Regret
1041 Words
Zaria knew she should have left days ago.
She stood in the tiny back room of the spice trader’s house; a space that smelled like saffron, sweat, and old sorrow — watching the sky turn the color of bruised peaches. Sunset in Aru’Shenu always came too quickly. Like the city didn’t want to give you time to prepare for the dark.
She tightened the strap on her pack as Amara instructed. It held little — just dried bread, a flask of clean water, a blade hidden in cloth, and two things that weren’t hers: a sealed letter from her mother’s hidden archive and a half-burned sigil once worn by the Flameborn generals.
She didn’t know what either meant. But they felt important. That was enough.
Amara had told her to move quickly. The contact who’d arranged her new identity was already in hiding. Soldiers were sniffing along the edges of the Dust Quarter like wolves catching scent of a wounded deer.
Zaria hadn’t moved. Not yet.
Because she was waiting.
For Kaelen. For a sign. For anything to tell her that running again wouldn’t mean erasing everything they had left.
She moved to the window, eyes looking around the rooftops.
What if he didn’t come? What if he was truly no longer alive?
She wrapped her arms around herself, one hand resting lightly over her belly. I’m not running for me anymore, she reminded herself. This time it’s for both of us.
A knock came at the door — wasn't loud nor frantic, but precise.
She stilled. Her hand went to her blade.
Then a voice: “It’s me.”
Amara stepped in, sweat on her brow, her armor partially unfastened, a tension in her shoulders that didn’t belong there.
“We have to move now,” she said.
Zaria frowned. “What’s happened?”
“The streets are closing in. There’s a new commander running the intelligence circuit — efficient, brutal. He’s paying people in food and secrets. Someone gave him your location. Maybe even someone close.”
Zaria inhaled slowly. “How long do we have?”
“Hours. If that. Or less”
Zaria nodded once and grabbed the pack.
Amara watched her, expression unreadable. “You’re sure about this?”
“No,” Zaria said. “But I don’t need to be.”
Amara’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, more like a shadow of one. “Your mother would’ve liked that answer.”
“Or hit me with a book for being reckless.”
“Same thing.”
They left the safehouse under the veil of dusk, moving through side paths and servant alleys. Zaria moved like someone who had learned not to draw attention — but not to cower either.
They reached the edge of the city’s riverbend, where the escape route was supposed to start — a skiff that would take them to the southern marsh roads.
Except the boat was gone.
Torn ropes hung like snapped veins from the pier, and footprints trailed off into the reeds.
Zaria’s heart sank. “They knew.”
Amara crouched low, fingers brushing the dirt. “And they’re close.”
A shadow flickered behind the nearest building.
“Go,” Amara said. “You take the tunnels. I’ll draw them off.”
“I… don't want to leave you—”
“You’re not. You’re surviving. And you can’t do that if they catch you now.”
Zaria hesitated — just for a moment — then ran.
She didn’t look back.
But she heard the clash of steel in the dark, and it would stay with her long after the screams ended.
Zaria came into a room with an aura of rust and salt.
The floor was stone-cold beneath her cheek, and something sticky trailed across her wrists where they’d been bound. Her mouth was dry. Her back ached from being dragged. Her thoughts were fogged, but sharp enough to know one thing immediately:
She wasn’t in the city anymore.
No sounds of crowds, no echo of temple bells. Just the slow drip of water and the low hum of something deeper—like wind under a tomb.
She sat up slowly, wincing. Chains clinked softly.
“Careful,” came a voice from the shadows. Smooth. Familiar. Dangerous.
Sahen stepped into view.
He didn’t wear his lawkeeper uniform now. No badge. No gold-trimmed collar. What he wore; black, soft leather and a dark scarf tied at his throat like he was mourning something only he knew.
Zaria stared at him. “You.”
“I was hoping we could avoid the dramatics,” he said. “But you made it... difficult.”
She said nothing.
He crouched across from her, folding his arms. “I need you to answer some questions. But I’m not going to pretend this is civil.”
Zaria’s jaw clenched. “I won’t tell you anything.”
“Not yet,” he agreed, almost lightly. “But we have time.”
He stood and moved to a table in the corner. Laid across it: an array of implements — some meant for science, some for pain, and some for the murky place in between.
Zaria didn’t look away. If he thought fear would break her, he didn’t know her at all.
Sahen turned back, holding a small silver tool. “Let’s start with something simple. Where did you hide it?”
She blinked, her heart beginning to race. “Hide what?”
Sahen’s expression didn’t change. “Let’s not do the dance, Zaria. You’re too intelligent for that. And I’m too tired.”
She met his gaze evenly. “You’re a coward.”
Sahen didn’t flinch. He stepped forward — not fast, not aggressive — but deliberate. He crouched again, lowering his voice until it was almost gentle.
“Do you know how many people have died for what you hide and carry?” he whispered. “Do you even know what You're carrying?”
Zaria said nothing.
He reached up — and with gloved fingers, gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You will.”
Then, with the softest breath:
“I promise you, Zaria. I’m going to help you remember what you were born to forget.”
- Writer
