Abel had never felt such heat in his life, except in the King's forges.

The irony of it was that this climate was closer to that of his homeland than the mountains he'd lived his entire life.

As they journeyed, they quickly lost sight of the mountains. The desert had turned from an undulating sea of sand to a flat, dry wasteland, the surface covered in thick cracked dust. The sun shone mercilessly and there were no clouds in sight.

Then they reached the battlefields.

It was nothing like Abel expected. It wasn't a strip of land where the dead bodies of soldiers lay strewn across the earth. There were no camps on the opposite sides of some invisible line, tents and flags staking territories.

Instead, it was a smoking wasteland.

The earth was scarred with shiny obsidian strokes, lines of sand where Dragonflame had scorched. Several trenches had been dug into the earth where several great beasts, both magical and non-magical, had fallen, their charred bodies all that was left of their demise. Acrid smoke rose into the air from small patches of trees that the desert had managed to bring up, only to end up razed by flames. Silence reigned.

And there were no human bodies. Abel had to assume those were the ashes floating on the wind.

"You're sure this is the right way?" Zeinab turned to Hakim, asking the question Abel was itching to.

"Unless we want to spend another week in the desert, by which the princeling might be dead." His voice was flat, but even he, heathen as he was, had a horrified expression as he stared at the brutality before them.

Abel glanced up at Nari, who was staring at the field the way one might a graveyard; Solemn and slightly fearful. She ruffled her wings and snorted softly, folding them tightly at her sides.

Hakim gave them no signal to move, he only began marching forward. Abel, Zeinab and Nari followed him, and the group all began to cut through the battlefield, making a path through.

They had to hide in the trenches as they crossed, whenever a dragon scout, rider-less or not, passed high above. The ash and smoke in there was nearly suffocating, and it was impossible for them to hide Nari. Abel silently thanked whichever deity up there that kept the white creature from notice among the gray ashes. Maybe the ashes covered her bright scales.

It took them several hours to reach the other end of the battlefield, where the desert sand and light returned in full fury.

"I don't think we can survive the desert, Hakim." Zeinab said hoarsely. Her sooty face was streaked with lines of tears and Abel figured it was rather because of the graveyard behind them than because of ash in her eyes.

"Not for much longer, Zeinab." Hakim said, wavering on his feet. "Once we cross the border, we leave the dessert behind and move into the land of trees and hills and creeks."

Abel put a hand to the hilt of the sword on his back, trying to give himself comfort. All his life he'd lived as a slave in the darkest parts of the King's castle. He was as good as free now, he reminded himself.

'This is the price of freedom.' A voice whispered in his head, and he a shadow wavered at the edge of his vision. He glanced at it, but nothing was there.

He shifted on his feet, wincing when the pain in his hip flared.

When the abductor had taken the Prince from the castle, Abel had tried to stop the him, to save his friend. All he got for his effort was a shattered hip where the abductor had hit him. The hip, which the King's own medics healed and proclaimed fine to walk on, had been bothering him since they left the mountains.

Zeinab noticed his wince and she turned wary eyes on him. "Are you okay?"

He gave her a tight smile. "My feet are probably going to be badly blistered by the time we get to Kazhak, but I'm fine."

She stared at him for several long seconds before nodding. Abel glanced at Hakim, who had a knowing look on his face, as though he knew Abel had lied.

Abel knew he wasn't helping himself by keeping it from them, but he couldn't afford them slowing down or searching for a healer for his sake. Every moment wasted was another of the Prince's probably gone. And he was not going to lose his only friend.

So he clenched his jaw and glared at the dessert. "The longer we stay here, the more our chances of being spotted."

Hakim grunted in agreement, pulling a compass from his pocket. He stared at it for a few moments before nodding and sliding it back into his pocket. "If we continue on our heading, we should cross the border before..." He stared up at the sun for several long seconds, "before sunrise tomorrow."

'If you're not dead before.' The voice whispered again, and he caught sight of a dark figure moving in his peripheral vision. He ignored it, knowing better than to glance at a hallucination brought on by pain, exhaustion and lack of water.

"No." he whispered in answer, denying the mirage's claims.

Abel did not wait to see if it followed him. He simply began the march into the dessert, eating his pain as he hunted his friend.

He swore to himself that when he found the man that abducted Felix, he would pay in hell.

\\//\\//\\//\\//

Princess Laila watched from the main pole of her tent as the sun rose out above the golden dessert, illuminating her father's camp; thousands of tents secured to the earth, their inhabitants protected from the dessert heat by cold drafts from the army's mage-warriors.

She loathed the sight of the flag that arose above the largest in the field, her father's tent, a flapping fabric painted with a crowned desert cat on a red backdrop. It was the sign of bloody conquest, of a tyrant's reign.

She almost hated it as much as she hated her father.

She pushed the thought of her father out of her mind, unwilling to let his taint ruin the beauty of the morning. She closed her eyes and stretched out the free hand that wasn't holding tight to the tent's center pole, as though trying to catch the sun-rays passing by her.

"What are the odds I find you on your tent instead of in it?" A male voice drawled from the floor and she felt her smile stretch wider. She opened her eyes and glanced down to find Cyrus staring up at her, hands on his hips.

"You know I never miss greeting the sun, brother." She answered, letting her hand fall to her side.

"Father's not going to be happy if he finds you up there, you know. The only princess of Kar could easily fall from her precarious position." Cyrus noted with a wry expression.

"He can shrivel up and die." Laila snarled, her voice suddenly turning feral. She heard herself and forced her voice to return even. "What can he do anyways? He can't punish me in any way that would mark me because I'm already promised to that greasy pig."

"That greasy pig, my dear, is the commander of this army, and your father is his master." Cyrus glanced around at the silent tents surrounding them. "Any of these men could hear your words and be obligated to report to either of them."

"Once again, what can he do?" Laila asked again, releasing the center pole and sliding along the top of the tent until her legs dangled over the edge. She dropped from the twelve foot height, landing silently in a crouch, a pose her fighting instructur had hammered into her.

Cyrus walked over to her, an impressed expression lightening his normally haggard face. "You've improved."

"I have to prepare for my betrothed don't I?" She asked with a sardonic smile. Cyrus sighed at the response.

"You have an unhealthy habit of tempting fate." He said. "The king wants to see you. Should I wake your handmaidens to prepare you?"

Laila blinked at the sudden change of subject, and understanding suddenly dawned on her. This was why Cyrus was here in the first place, and he must have been afraid to tell her, holding it back until he no longer could. Whatever her father planned for her must be bad.

"No, I can bathe myself." She answered with a scowl, discontent about the idea of waking Henna and Chanel. Both of them worked double time taking care of the military style tent the night before, an environment they were not entirely familiar with. They deserved their rest.

"Yes, my fair lady." Cyrus answered, bowing his head slightly with a slight smirk.

"Has he been working you again?" Laila asked, her eyes narrowing as she took in his slumping figure. His uniform was not dirty like the last time, but she could still see the signs.

Even though he was lieutenant commander of the army, the commander, Feroze, treated him like a serf, sending him on meaningless errands that were less than deserving of a Prince. Unless Cyrus wanted himself reported to the King, his father, he did what Feroze wanted.

"I can't hide anything from you can I?" Cyrus's shoulders drooped further in defeat.

"Of all the foul smelling, dung eating swine..." Laila spat ferociously.

"Mara!" Cyrus exclaimed, eyes wide in shock.

"I'll be having words with him." Laila growled, her voice a low tremble.

"No you won't." Cyrus grabbed her shoulders, agitated. "Mara, he will be your husband. If you insult his honor, the moment your marriage is sealed he will make your life hell. I cannot have that. I remain in this position so he will not punish you for my sake. Do not throw my effort away."

'From one monster to another.' Laila thought, the image of the two despicable men in her life, her father and his general, fresh in her mind.

"Then once the marriage is sealed, I will make his life a living hell." She gave Cyrus a small sly smile. "There are many ways to do this without him knowing anything about it."

"You have my permission." Cyrus grinned. "Now, get dressed and get yourself over to the king. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"No, he doesn't." Laila agreed with a shudder, sweeping aside the hanging leather flap at the entrance to her tent and stepping in, leaving her brother outside.

When she came out minutes later, clean and dressed in a simple robe that wouldn't hinder any fighting or running, he was gone. Just as well. She didn't want him accompanying her to father.

Her father was not in his tent. Instead, the guards at the front of his tent directed her to the edge of the camp, a long distance through the sea of leather tents.

She found him standing at the top of a wooden cart, watching the empty, silent dessert. Feroze stood by his side, and three guards stood behind the two, guarding the two most important men in all of Kar. Laila found herself habitually checking their physique and weapons.

"Father." She greeted, drawing up to his side, opposite Feroze. The King and the commander both took their gaze off the dessert and glanced at her.

The King's face broke into an insincere fatherly smile, while Feroze's face twisted into a courteous mien. She returned both with the best, innocent-damsel expression she could muster.

What a game they played, a nest of snakes. She longed to peel their faces back to reveal what expressions they truly wore.

"Come up here." The king said, holding out a hand. Laila forced herself not to stiffen, or shudder, as she took the hand and let him pull her up the cart beside him. She turned to face the dessert, and she saw what he was staring at, that she could not see from the ground.

A large army marched towards them, a dust cloud rising high behind them. The individual figures of soldiers were barely discernible in the distance. Laila could only see the fore line, nearly half a mile long, but she knew her father would have sent out a dragon scout to find out how many lines came towards him and figure out how many men he needed to take to win the battle.

"A host marches out towards us, mere miles away, and the bulk of my army still sleeps." The king murmured. "And yet, I stand in the confidence that I will win this battle today, and push the battlefront much further than before."

Laila felt her disgust peak as she listened to the man's arrogance, his callousness for the lives of the men that would die on the battlefield today, on both sides. What would the consequences for stabbing him in the back with the blade strapped to her thigh be? No one would miss him; of that, she was sure.

"When, father, will we give the final push?" She asked, keeping her voice light and curious.

"Soon, Laila." He answered, glancing at her. "Eager to get this on, are we?"

"I find myself restless without anything to do." She simply replied, not taking her eyes off the approaching army.

"Then you will appreciate some form of action today." Her father said, smiling though as he knew something she did not. "You will be fighting beside the General today."

She blinked, not comprehending. "I'm afraid I do not understand, father. You want me to fight with your men today?"

His smile widened in answer, and she kept her expression neutral, even though she withered inside. Of course she understood what he meant.

He wanted her to fight with his army, like a soldier.

She would kill men today; men that were defending their homes from destruction by her father's invading forces; men fighting to keep wives and children safe and alive, who knew that they would most likely not make it off the battlefield.

She hardened her expression and nodded. "Of course, father."

The General grinned and glanced at her father. "You did not jest when you said she was bloodthirsty. I shall have my hands full with her."

"Keep your mind on the battle ahead and off my daughter, my man." The king turned his suddenly frosty gaze on Feroze, revealing a hint of the ice-cold monster within. "She is not yours yet."

"Yes, my lord." Feroze's smile vanished and he lowered his eyes, staring at the dirt. Laila knew her father could feel the General's barely veiled hate and rage, his thirst to slay him and take his crown, but he could not get rid of the man. Feroze had the confidence of the entire army, and he was still useful to the King. Her father had him marked for death though, and was only waiting for the man to become more than a nuisance.

The king stared at Feroze for several more seconds before turning back to the battlefront.

"Wake the men, General. We have an army to crush."

The General nodded and glanced back at one of the guards behind them. The soldier spun and raced off into the masses of tents, pulling the horn on his belt to his lips and blowing hard.

Voices began to rise from the tents as men woke from their sleep.

Laila used the excuse of needing to prepare her armor for battle to escape the presence of the two men, who she could stand no longer. She felt herself breathing properly again when the sea of tents shielded her from their sight.

She went into her tent, where she kept her armor and her bow. She put them on mechanically, her mind lost in worry and fear. Not for herself, but for those she would harm.

She had never hunted anything larger and more dangerous than Aarda at home, and now, without warning, she would be hunting and killing men. She knew the day would soon come, but she felt surprisingly unprepared for it.

She whirled around at the sound of the tent flap shifting, to find Feroze standing at the entrance, the polite expression on his face having morphed into something leery.

A small pang of panic surged through Laila before she covertly palmed one of the knives hidden in her sleeve, reassuring herself that if he attempted anything untoward, she was totally justified to gut him.

"Laila." He said, his voice a raspy hiss of longing. She almost bared her teeth at the possessiveness in the word.

"What do you want, General?"

He smiled and took a step closer to her. "So fierce, so feral." He cocked his head, "Is that distaste I hear in your voice?"

"What do you want, General? She repeated firmly, raising a warning eyebrow.

"Is it a crime to seek out my betrothed before I lose myself to the lust of battle? I might not come out from combat today, you know."

Laila greatly wished that were true. He would predictably be in the safest part of the fight, sending men to their slaughter as he pretentiously brandished a sword.

"Does my father know that instead of preparing his army, you are visiting the tent of a woman you are not married to?" She asked, surreptitiously glancing around the room. She noticed for the first time since she stepped into the tent that her handmaidens were nowhere to be seen. She was alone with this pig.

"Your father already acknowledges that you will soon be mine, young flower. As soon as this war is out of the way, the technicalities will be dealt with." Feroze took another step closer.

"But that is yet to happen. So unless you have some information to pass on, I suggest you exit this tent." She said, hardening her voice. His smile only stretched, and his eyes flickered down to her chest, his intent clear in his eyes.

Laila felt a snarl building in her lungs before she lunged, her blade whipping out. The General flinched in shock and went rigid as her cold knife pressed against his neck, soft, deadly pressure behind it.

"I already asked nicely once, General." Laila breathed. "I won't do so again."

There was a moment of nervous contemplation as he stared at empty air, before he gave a laugh. "Bloodthirsty." He said. He leaned in closer to her and dropped his voice to a whisper, ignoring the warning of her blade. "Here's a hint. I like girls that way."

He gave her one last leery look before turning around and marching out the tent. Laila deflated as the tent flap fell back in place, and she felt herself shivering with a toxic mixture of fear and rage.

She knew Cyrus was right, and no acts of aggression would go unpunished. The General would be waiting for the day he could get her back for what she just did, even if no one had been there to witness it.

'I could barely hold back myself from doing actual harm. It's good I'm not planning on staying.' She thought, glancing back at the travelling pack she had been trying to shield from the General with her body.

She's already known what she had to do the moment her father mentioned she would be on the battlefield. What she had been preparing to do for a long time. She only wished she could bring Cyrus with her.

She would have to leave just before the battle if she planned to escape her father and his General, and there was still a good chance she would be caught before she left the camp.

But then she'd planned this day for several long months, since her father announced he was giving her over in marriage to the General.

What could go wrong?