The sun hung low over Sunspear, painting the sand in blood and gold. Obara stormed through the dusty courtyard, boots striking hard against the stone. She found him where she knew he’d be, tending to his horse, hands callused from the same life of riding and war that she lived.

“We ride for the Water Gardens,” she said, voice sharp with fury. “Now.”

She did not wait for protest. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, breath quick with rage. Her uncle sat in silence while her father’s death was unavenged.

Her companion turned, brow furrowed, but she was already stepping forward, grabbing his arm. “Don’t make me drag you.”