Waverider Expedition - Zarhalem
The port of Zarhalem burned gold in the dusk, its spires and domes catching the dying light. The Waverider lay at anchor just beyond the breakers, her sails furled, her crew silent as the city’s call to prayer echoed across the harbor. Captain Solonex Virellus stood by the rail, watching the desert winds scatter dust like ghosts over the rooftops.
Behind him, footsteps, soft, deliberate. Kethra moved like her shadow belonged to someone else. She bowed her head slightly. “Captain,” she said. “I need to go ashore tonight. Alone.”
Virellus turned. He’d seen that look before, cold determination hiding something raw. “Personal business?”
She nodded.
He waited.
Her eyes met his. “Once, I served the Khalif of Zarhalem. Not as a warrior. As an assassin.” Her voice was calm, but there was weight in every word. “He sent me to the beds of his enemies, gifted as a slave girl, dressed in gold. I would wait. Smile. Learn. When the time came, I’d cut their throats and slip away before dawn.”
No one else on the deck moved. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath.
“I was good at it,” she continued. “Too good. They thought I was his toy. I was his weapon. But the last one...” She hesitated, jaw tightening. “The last one was different. Cruel in ways I will not name, but can't forget or forgive. I could not finish it. To save my life, I fled. I ran until the dunes gave way to the sea.”
Virellus’s gaze was steady. “And now?”
“Now I finish it.”
He looked past her, to the lanterns of Zarhalem gleaming like molten gold. “Do you want permission,” he asked quietly, “or absolution?”
“Neither,” she said. “Only silence.”
He nodded once. “Be back by dawn.”
The night was warm and close, perfumed with spice and rot. Kethra moved through the streets like smoke, barefoot and veiled, her curved blades hidden in the folds of her shawl. She passed the markets, where slaves slept in chains beneath the tables, and the courtyards where fountains whispered of wealth that fed on bones.
She knew the way by memory. The house still stood, vast and white, its windows latticed with bronze. The guards were fewer now, old, lazy, confident. She climbed the wall like a shadow, slipped through the balcony, and entered the room she had once fled.
He was there, older but unchanged in spirit, broad, perfumed, asleep amid silk and gold. Even in dreams, his mouth twisted with cruelty.
She stood over him for a long time. Then she drew the blade.
The sound was soft, almost tender. He didn’t wake.
When it was done, she looked around the chamber. The air stank of oil and sweat. The walls were lined with trophies: anklets, veils, bracelets of bone. One corner held a barbed chain still stained with blood.
Kethra wiped her knife on the sheets. The blood spread like dark ink.
Outside, the first light of dawn was creeping into the city. The call to prayer began again, calm, pure, untainted.
She stepped out onto the balcony and breathed deep. The desert wind was cool. For a moment, she felt something lift, the weight of years, perhaps. But it left nothing behind.
Her anger was gone. So was her purpose.
She touched the scar on her wrist, a mark she’d received the night she escaped, and whispered, “You’re free now.” She didn't feel free, though. The anger was gone, the scars remained.
Whether she meant herself or the dead, she didn’t know.
By the time the sun reached the horizon, Kethra was gone, and the house of her master lay silent but for the hum of flies.