Beneath my feet, the grasslands have turned to desert, and the shrubs that once grew thickly are naked and brittle. A gust of wind stirs the baked earth, kicking up a cloud of dust, while in the distance a greater sandstorm sweeps ever closer. Turning to the city, it is dead - the stone buildings lay empty, and every fountain and well is dry. I am the only person to walk these streets for some time, though the bones of animals tell me others have sought answers here.

This is the result of the hidden war. No drums told of its coming, and no soldiers marched the streets, but maybe that would have been easier. One man will die as easily as any other, but you cannot fight the very land as it turns against you. It is harder yet to kill your own countrymen, even in mercy.

The wind is picking up now, the looming clouds of sand approaching fast and turning the city dark. The first grains of sand start to burn my exposed skin as I shoulder into what must have been someone's home, closing the door behind me. The shutters are already closed, and every cupboard is bare. It looks abandoned, but the unmistakable perfume of death hangs heavy in the room. I drop my pack to the floor as the sandstorm outside begins to rumble through the streets and quake the shutters.

When the city was still alive with people, this would have been a small home, just three rooms - A living area, a bedchamber, and a lavatory. I peek into the privy, and am surprised to see that it once would have had running water, despite the age of the building. As I reach for the handle of the bedroom, dread washes over me.

Inside the room, the smell of death is stronger yet, and it is not hard to see why. Little more than mummies remain of the two on the bed, locked in a final, eternal embrace. My eyes drift over the two cups, still stained with the black of nightshade, to the pair's linked hands, and suddenly tears come unbidden and unwelcome. I wipe my eyes furiously, and tell myself that these are strangers, that they mean nothing to me, but it does nothing to stop my weeping or the fury building up behind it.

I focus my anger where it belongs. Who were those foreigners to name themselves king? To destroy this land with tricks and sorcery? And suddenly I am angry at the gods. What kind of just god grants an evil man the power of magic, one that can wither crops and burn away rain clouds? Perhaps it was not his hand that killed these people, but he caused their death all the same. I think of my own magic-

...

For the first time in a long time, I believe in kismet. I see the path the gods have set out for me with perfect clarity; the false king and his brother will be made to pay dearly for what they have done, and it will be both my duty and my pleasure. I say a prayer over the dead and leave them money for the ferryman. Returning to the living area, I sit on the floor. In the roar of the sandstorm I hear a song of justice, and my heart finds peace.