Of Flame, Sand, and Gold

Chapter 3

Kaelen hated owing people. Especially people like Amara.

The debt sat in his chest like a pebble in his boot; small enough to ignore when he was distracted, but always there. Always rubbing. Always reminding.

He lay flat on the old cot in Amara’s safehouse, a bandage wrapped tight around his thigh and a dull ache blooming in his side. The room had this scent of iron and dust and something faintly medicinal. Saltana was asleep in the chair across the room, curled up like a cat in too big a cloak.

Amara stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes on the street below. She hadn’t said much since dragging him here.

She didn’t have to.

Kaelen broke the silence. “You didn’t have to save me.”

Amara’s eyes didn’t leave the street. “I did.”

He watched her; the line of her jaw, the way her armor was half-unbuckled, like she never truly took it off. Her presence had always felt... sharp. Like standing near a blade that hadn’t been drawn yet.

“And why’s that?” he asked.

She turned to him, something tired; something old — in her gaze. “Because you’re part of this whether you want to be or not. And because Zaria’s still alive.”

Kaelen froze.

His breath stalled in his chest like someone had slammed a door on it. “Wait… Sorry… What did you…?”

Amara’s voice was quiet. “She’s alive. And she’s not safe.”

He sat up too fast, pain shooting through his leg. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Not exactly. But I know who has her.”

Kaelen clenched his fists. “Sahen.”

Amara nodded.

He looked away, his mind spinning. Zaria. For months he’d imagined her gone; lost to whatever trap had swallowed her the night his world fell apart. He’d imagined a grave with no name. A silence too deep to reach.

And now... He realized she was still breathing. Still out there.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He asked,"

“Because you weren’t ready to hear it. You still aren’t.”

That burned.

“I’ve been fighting my way through shadows for months—”

“You’ve been surviving,” Amara interrupted. “That’s not the same as fighting.”

Kaelen looked away. She was right. And it stung like truth often did.

He didn’t speak again for a while.

The silence stretched; heavy, brittle. 

Eventually, Amara stepped away from the window and pulled a worn map from the desk. She laid it flat and tapped a corner marked with old sigils.

“There’s a contact in the Dust Quarter,” she said. “An archivist who used to work for the royal guard. He might know where they’re keeping her. But you’ll need to go alone.”

Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because they know my face. Yours... they’ve forgotten.”

He didn’t correct her. The truth was, most people hadn’t even learned his name the first time.

He looked at Saltana, still sleeping. “What about her?”

“She goes with you,” Amara said. “She’s in it now.”

Kaelen didn’t like that answer. But he didn’t argue.

“You still haven’t told me what this is really about,” he said. “Why does any of this matter? Why are people frequently going missing for it?”

Amara met his gaze — and this time, the mask dropped just enough to show something raw underneath.

“Because it’s not just about Zaria. Or you. Or some buried throne,” she said. “It’s about what’s coming. About fire. And blood. And the price of prophecy.”

Kaelen held her stare. “You always speak in riddles.”

“It’s not a riddle,” Amara said. “It’s a warning.”

He leaned back against the wall, mind reeling. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the ache building behind his eyes.

Zaria was alive.

Everything else could burn — but not that.

“I’ll find her,” he said, voice low. “I don’t care who stands in the way.”

Amara nodded once, without smiling. “I know.”

Then, she added, “That’s what scares me.”