We are very close to Dunskar now.
Close enough that I can see the western walls from my window.
Even from this distance, they appear enormous.
Ancient.
Important.
The sort of city that attracts stories naturally.
I am writing this entry partly as a record.
And partly as evidence.
If something unfortunate happens to me in Dunskar, I would like it documented that I eventually recognized the trap.
Unfortunately—
recognizing a trap and escaping one are not always the same thing.
I should have known better.
No cat receives free fish forever.
Even well-fed cats are eventually expected to perform cat-related duties.
Today we arrived at Oasis Dream Palace.
For months, I genuinely believed this place belonged to royalty.
After seeing it up close, I am no longer certain I was entirely wrong.
The walls are constructed from pale sandstone that almost glows beneath the desert sun.
Beyond them rise red dunes like frozen waves.
Tall watchtowers overlook the surrounding roads.
Golden silk banners dance constantly in the wind.
At the center lies a vast marble pool filled with clear water.
Several fountains spill into one another in carefully arranged tiers.
The entire structure seems designed to challenge the desert itself.
As though someone looked at an endless sea of sand and declared:
"No."
"Build a palace."
Inside, matters become even worse.
Mosaic glass floors.
Carved stone pillars.
Thick carpets soft enough to silence footsteps.
Silk cushions.
Bronze chandeliers.
Hundreds of lights reflected across moving water.
The corridors smell of cinnamon.
Cloves.
Cardamom.
Palm trees.
Jasmine.
Expensive incense.
The sort of fragrance wealthy people apparently enjoy breathing.
I still have no idea how much a room here costs.
And I refuse to ask.
Some knowledge only creates suffering.
The food was equally alarming.
Slow-roasted lamb glazed with desert honey.
Pomegranate quail decorated with actual gold leaf.
Fresh bread served with truffle goat cheese.
A cold fruit nectar containing ice transported from northern mountains.
Ice.
In the middle of a desert.
Civilization occasionally feels unreasonable.
The guests themselves are perhaps the most intimidating part.
Everywhere I look, someone appears important.
Merchants wearing enough jewelry to fund expeditions.
Nobles from distant lands.
Foreign diplomats.
Representatives carrying official seals.
Private guards.
Entire entourages.
At one point I saw a man accompanied by more armed retainers than some villages possess residents.
Nobody seemed surprised.
I spent most of the afternoon feeling as though I had accidentally entered the wrong building.
Then this evening, everything finally made sense.
Or perhaps became significantly worse.
After we reached our room, Ryn asked a question.
"Have you enjoyed the accommodations recently, Miss DeLuna?"
I answered honestly.
Of course I had.
The food was wonderful.
The rooms were wonderful.
The beds were wonderful.
The entire experience had been wonderful.
Ryn smiled.
A very warm smile.
A very kind smile.
A very dangerous smile.
Then she said:
"Excellent."
"If that's the case, I assume you won't mind helping me for a few days."
My heart stopped immediately.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Several pieces of recent history suddenly assembled themselves inside my head.
The meals.
The rooms.
The luxury.
The operational expenses.
The free fish.
I had walked directly into this.
Willingly.
Like an idiot.
I briefly considered whether sleeping in tents and eating dried rations might have been the wiser life choice.
Unfortunately, that realization arrived too late.
The fish had already been consumed.
I asked what sort of assistance she required.
Ryn's smile somehow became even more reassuring.
Which made it significantly less reassuring.
"You simply need to remain with the Caravan Master during the auction."
A pause.
"Nothing more."
Another pause.
"Nothing less."
I stared.
She smiled.
I continued staring.
The smile remained.
At that point I accepted defeat.
There are moments in life when resistance merely wastes energy.
This appeared to be one of them.
I nodded.
Perhaps meeting the Caravan Master again will be beneficial.
Perhaps I will finally tell him exactly what I think about certain conversations.
Particularly one conversation.
The memory remains irritating.
I have several months of frustration prepared.
After that—
I will improvise.
The alternative is worrying.
And worrying has never prevented anything.
The rumors certainly do not help.
The mysterious princess accompanying the Caravan Master has evolved considerably since the last inn.
At this point she resembles a mythological figure more than a human being.
Old bloodlines.
Ancient races.
Forgotten kingdoms.
Divine ancestry.
The details change hourly.
Some versions sound strangely familiar.
Others sound completely insane.
One rumor in particular claimed she serves First Veil directly.
That remains my favorite.
Not because it is believable.
Quite the opposite.
I have met First Veil.
The experience nearly destroyed my emotional stability.
The idea of her casually employing humans still sounds ridiculous.
Yet the rumors continue growing.
As for the Caravan Master himself—
the stories have become equally dramatic.
People speak as though he intends to purchase an artifact capable of changing the world.
Entire trade organizations are adjusting plans around whatever he chooses to bid on.
Which leaves me with a question.
Who exactly is he bringing?
The auction no longer concerns me nearly as much as that mystery.
Every rumor eventually returns to the same subject.
The Caravan Master.
And the princess.
At this point I am beginning to suspect Ryn's request may be connected somehow.
Though I cannot imagine how.
The most reasonable explanation I have discovered is that I am expected to serve as some kind of attendant.
Or assistant.
Possibly a very temporary servant.
Given current information, this remains my strongest theory.
I admit it feels somewhat unlikely.
Unfortunately, every alternative explanation feels even less believable.
Outside my window, the western walls of Dunskar remain visible beneath the evening sky.
Tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after.
We will finally arrive.
The road is nearly finished.
The stories are waiting.
And whether I like it or not—
I suspect I am already part of them.
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