Epilogue

  Suffering, her oldest of companions, was as constant as the wheeze of her breath when the Dust was thick in the air. The girl who had once been Melis knew it intimately. Born frail and sickly, pain had shadowed her every step, a relentless reminder of her own fragility. Yet, it was not the physical torment that cut the deepest. No, it was the weight of being a burden, the silent looks, the pity in their eyes. Even her brother, now laid to rest beneath barren earth, had given more than he should, risking life and limb for a sister who could offer nothing in return.

  But that was in the before times. Before the Herald found her. Before she was remade. Now she was Imani, and purpose coursed through her veins like fire.

  Each day, she had whispered into the void, prayers slipping from cracked lips to any god or devil who might listen. She left offerings for the Djinn at the fringes of the Wastes—small tokens from a girl who had nothing. But the Divines were distant, their eyes turned elsewhere, deaf to the pleas of a wretched soul. All except one.

  The Herald, peace be upon him, had come—not with grand proclamations, but with a touch that mended more than just flesh. He healed the festering wounds within her soul with his golden light, the Grace of Heaven. Imani was reborn, forged anew in the crucible of his grace.

  She walked through the Silk Quarter, where danger lurked in every shadow and the air was thick with the scent of desperation. Yet, not a hand was laid upon her. The cutpurses and brigands who feasted on the weak seemed blind to her presence. It was a sign, she was certain, that Avaria of the Twin Blades watched over her—the Goddess of Justice, praised be her name.

  Two children darted past, their limbs thin as twigs, eyes too large for their hollowed faces. Yet laughter spilled from their lips, a haunting melody amid the decay. In their suffering, they drew closer to the Goddess. Imani felt it in her bones, a kinship forged through shared pain. Had it not been the same for her?

  “Allaha Akbara,” she whispered to herself, praising the Goddess and drawing strength from such simple words. The Goddess is Great.

  Here, in the filth and squalor, Imani was searching for people worthy of redemption.

  “Kalani, fine as the moon! It comes… won’t you come here, little girl. Need some warmth for the cold nights!” a beggar, mangy and old. A Dust addict lost to the once-dreams.

  Such a man was beyond even the saving of the Grace of the Goddess. Such pitiable wretches built their own personal hells that killed their souls.

  No. She was searching for someone useful to the Herald, someone who could help bring his light to more. She was searching for people who were worthy. It was her duty to sort the wheat from the chaff. Something, voices of the Divine, urged her on. Words of the great gospel. The city was in danger, they whispered, events and great tribulations would be upon them. She could feel it in the echo of her soul

  But Imani was not afraid. Imani had a duty.

  The Silk Quarter was a ruin of humanity's pride, reduced to a quagmire of filth and despair. In this part, sewage ran sluggishly through the street's gutter, a rank liquid turning the alleys into fetid moats, cutting people off from what little salvation might come. People squatted in doorways, curled under rotting cloth or broken clay awnings, sharing their bodies with vermin and lice, each cough rattling their thin frames like a death knell.

  Imani moved with a purpose that made her stand out among the hunched and forgotten masses. She kept her eyes forward, seeking, her gaze unwavering amidst the pervasive misery. Suffering, her oldest of companions, had been her teacher, and she could now see who had learned from it—who had endured without breaking.

  Her feet carried her through the human mire until she spotted him, propped against the corner of a crumbling wall. The man was little more than a ragged heap, clothed in layers of grime-encrusted rags. His head was bowed, the straggly remnants of his hair hanging limply around a face nearly hidden by a matted beard. A crude crutch lay beside him, carved out of some discarded scrap of wood, and one of his legs ended abruptly in a stump just below the knee. His left eye was a sunken hole, a dark reminder of his past, while his remaining eye was half-closed, staring blankly at the ground.

  Imani drew closer, her presence barely noted by those around her. The man's gaze flickered upwards as she approached, his one eye narrowing. There was suspicion, a spark of the old warrior—a man who had once been formidable, but now was crumbling beneath the weight of his losses.

  "Are you the one they call Harun, samasa?" Imani asked, her voice calm, tinged with a soft empathy. “I can bring you to salvation.”

  The man snorted a derisive sound that might have been a laugh. "Harun…" He spat on the ground, the bile mixing with the muck. "Who wants to know? Another false prophet? I've had my fill of religion, thank you very much."

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  Imani knelt before him, her eyes meeting his level. She pulled a small piece of bread from the fold of her robe. It was dark, rough, and stale—nothing like the soft white loaves the merchants enjoyed, but to Harun, it might as well have been a king's feast. His eye fixed on it, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed dryly.

  "I am no prophet," she said. "And… I bring no miracles. Only perhaps a chance for redemption."

  Harun looked at her, his single remaining eye glinting with a mixture of disbelief and desperate hope. He licked his cracked lips but did not move, his old pride keeping him at bay. Imani said nothing more, only extended the bread toward him.

  “I owe you nothing,” the decrepit man declared, though he knew words to be a lie.

  Slowly, painfully, Harun lifted his hand, snatching the bread from her fingers, his fingers trembling as he brought it to his mouth and tore into it like a starving animal.

  Imani watched him eat, her expression softening. She saw the man beneath the grime, beneath the layers of pain and failure. He had been a warrior once—the voices told her so. His movements, though slowed and hindered by injury and hunger, still carried a certain fluidity, a memory of skill that had not entirely abandoned him.

  It reminded Imani of her brother.

  "Why do you seek me, girl?" he finally managed to say through mouthfuls of bread, the suspicion not entirely gone. "There are many others in this wretched city… more whole and worthy, if it is true that you can offer redemption."

  "Worthiness is not measured by the wholeness of body, but of soul," Imani replied. "The Goddess and the Herald, peace be upon him, needs those who have fought and endured. Those who have stared into the dark and did not turn away."

  "You're a fool then," Harun muttered. "All I do is stare into the dark every day. It is no deed for verse and song. I fought in the Pale Wars—years ago. I fought and bled, and in the end, for what? Nothing. Nothing but ash and ruin. You see what I am now, girl."

  Imani shook her head slowly. "You are a man who lived. Who still lives, when others could not." She gestured around them, to the beggars and sick, the Dust addicts lost in their Dreams. "Many here have given up—but by the light of your eyes, you have not. That's why I seek you. Because despite everything, you have not been broken."

  Harun let out a bark of laughter that ended in a coughing fit. "Broken… is that all? Can’t you see girl, I am more broken than most?"

  Imani looked at him, her eyes shining with the fire of conviction. "It is more than most have," she whispered loudly. "The Herald, peace be upon him, calls upon you, samasa. The Grace of Heaven has touched me, has given me a purpose, and I believe you have one too. If you have the will to take it."

  Harun's expression was unreadable, his eye studying her face. He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of a fly buzzing in his ear. "The Herald of Avaria? Avaria of the Twin Blades? The Goddess's name is no light thing to invoke."

  Imani reached out and touched his shoulder gently. "I do not lie. Come with me. If you do not see the truth, I will not hold you with deceit."

  Harun seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, the shadows of his past clawing at his thoughts. Finally, with a sigh, he gave a small nod. "A fool's errand, but… I have little left to lose."

  She smiled at him, then reached down to help him stand. His weight bore down on her as she steadied him, her body trembling with the effort. She could feel the sharpness of his bones beneath the rags, the emptiness of a body deprived for too long. Together, they moved towards a nearby fountain—one of the few remaining sources of clean water in the Silk Quarter.

  Imani knelt beside the basin, gently pulling Harun to sit on the ledge. She cupped her hands in the cool water, bringing it to his lips first, letting him drink. His lips moved silently in thanks, and then she dipped her hands in once more, washing his remaining foot. She moved with a deliberate grace, her touch gentle as she worked the dirt and grime from his skin. Harun watched her, his eye widening as he realized what she was doing—a beggar’s feet, washed by a girl who spoke of the Goddess.

  "Why…?" he croaked, the word a hoarse whisper.

  Imani looked up at him, her eyes unwavering, filled with compassion. "Because all who serve the Herald, peace be upon him, must be cleansed. We must be clean, not in body, but in spirit. You deserve to be free of this filth, Harun, just as I was freed."

  He swallowed hard, his gaze drifting from her face to the reflection of the sky in the fountain’s waters. For the first time in years, something stirred within him—something that had long been dormant. He closed his eye, letting the sensation flow through him, the cold water on his feet a reminder that, perhaps, there could be something more.

  When she finished, she rose and offered him her hand again. "Come, samasa," she said. "We must leave this place. There is work to be done, and you will help me find others like you. The city, this world, is at the brink of great tribulation, and he will need all who still have strength of spirit."

  Harun took her hand, his own shaking as he pulled himself upright. He looked at her, his one eye filled with a mixture of disbelief, hope, and fear. "I am nothing special, girl," he said quietly. "I’m just a man—broken and lost."

  "No, you are not special. But, you have been chosen, as I was. You are more than what you are," Imani replied, her voice filled with certainty. "You are Harun of the Pale Wars, baptized by battle and its misery, and you still have purpose. The Goddess sees it, and now… so must you."

  With Harun leaning on her shoulder, they began to walk. The Silk Quarter seemed darker than before, the despair thicker, the weight of the hopelessness almost tangible. Yet, there was a flicker of light now, a small flame kindled in the heart of a man who had once been a warrior.

  “Where are we going, child?” asked Harun with a faithful’s uncertainty.

  She gave him a saint’s smile. “To the place where the water dances.”

  Harun just shook his head. He had nothing to lose after all, even if this was all for nothing, he owed the crazy girl for the bread. And so together they limped towards salvation.

  The Herald, peace be upon him, had found Imani in her darkest hour, and now she would help others see that same light.

  For there were many lost and broken who had yet to receive the light of redemption.