Shadya had only been dead a few weeks, and already Akshan could feel all traces of her slipping away. That was the hardest facet of his grief—the hoarding of mementos, the scrambling to scrape together whatever remained of his beloved mentor.

He pulled the old charcoal sketch from his pocket and studied it. The crude drawing was a poor likeness of her face, lacking in all fine detail. Still, he found if he closed his eyes and tried to remember, he could usually fill in the blanks. But more and more, his memory was failing him.

Shadya, why do you leave me? he wondered. Was it his own doing, something deep inside trying to protect him by eroding all traces of a standard he was failing to meet? Or perhaps he just needed something to jar his memory.

He stuffed the drawing back into his pocket as he walked into the open-air markets of central Marwi, searching for anything to remind him of his mentor. After a few blocks, he stumbled upon a jarring sight: In an alley between two stucco buildings, a young waif was fastening a familiar mother-of-pearl bracelet to her grime-smeared arm.

Quick as the wind, Akshan dashed right up to the urchin’s face, cape snapping in his wake. “Where did you get that?” he barked, his tone uncharacteristically brusque.

“I found it,” said the waif, smothering the bracelet with her arms. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is this: That piece of jewelry belonged to someone I cared for very much,” said Akshan. “It was her favorite.”

The girl stared up at him, eyes wide with fear. Akshan realized his fist had tightened around her collar. He released his grip and attempted a wry smile.

“So...” he said, “why don’t you tell me how you’ve come to possess it?”

“I—I took it from someone who won’t miss it.”

The urchin’s face welled with spite from years of hardship. Akshan knew it well. He also knew of an infamous black-market jeweler on the next block, and what the man might pay the girl for the bracelet—if she hadn’t crossed paths with Akshan.

“Then you’d better tell me the name of this person.”

“I can’t. You don’t know what he’d do.”

Akshan gently coaxed the bracelet from the waif’s grip and felt his heart skip as he pulled something from its clasp: a single strand of long silver hair.

Shadya’s hair? It was silver... right?

Akshan’s mind flashed with a partial picture of her, now even less complete than before.

“Young friend,” said Akshan to the girl, “my Shadya is gone. This bracelet is one of the few remaining pieces of her. It was part of a set with four others.”

The waif averted her eyes as if her interrogator might glean some forbidden information from them.

Akshan exhaled, his voice softening. “Whoever you took this from... is sure to have the others. You must tell me who this scoundrel is.”

The girl stammered, her eyes shifting until she relented. “They call him the Devil of the Dunes, sir. He lives in the large palace in the foothills north of here.”

Akshan’s brow furrowed. “You stole this from a warlord?”

“I cleaned his stables,” said the girl. “He owed me.”

“I cannot begrudge you that,” said Akshan. “But this bracelet was not his for you to steal. It seems I must pay this Dune Devil a visit.”

“Don’t,” said the girl. “He is a killer, sir.”

“This, I already know.”

With that, he fired his grappling hook into the eaves of buildings above and launched himself out of sight.



In the darkest hour of night, a host of heavily armed guards kept watch over the warlord’s palace. None of them noticed the caped figure darting through the shadows toward the silver-inlaid doors of the main bedroom.

Inside, a large, battle-scarred ruffian lay sprawled across the entire width of his enormous goose-down bed. Three exotic pet rodents with long, flowing white hair perked up and scampered off the bed as Akshan emerged from the shadows.

His hand clamped down across the mouth of the sleeping warlord. The man’s eyes shot wide with rage as he uttered a muffled scream.

“Good evening, scoundrel,” said Akshan, pressing his gun to the ruffian’s chin. “Sorry to call on you at such an hour, but, uh... only a little sorry.”

The warlord squirmed under the tip of the Absolver.

“Now, now,” said Akshan. “Collect yourself. I’m going to remove my hand, and all I want to hear from your mouth is a confession. Ready?”

The rage in the warlord’s eyes turned to a cautious curiosity. Slowly, Akshan removed his hand.

“Confession?” asked the bemused warlord.

“Shadya. The sentinel. Elderly woman, stickler for rules, fond of pearl jewelry...” said Akshan.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“She was the kindest person I have ever known. At least be a good lowlife and tell me why you killed her.”

“I didn’t kill her!” said the warlord, a tinge of frustration in his voice.

“Then how else could you have taken this from her?” asked Akshan, thrusting the bracelet into the warlord’s face. “She was wearing it the day she died. I found four others just like it in your jewelry case.” Tutting in disapproval, Akshan presented all five matching bracelets to the warlord.

“I know who you are,” scowled the warlord. “I’ve heard all about you and what you do. You think you can kill me and bring her back.”

“No. I believe the time for that has passed.”

“Then what d’you want?”

Akshan paused, thinking of the silver hair, the bracelets, and the woman whose face he could no longer recall. Was the man before him the one who had slain her? Did it even matter? Surely, the world would be a better place without him.

At last, he answered the warlord’s question.

“Peace?”

With a squeeze of the grip, Akshan fired the Absolver, illuminating the bedroom as countless bolts of relic-stone light pierced the warlord’s body.

Guards poured into the room, though not quickly enough to catch the fleeing Akshan, who disappeared through a window into the cool desert night.



As the sun rose over the mountains, Akshan trudged back to the city, his mind bedeviled.

He studied the five pearl bracelets he'd recently recovered. He had thought they might somehow bring Shadya back, if only in his mind’s eye. But her memory continued to fade, and now only a vague silhouette of her face remained.

Akshan knew one thing for certain: She would not have approved of him killing the Devil of the Dunes—not out of pure vengeance. But deep down, he knew he hadn’t done it for her. He’d done it for himself, and it had not brought him peace.

He turned one of the bracelets in his fingers, searching for solace, and noticed a tiny inscription etched inside the band. An old sentinel mantra that he’d heard often, but never really understood: “Give all, and all may live.”

The words rang in Akshan’s head like a war trumpet as a revelation shook him.

He fired his grappling hook into the eaves above and launched himself from building to building until he arrived at the place where he’d met the waif the day before. There she lay, sleeping in the same alley.

He knelt over the girl, bracelets in hand. “You should have these. It is what she would’ve wanted.”

Confused and half-asleep, the waif’s eyes blinked as Akshan placed the bracelets in her meager pile of belongings.

“But, uh... sell them to the jeweler in the spice district,” he said. “He will give you a better price.”

Akshan could feel the stunned gaze of the girl watching him as he walked away, and a bittersweet comfort washed over him. Though he had parted with the last physical remnants of his mentor, he felt a bright warmth within. And in his mind’s eye, clear as day, was Shadya’s face.