cost was high. Casualties mounted, and the fear of losing his father tormented Kaveh’s mind. Then, one day, a lone messenger returned, his face etched with grief.
His father was dead. Killed in battle.
The world didn’t make sense anymore to Kaveh. He felt adrift, a small boat tossed upon a raging ocean of despair. All he could remember was the painful wails of his mother in the distance as she hugged him, from when the news was broken, till the funeral, after which, his mother seemed to have lost her voice and her will to live. She could barely function as a human anymore, bursting into tears each passing second in memory of her husband. With the funds his parents saved, Kaveh managed to take care of himself and his mother. She eventually found solace with a wealthy merchant from the neighbouring kingdom to their north, a man she’d met during her travels to distract herself.
Despite her concerns, Kaveh had managed to convince her to marry him and move to the nation, as it would do good for his mother to stay away from the sights of war. But the silence left behind was deafening. His once-vibrant home was devoid of life. The world outside raged with war, and within, he was consumed by a cold, empty loneliness.
He had no choice but to rely on himself. He had inherited his mother’s talent for design, and that talent offered him a path forward. Keeping himself afloat with odd commissions now and then, he eventually enrolled in the mandatory military training program, his only concern – survival. He excelled at it, his mind perfectly suited to the complexities of siege weaponry. His designs proved to be devastatingly effective, granting Kshahrewar a string of victories against Haravatat. Yet, with each victory, Kaveh felt a hollowness within him. He was a master builder, not a destroyer. Every successful weapon he designed felt like a betrayal of his respect for the arts.
Darius’ hand slipped from Kaveh’s shoulder. “Lost in thought, Kaveh?”
Kaveh forced himself back to the present. “Just pondering the best way to utilize Dunesplitter, General.”
“Excellent! We’ll launch the attack at dawn, then. Haravatat will crumble before breakfast.”
Darius’ confidence was infectious, but Kaveh couldn’t share it. He watched the General turn and walk away, his broad shoulders radiating unwavering conviction. Kaveh sighed. Darius, and the other soldiers, saw the war as a righteous fight for their homeland. But Kaveh saw only the endless cycle of death and destruction, a cycle that had taken his father and robbed him of his childhood.
He turned his gaze back to the Dunesplitter. Its shadow stretched long across the sand, a dark finger pointing towards Aaru. Kaveh closed his eyes, picturing not the enemy capital, but the bustling marketplace of Temir, the warmth of his father’s smile, and the life that his family brought. He clenched his fists, a silent vow forming in his heart. This war would end. He would make sure of it.
Across the vast desert expanse, a lone figure clad in armour atop a dune surveyed the battlefield below. His silver hair whipped by the desert wind as he watched the scattered remnants of the Kshahrewar army retreat towards the horizon. The stench of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air, a grim testament to the battle’s ferocity.
A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Another victory. Another step closer to bringing Kshahrewar to its knees. The soldiers around him cheered, their voices echoing across the desert.
“The Falcon strikes again!”
“The Falcon” – a whisper on the wind, a predator unseen until its strike. His strategies were works of art, ballets of violence where every movement held a purpose, every arrow found its mark. His calm demeanour during battle earned him both respect and a touch of fear from his men. The figure remained impassive, his nickname a grating reminder of the gruesome nature of war.
“Commander Alhaitham,” a soldier approached him, bowing slightly. “The enemy has been routed. Should we give chase?”
Alhaitham shook his head. “No, Reza. We’ve secured the border. Let them retreat and lick their wounds. We don’t need to pursue them into their territory.”
Reza frowned. “But what about the Dunesplitter? Intel suggests it’s a powerful siege weapon. Won’t they use it to launch another attack soon?”
Alhaitham’s eyes narrowed. The Dunesplitter. He had heard whispers of this new weapon, a monstrous battering ram capable of breaching even the strongest fortifications. It was a cause for concern, but not one that warranted reckless pursuit.
“We’ll deal with the Dunesplitter when the time comes,” he said coolly. “For now, we focus on securing our borders. Send a message to General Darius. Inform him that Haravatat has no intention of encroaching further on Kshahrewar territory. We seek a peaceful resolution to this conflict.”
Reza’s eyes widened in surprise. “A peaceful resolution? But…”
Alhaitham cut him off with a sharp look. “Do you question my orders, Reza?”
Reza straightened, his voice firm. “No, sir. Your orders will be carried out immediately.”
Alhaitham nodded curtly. He turned his gaze back to the retreating Kshahrewar troops, a thoughtful expression on his face. The war had dragged on for years, each victory tasting more like ashes in his mouth. Haravatat had no quarrel with Kshahrewar. There were rumours of a power struggle within the Kshahrewar court, a struggle that had dragged them into this pointless conflict.
Perhaps, Alhaitham thought, a peaceful resolution was the only way to end this cycle of bloodshed. But achieving that peace might be a more challenging battle than any he had faced so far. He needed information, a deeper understanding of the forces at play within Kshahrewar. As his gaze lingered on the distant horizon, where the defeated Kshahrewar soldiers disappeared into a swirling dust cloud, a plan began to take shape in his mind.
The guilt gnawed at Kaveh like a desert wind. He knew the cost of war, the lives lost, the futures shattered. How could he, who yearned for peace, be a part of this violence? Yet, here he was, a cog in the war machine, just a mere pawn in the grand scheme of things.
Driven by a desperate need to do something, he sought out the camp infirmary. The makeshift tents offered little protection from the elements, and a shiver ran down his spine as he entered. The air in the infirmary hung heavy with the scent of poultice, blood and sweat. Kaveh approached a group huddled under a single, flickering lantern. One soldier, a grizzled veteran named Bashir with a missing ear, looked up with suspicion.
“Architect? What brings you here?”
Kaveh offered a nervous smile. “I, uh, wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”
The mention of help caused a ripple of surprise throughout the group. But before anyone could respond, the healer, Omar, stepped forward. His face was etched with worry lines, but his eyes held a warmth that rivalled the flickering lantern.
“We could certainly use some sturdier shelters,” he admitted, gesturing to the flimsy tents that threatened to collapse under the desert wind. “These barely keep out the sand.”
Kaveh’s eyes lit up. This was something he could contribute to, guilt-free. He pulled out his sketchbook and charcoal, his usual tools for grand designs now repurposed for a more immediate need. As he sketched, he started a conversation, his voice soft.
“Tell me about your home, Bashir. What’s it like?”
Bashir grunted, his gaze flickering between the sketch and the distant dunes. “Peaceful. Tall mountains as far as the eye can see, but it gave a sense of safety. My wife, she runs a bakery. The smell of fresh bread always fills our home. You wouldn’t believe it, Architect, the things you miss when you’re out here.”
A young soldier named Amir, his face barely out of his teens, chimed in. “Oh, yes! The smell of fresh bread is like ascending to heaven itself. I always had to deliver the bread to all the houses in my village and I had to control myself from stealing one.”
Bashir let out a hearty laugh, probably one he hadn’t done in a long time. “Well then, young boy, you should come over to my village after the war. You’d be convinced to stay there after trying my wife’s bread.”
“You should also come over to my village, sir,” Amir returned the offer. “My village is nestled between the mountains in the southwest, close to the sea. We have a festival every year, a celebration of the first harvest. Everyone dances, sings, shares food and drinks… it’s pure joy.”
A small smile bloomed on Kaveh’s lips, as he quickly sketched out variations of the shelter. As he worked, he felt a connection with these men, their stories weaving a tapestry of lives on hold, of families waiting for their return.
He glanced at Nasir, the young soldier who had lost his leg in the recent battle. Nasir sat withdrawn, his gaze distant. Kaveh hesitated, then spoke softly.
“Nasir, what about you? Tell me about your family.”
Nasir flinched, his hand going to the bandaged stump. “I… I have a sister, Amaira. She’s getting married soon, betrothed before I was drafted for war. I…I was supposed to walk her to the groom, give her away to the love of her life.”
His voice cracked, and the other soldiers fell silent. Kaveh felt a lump rise in his throat. He got up from his seat, striding towards Nasir and placed his hand on Nasir’s shoulder, his voice filled with a conviction he barely felt himself.
“We’ll win this, Nasir. And then we’ll go home. All of us. Amaira will wait, and you’ll walk alongside her, just like you planned.”
The words felt hollow, a promise he couldn’t guarantee. He didn’t know if Nasir would be retired from the military. With the current pace of war, every man mattered. If they couldn’t serve on the field, they would serve off the field, being cooks, medics, cartographers, engineers, anything that would make them useful to this “game” played by the nations. But as he looked at the faces around him, each etched with worry yet holding onto a sliver of hope for a future beyond the war, he knew he had to believe it. He had to believe in the possibility of peace, for their sake and his own.
The night stretched on, and sleep eluded him. The conversations he had with the soldiers still looped in his mind. Restless, he wandered deeper into the desert, the stars his only companions. The harsh landscape gave way to an unexpected sight – a hidden oasis, a haven of vibrant life amidst the sand. Lush palm trees swayed in the breeze, and a crystal–clear pool reflected the moonlight. It was a place of serenity, a stark contrast to the coming battle.
Overcome with a sense of peace, Kaveh pulled out his sketchbook. He captured the beauty of the oasis, the perfect symmetry of the palm trees against the moonlit sky. As he sketched, a sense of purpose bloomed within him. This oasis, a symbol of life amidst the harsh desert, became his inspiration.
The flickering lamplight danced on the worn parchment maps spread across the table in Alhaitham’s command tent. The air crackled with tension as his advisors and fellow commanders, weathered veterans with faces etched by the harsh desert sun, leaned in intently.
“We got more information on the Dunesplitter,” Alhaitham rumbled, his voice low and heavy with concern. He traced the imposing silhouette of the siege weapon drawn on the parchment. “Based on its size and power, it could breach Aaru’s walls in a matter of days.”
“Then, a frontal assault would be a bloodbath,” one of the advisors rasped.
A commander, known to have a sharp mind and sharper eyes, chimed in. “We need to exploit the Kshahrewar’s weaknesses. Their eastern flank is known to be weaker and now, all their attention would be focused on the weapon itself, leaving the others to fend for themselves.”
Alhaitham’s gaze snapped to the model they used to visualise battle strategies. “An intriguing possibility,” he began, as he glanced at the figurines. “But how do we neutralize the Dunesplitter? A diversion won’t be enough for long.”
“Perhaps a flanking manoeuvre? We could send a smaller force to disable the siege weapon while the main army engages the Kshahrewar forces.”
“Risky,” said another advisor, his voice laced with concern, “Splitting our forces against an enemy with superior strength could be disastrous.”
A thoughtful silence descended upon the tent. Alhaitham drummed the table, drawing in a long breath. “There must be another way. A way to minimize casualties and achieve victory without resorting to brute force.”
A tense silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic flapping of the tent canvas against the desert wind. Just then, Reza entered with a curt nod. His face was grim, mirroring the weight of the decisions just made.
“The message has been delivered to General Darius,” he reported. “We wait for his response.”
Alhaitham replied with a nod, as he returned his gaze to the maps. The fate of the battle, perhaps even the war itself, hung in balance, resting on the shoulders of a man hardened by years of conflict. A tense silence settled over the tent once more, broken only by the rasp of the desert wind and the pounding of Alhaitham’s heart against his ribs.
The acrid scent of lamp oil hung heavy in the air of Darius’ tent, mingling with wafts of alcohol. A scowl itself deeper onto his already battle-worn face as Kaveh hesitantly entered, a scroll clutched in his hand.
“General,” Kaveh greeted, his voice barely a whisper.
Darius grunted, gesturing towards a chair opposite his makeshift desk. “Kaveh, what brings you to my humble abode?”
Kaveh felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He wasn’t a warrior, by blood or choice, and the atmosphere in the tent, thick with tension and the anticipation of battle, felt heavy and suffocating. He cleared his throat and handed the scroll, the weight of its contents a physical burden in his hands.
“I… I come bearing a message from Commander Alhaitham,” he stammered, his voice barely audible over the din of the soldiers outside.
Darius’ scowl deepened into a sneer. “A message, you say? What words of deceit does the Haravatat weasel have for me now?”
Kaveh flinched at the harsh words but steeled himself. He knew Darius’ reputation, a man fuelled by years of war and an insatiable thirst for victory over their Haravatat rivals. Yet, Kaveh held onto a sliver of hope, a desperate plea for peace that resonated deep within him.
“General,” he began, his voice finding a touch more strength, “it’s not deceit. It’s… an offer.”
Darius snorted, a humourless sound devoid of amusement. “An offer? What kind of offer? A white flag wrapped in honeyed words?”
Kaveh took a deep breath. “A chance to end this bloodshed. A chance for peace.”
The words hung heavy in the air, met with stunned silence. Darius stared at Kaveh, his dark eyes narrowed, searching for any hint of trickery. The silence stretched, broken only by the rasp of the desert wind whistling through the tent flaps.
“Peace?” Darius finally spat, the word laced with disbelief and a dangerous edge. “After all these years of war? After all the lives lost, the cities burned? You think words on a scroll can erase that?”
Kaveh met his gaze, his own filled with a quiet determination. “Words can’t erase the past, General. But they can forge a new future. A future where our sons don’t have to follow in our bloody footsteps.”
Darius slammed his fist on the table, the force rattling the lamp and sending a spray of oil onto the map spread out before him. “Don’t preach to me about sons, Kaveh! And don’t preach to me about peace. You have just as much blood on your hands as we do.”
Kaveh felt a pang of guilt, the general’s words hitting a raw nerve. He understood the anger, the resentment. But he also saw the flicker of something else in Darius’ eyes – a flicker of weariness, a yearning for something beyond the endless cycle of violence.
“I admit, I also have blood on my hands, both ours and theirs. But this isn’t about who has blood on their hands, General,” Kaveh pressed, his voice firm despite the tremor in his heart. “This is about ending the suffering. We cannot bleed ourselves dry just to get our revenge.”
Darius leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on a point beyond Kaveh. The anger seemed to ebb away, replaced by a contemplative silence. The chaos from outside continued, a stark counterpoint to the tense quiet within the tent.
Finally, Darius spoke, his voice low and gravelly, handing back the scroll to Kaveh. “Tell me, Kaveh, what kind of future does this so-called ‘message’ offer?”
Kaveh unfolded the scroll, revealing Alhaitham’s carefully worded proposal – a ceasefire, a withdrawal of troops, and the initiation of peace talks. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was a start, a fragile bridge built over a chasm of animosity.
As Kaveh explained the details, a flicker of hope ignited in his chest. He couldn’t predict Darius’ response, but he had planted a seed, a possibility of a future where the desert sand and their hands, wouldn’t be stained red.