The Zargari lead tips his cap. Time.

Caravan forms in shadow—horses shifting, Dom carts bleeding into market chaos. Flight in every gesture: a glance, a tap, the syntax of vanishing.

Asdar’s hand finds my hip. Signal, not tenderness. My skin still sparks from the interrupted bath, slick and wanting. I shove it down—longing braided with duty, the sharp drag of adrenaline. Urgency burns hotter than desire now.

We slip beneath market noise, dodging shoppers and patrols. Zargari horses wait in the alley. I mount. Gods below—wrong beast entirely. I want him, the one who makes me ache when I should think. I glare skyward: Next time. Try stopping me.

The caravan flows through city gates, unremarked. Traders on old routes. Frustration burns, but the road hums: fresh food, silent allies, danger ahead. The hope that next time, the moment lasts.

---

For Mitra, it scorches.

Boswell’s commission—watch over Elena—slides through her fingers like sand into uniformed hands.

We shuffle through customs. Faces blank. Questions breed beneath every glance. Elena’s silhouette flashes in each gap.

Karim leans close. “Your father’s friend in Ardabil, he’s our shot. If they’re hunting her, he’ll know.”

Throat dry. “We can’t lose her. Not now.”

His hand presses my back, steering. “Then we follow the lead. You trust him?”

“He owes my father.”

We merge with the current: paperwork, dust, boots. Between us, everything tightens: promise, risk, absence.

Every step a wager.

---

ARDABIL

Dust laces the air. Karim and I step from border chaos into Ardabil: city of thresholds, alive with old feuds and older trades. Mongol scars, Russian stone. Mount Sabalan cuts blue against the sky.

Boswell’s commission burns behind my ribs. But really I’m chasing Elena’s silhouette through every tunnel.

The bazaar swallows us: spice, whispers, weighted bargains. Maybe someone’s already pricing my loyalty.

At the center: Sheikh Safi al-Din’s shrine. The kind of sacred place that turns bargains to oaths.

Karim’s voice drops. “Here, the past is currency. Every bargain cuts two ways.”

Under the octagonal dome, I feel the city breathe. Sanctuary and snare.

Night drops: cold, starless. We move through alleys, purpose carved deep, doubt riding close.

Tomorrow: the codeholder. Maybe Elena’s trail.

In Ardabil, the only certainty is motion.

I.Ph.