Seterak needed far less time to reach the nearest gate of Namar-Khep than he had when he left, since this time he didn't need to be careful.
"I have to be quick," he thought, pulling hard on the camel's reins. He wasn't entirely sure where he should go—returning to speak with his father or seeking out the priestess were his two options.
He was alone. Besides delivering the news of the elves' advance, Ishara's friend had stayed behind to help her master the "fly on sand" technique.
His father, Thswoner, had forgiven her and lifted her exile. Even though the elf hadn't wanted to leave, it was necessary.
Though he understood the reasoning, the son of the Setting Sun would have preferred to stay with his friend—he felt safer with her. The young prince was deeply anxious; he didn't really know what to do.
The defeat had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. In his 25 years, he had always taken pride in his battle skills, yet they had proven useless in saving his world.
The eastern side of the golden city—one of the most opulent districts of Namar-Khep—was calm but awake, even in the early hours before dawn. The inhabitants were still organizing themselves after returning to the city.
It was a fearful stillness. None of the people or soldiers busy with their tasks had actually seen the dragon, but they had all heard its enormous roar echoing for kilometers.
The cold early-morning air brushed against his skin and fluttered his robes. Seterak finally reached a large square and was about to turn east—toward the place where Krarvathar had fallen—when he heard a feminine voice:
"Setarek, Setarek."
The young man recognized the voice immediately. He stopped the camel and turned toward the second floor of a grand mansion. There he saw the woman—the daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in Khemet. The same woman his mother, before her death, had arranged to be his betrothed.