At first, the Amira thought the war between the pair was over, finally shaking hands over the want for coin and magical weapon, but there was a Chaos which festered between them, or rather, it was Chaos she had shaken metaphorical hands with.

“We met a few years back, probably five or six, something like that, back when-,”

“Adam,” Jurot said, interrupting the half elf.

“Oh? Which part?”

“Strom.”

“Ah!” Adam bowed his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Either way, we met near the Iyr. I can’t say much as to why, but it was during… the Year… of Silence.”

Jurot nodded, since that much would have been obvious to anyone.

“We became close over time, he saw how insane I was, how I liked to craft, my skills impressed him, and then my strength, and he was rather jealous of how I had the cutest children and the most beautiful wife, so now he’s copying me, being so strong, so handsome, so skilled in crafting, marrying a beautiful, powerful, woman, but he still doesn’t have children, so I think I’m winning?”

Miriam fell within the storm known as Adam, constantly falling into the pace he set. At first she thought it was because he was trying to trick her, but almost immediately she realised what it actually was, that he was truly a fool when it came to his family.

“It is dangerous for Kizwolima to continue to travel through Aswadasad, even with such a fine company, filled with the descendants of a great many legends,” Miriam said, her eyes peering down at the girl, who leaned back and held her stomach. “If you so wish, you may leave her within my care, and I will make sure Prince Merza…”

Adam’s eyes remained completely focused upon her, as though a wounded beast, ready to lash out at any moment.

“Do we have your word no harm will befall her?” Kitool asked.

“By Noor’s Will, I swear it.”

“Adam,” Kitool called, though the half elf held the Amira within his sights, causing even her guards to shift their attention upon him.

The half elf’s eyes darted towards Kitool and Jurot, who bowed their heads, and the half elf’s heart began to throb. A cold sweat began to form upon his skin, the half elf swallowing, barely managing, it was a heavy effort, like lifting a mountain. He thought back to his children, his Jarot, his Larot, his Jirot, who had remained seemingly safe at the business, surrounded by Iyrmen, and many great figures…

“No,” the half elf said, his eyes remaining focused upon the Amira. “I don’t think I will.”

Miriam could see it.

It was this figure which had brought her a great anxiety.

It was this Adam which she dared not to provoke.

Even surrounded as she was, protected by a bulwark of so many guards, even the likes of the Crimson Blade, and within a shout, at least a dozen additional Experts, she understood she was still within his range, and if he so wished for it, her head would clatter upon the floor, unless her guards were extraordinarily lucky.

It was only then, when the unmistakable sounds of wooden wheels rolling across the stone floor filled the air, did the pair break off their battle. It was only then did the Amira let her mask drop, shock, fear, awe, slipping across her face, her eyes darting to the side to find a thin woman adorned all in white, rolling towards her upon her wheelchair, with two figures escorting her, two of the strongest of the Golden Guard, a pair of Masters. However, it was the figure who wore white, though not because they were within the royal temple, who held the most terrible aura. She wore waves of white, the rippling cloth hiding much of her body, and at her side she wore a single blade, that of a long blade, lean of steel, but no less deadly.

The woman upon the chair radiated a warmth, a motherly smile upon her lips, and though she was thin, too thin, and her eyes held a greater life, a greater joy, than Adam might have expected. She, too, was adorned all in white.

The guards each took their turns to bow their heads, while Dunes stood, causing the half elf to do the same, who caused the Iyrmen to do the same, the Priest placing a hand upon his heart, causing the rest to do the same, though this time the Iyrmen had mimicked him instead of the half elf.

“Sit, sit,” the woman said, flashing a bright smile towards them, dismissing them with a wave of her hands. “I am unable to stand, and I do not need the reminder.”

Adam flushed lightly, though the woman’s laughter filled the air, cutting through even the awkwardness of the guards, who remained stone faced.

“Your sister?” Adam whispered towards the Amira, not realising how rude he was being, or rather, not caring in the slightest.

“My mother, the Malika,” the Amira replied, calming her beating heart, praying to Noor for her mother’s sake.

“This is getting out of hand!” Adam whispered, the half elf turning to Dunes, shaking his head.

“Have you still need of the Crimson Blade, or can he return to annoying Halifa?” the woman asked, reaching out a hand towards her daughter, the pair holding hands, partly to the Amira’s chagrin.

“Crimson Blade was enjoying his time with the Iyrmen,” the Amira accused, throwing the man under the carriage.

Zahid’s eyes darted aside towards the Amira, the blade of betrayal plunging deep within his heart, before his eyes fell to the Malika, who took her daughter’s words as truth. “I wished to speak with one of the Hadi’s descendants.”

The Malika’s eyes fell to the young man he sat beside, and then to the other, both rather handsome, but one of them sat far too casually to be the Hadi’s descendant, so it must have been the other, who sat upright, as though he was sitting against a sword plunged behind him.

“Noor’s light upon you.”

“May Baktu watch over you.”

Adam’s jaw dropped, but then again, it was the type of thing someone like Tanagek, who was part of the Gek family, would say. ‘That’s crazy.’

“I hope he takes me gracefully, and with all the faith I can muster, in many years time,” the woman replied, her shoulders shaking as she quietly laughed, her laughter weak but wild. Then her eyes snapped towards the rest of the Iyrmen, noting each and every one of them, from the red skinned Iyrmen and their horns, to the hornless pale and tan Iyrmen. “With so many Iyrmen, all whom share the names with countless legendary figures, I have to wonder. Are you here to hunt the Reavers?”

“If they come across our path, we will hunt them,” Jurot stated, in the Iyrmanly way.

“There are rumours there were Reavers found west of Red Oak,” the Malika said, narrowing her eyes slightly, while her smile widened. “Do you know of such rumours.”

“Yes.”

The Malika smiled, beaming towards them to hear more, though her guards glanced between one another. However, they appreciate how quiet the Iyrmen were about-,

“We came across them,” the half elf said, seeing as Jurot was probably still upset about not being able to face one. “Bael beat up one of them and I finished off another, but that’s only after Nobby softened it up. However, it managed to defeat Nobby, who is quite the tough one, so they’re a serious threat.”

“Perhaps we should speak of-,” one of the Golden Guard began.

“How powerful are they?” the Malika asked, leaning forward slightly, her hand gripping her daughter’s a little tighter.

“I’d say a Grandmaster would have difficulty facing one,” Adam admitted. “Though, I’m sure they’re all varying levels of power. Some might be stronger than Masters, others stronger than Grandmasters, there may even be a few Paragons, or, maybe more than a few Paragons.”

“Rumours, hearsay,” the other Golden Guard stated.

“I don’t know who you heard saying, but that’s my guess,” Adam admitted. “This is a threat even the Iyr takes seriously, and considering the Iyr barely bats an eyelash against Aldland, Floria, or Aswadasad, that should say something.”

“If the Iyr does not take us seriously, it is their folly,” a Golden Guard said.

“Why would they take you seriously?” the half elf replied. “There’s about three hundred miles of roads you would need to march through, in the land that you may have allied with, but then there’s about a hundred miles of the Iyr’s allies you’d need to march through, and that doesn’t include that, outside of you picking a fight with the Iyr over the forest, there really isn’t much bad blood.”

“Other than the warlords,” Dunes added.

“Other than the-,” Adam glanced aside towards Dunes, then to Jurot, only to vaguely recall the stories of how many Iyrmen became warlords in Aswadasad, and eventually assimilated into the various towns and villages across the west and north. “Yeah, other than that.”

“Did we pick such a fight?” the Malika asked.

“I would know, I was there,” the half elf stated.

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"Of course I know him, he's me."