Embers, Rumours, and Rescue Plans

The fire pops, laughter fills the air, and Asdar leans in, finally ready to stitch together the threads — Romani hospitality, protection, their centuries-old role as keepers of stories and music, and the deal he cut to trade stigma for safe passage.

For once, I’m content to listen — blond locks tamed by borrowed cloth, adrenaline receding, and the promise of answers flickering in the fire’s glow.

I sit cross-legged near the Zargari fire, wrapped in a borrowed sjal that warms my shoulders, feeling half guest, half captive. The air thrums with stories; the Romani here aren’t just musicians and poets — they’re information brokers, their tribal links stretching deep into Iran’s borderlands.

After a round of salty jokes, the conversation shifts. A wiry man with silver in his beard gestures with a battered phone. 

“News moves fastest by feet, not screens. We’re Zargari — yes, but our people walk with the Dom and the Lori. We let secrets pass in music, but sometimes rumour is just survival.”

He glances at Asdar, who nods with silent approval. 

“Your friend was taken across the border by men who deal in fear and dark favours. Word is she’s been moved east — not to the city, but to the caves. They say this cave town was once for shepherds, now it’s a place for keeping what others want hidden. Information is guarded, but the Dom have ears in every rock around here, and the Lori know the winds better than the border police.”

My pulse skips. Sandi in a cave town — cold, claustrophobic, invisible. My mind races through half-remembered anthropological notes: Dom, often called “Middle Eastern Gypsies,” with shadowed networks, and the Lori, famed for their legends and border smuggling routes. If these tribes say Sandi’s there, she’s there.

And then, a younger voice chimes in — eager, half-whispered. 

“They talk of a giant,” he says, “a Viking — blond, blunt-featured, not like the usual Norse, but one who walks with the step of a man who has crossed deserts. Always near a man they call ‘the shaman,’ who performs rituals with herbs that the border doctors won’t explain. The cave town is nervous; the bosses aren’t sure if he’s a ransomer or a rescuer.”

Asdar’s mouth quirks at the mention — no surprise, then, that Tarmo’s legend has grown legs. The Viking and the shaman: rumour as currency, hope for Sandi or trouble for anyone who stands in their way.

I lean in, keeping my tone easy but firm. 

“So what do we do about it? If your people know the paths and the keepers, do they know how to get Sandi out?” 

My words echo in the firelight; the Zargari faces harden into seriousness, heads nodding. One woman passes me sweet tea — her signal that I’ll need strength soon.

A plan is beginning to flower, half in whispers, half in song. The Romani, with Dom and Lori links, gather information as naturally as they gather around the fire. And somewhere in the echo chambers of Iranian caves, Sandi waits — with enemies, maybe with hope.

All eyes flick to Asdar. If there’s a deal to be made — if the wolf can bargain with shadows and music — tonight’s story will run toward rescue.

At some point, the firelight blurs. Voices dissolve into a hum, language tangled with the crackle of wood and the rhythmic cough of the night wind across the steppe. My body isn’t just tired; it’s quarried out, spent down to the marrow. It isn’t a decision; it’s a collapse.

Strong hands hook under my arms, the ground shifts, canvas‑smelling fabric brushes my cheek. I register just enough to know it’s Asdar, not some stranger or shadow, before the dark drags me under.

When I surface, dawn presses pale against rough tent walls. Somewhere nearby, cardamom tea ghosts the air, and there’s the steady weight of a gaze I can feel even with my eyes closed.

I crack one lid. He’s cross‑legged at the foot of the bedroll, elbows on his knees, watching me like he’s cataloguing every twitch, weighing it against some private ledger.

My voice comes out as scraped‑raw sarcasm. “How come I’m not naked?”

One eyebrow climbs, slow as sunrise. “You were barely standing. I carried you here, gave you a blanket, and sat down to make sure you kept breathing.”

A beat, then the faintest curl at his mouth. “But if you’re disappointed…”

I take the tin cup, the world still soft at the edges, and sip. Heat bites my tongue awake. He’s still watching me—steady as a tether—and for once, I don’t mind the weight.

I meet his eyes over the rim. “As a matter of fact, I am a bit disappointed. Waking up with you inside me would have been… preferable.”

My tone is dry, as if we’re talking weather, but his gaze sharpens all the same. A breath, almost a laugh.

“That will have to wait. For now, others are asking for our attention.”

The finality isn’t unkind; it just pulls the air back to where it belongs—outside this tent, in the Zargari’s intelligence, in Sandi’s trail toward the cave town, in the rumour of a Viking and his shaman moving through the same dark corridors we need to reach.

I.Ph.