Capítulo 44: Chapter 44: Paths of Redemption
**Zhal's Perspective**
The desert had claimed Zhal. The scorching heat, the biting wind, the unending stretch of sand—it had all swallowed him whole. His body had long since given up, and now, as he lay sprawled on the burning ground, his thoughts were slow, sluggish. His once-proud Dothraki braid, now shorn to near baldness, was a painful reminder of his failures. The new khal had stripped him of everything, even his dignity.
*I should have stayed with Arren,* Zhal thought bitterly, his mind flickering back to the blindfolded warrior who had been willing to teach him. Arren had seen his potential, had offered to show him how to fight despite his poor eyesight. Zhal had admired the man, admired his strength, his confidence. And yet, when the time came to choose, Zhal had left with the khalasar. He had believed that riding with the Dothraki was the only way to prove himself, to find his place as a warrior.
But the khalasar had only brought him humiliation. He had lost too many fights, and his hair—the very symbol of a warrior's pride—had been cut short in front of the others. The laughter, the jeers, the looks of disdain—they still echoed in his ears. And now, here he was, abandoned in the desert, left to die under the brutal sun.
His body ached, every muscle screaming for rest. But Zhal pushed himself onward, stumbling through the sand. He wasn't sure how long he had been walking, only that he was on the verge of collapse. His vision swam, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him.
*This is my punishment,* he thought, bitterly accepting his fate.
The sand beneath him shifted, and his legs buckled. He fell face-first into the burning sand, his skin searing as he hit the ground. His breath was shallow, his throat raw with thirst. He was too weak to move, too weak to care.
And then, darkness.
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#### **Mary's Perspective**
The sun was merciless, beating down on Mary as she trudged through the endless desert. Each step was a struggle against the heat, her skin slick with sweat, her lips dry and cracked from thirst. She had been walking for what felt like hours, the vast expanse of sand stretching endlessly before her. The wind whipped at her clothes, swirling the sand around her feet.
*I have to keep going,* she reminded herself, her mind focused on her goal. She had heard the stories of a cursed warrior, a man with a blindfold whose skill in battle was unmatched. She had been sure it was her brother, Arren. It *had* to be him. That was the only explanation.
The merchant she had met on the road had spoken of the warrior with wide-eyed enthusiasm, offering to take her toward where he was last seen. But the merchant's hands had wandered where they shouldn't, and Mary had left him behind, disgusted and angry. She didn't need him. She could find her brother on her own.
As she made her way through the desert, something caught her eye—a figure lying motionless in the sand. Mary squinted, her hand instinctively moving to the small dagger at her belt. She approached cautiously, each step bringing her closer to the prone figure. The sun's heat shimmered in the air, making it difficult to see clearly at first.
When she got close enough, she could make out the shape of a young boy, maybe her age, his skin burned and cracked from the sun. His hair was nearly gone, cut so short he was almost bald. She knelt beside him, her eyes narrowing as she looked over his clothing. He was Dothraki, or at least he had been. Without his braid, he looked more like an escaped slave than a warrior.
"Lucky I found you," Mary muttered under her breath as she pulled out her water pouch. She lifted the boy's head, tilting it slightly as she poured a small amount of water onto his lips. His cracked lips parted, and he drank weakly, his body stirring as life slowly returned to him.
Mary glanced around, spotting a large rock that provided some shade. With a grunt, she pulled him up and dragged him into the shadow, her muscles straining with the effort. Once he was out of the sun, she sat back, her legs stretched out in front of her as she waited for him to wake.
It didn't take long. The boy stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he blinked up at her, his vision still hazy. He groaned softly, his body weak and disoriented.
"Who…?" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.
"Easy," Mary said, offering him the water pouch again. "Drink."
The boy took it, drinking slowly, his eyes focusing on her as the water soothed his throat. He handed the pouch back, his hands shaking slightly.
"Thank you," he managed, his voice still rough from dehydration.
Mary nodded, tucking the pouch back into her belt. "You're lucky I found you. What happened to you out here?"
The boy hesitated, his eyes flicking away from hers. "I… was left behind," he muttered, his voice low.
Mary raised an eyebrow. "Left behind? By who?"
He didn't answer right away, his gaze darting around as if he was deciding how much to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet. "I escaped."
Mary looked him over again, her eyes narrowing. "Escaped? From who?"
"The Dothraki," he lied smoothly, hoping it would satisfy her curiosity. "I was taken by them. I… got away."
Mary's expression softened, and she nodded in understanding. Without his braid, he looked nothing like a warrior—more like an escaped slave. She had heard of many who had suffered under the Dothraki's rule. "Well, you made it out. That's something."
He let out a small sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing a little as she seemed to buy his story. He was in no condition to explain his real circumstances, and telling her he had been cast out by the khalasar could get him killed.
After a moment of silence, Zhal cleared his throat. "And you? What are you doing out here all alone?"
Mary leaned back against the rock, staring out at the endless desert. "I'm looking for someone," she said quietly. "My brother. People call him the cursed warrior. He wears a blindfold, fights better than any man."
Zhal's heart skipped a beat. *The cursed warrior.* The stories were true, then. Arren was still alive, still fighting. The weight of his mistakes pressed down on him even harder.
"And you think he's out here?" Zhal asked, his voice cautious.
Mary nodded. "I thought he might be in Vaes Dothrak. That's where I was heading."
Zhal's breath caught. He had heard the rumors and if she was going to Vaes Dothrak, she was heading in the wrong direction. Daenerys was no longer in Vaes Dothrak, and neither was Arren.
"You're going the wrong way," he said slowly.
Mary frowned, turning to face him. "What do you mean?"
"Your brother's not in Vaes Dothrak," Zhal said, his voice more certain now. "Daenerys… she's heading toward Astapor. That's where you'll find him."
Mary blinked, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Astapor?"
Zhal nodded. "Daenerys conquered Astapor with her dragons. She has an army of Unsullied now—over 100,000 of them."
Mary snorted, her expression shifting from surprise to skepticism. "Dragons? Really? You expect me to believe that?"
Zhal met her gaze steadily. "It's the truth. I saw them."
Mary crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Right. Three dragons, an army of 100,000 soldiers, and a queen who just waltzed in and took the city. Sounds like a bedtime story."
Zhal sighed, realizing she wasn't going to believe him. "I'm not pulling your leg," he insisted. "Dragons are real"
Mary shook her head, still smiling. "Sure. But you're coming with me, then. If I'm going the wrong way, you can point me in the right direction."
Zhal hesitated for a moment, but he knew he couldn't argue. She had saved his life, and perhaps following her would lead him back to Arren, back to the chance at redemption he so desperately needed.
"Fine," Zhal said, pushing himself to his feet. "We'll find him together."
Mary nodded, her smirk softening. "Good. Then let's get moving."
Together, they set off into the desert, one seeking her lost brother, the other seeking to reclaim the honor he had lost. The desert stretched out endlessly before them, but neither of them hesitated.
They had a path now, and they would follow it.
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