Jhon stepped aside, pushing the door open with a smirk. "Come in, you dusty bastards."
Khaltar was the first to step inside, still grinning from ear to ear. But just as Jhon was about to follow, his gaze landed on three familiar faces—Hadeefa, Nadra, and Arianne.
His smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by something softer. Genuine joy. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
Hadeefa approached first, her stance regal yet warm. She placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes scanning his face as if confirming he was real. "It's been a long time, child," she said, voice carrying the weight of years.
Jhon chuckled. "Child? I've fought wars, Hadeefa, I—"
Before he could finish, Nadra rushed forward and slammed her fist into his stomach. "Uncle who disappears without a trace!" she scolded, voice laced with frustration, though her glistening eyes betrayed her relief.
Jhon coughed, rubbing the spot where she punched him, but he laughed through the pain. "Still got that Silver Axe strength, huh?"
Arianne stepped forward next, saying nothing at first. She simply smiled, tilting her head slightly as if studying him. Then, with the ease of an old bond, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You're still the same," she whispered.
Jhon exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "And you lot still know how to make a man feel guilty."
He finally stepped aside, gesturing them all in. "Get inside before you make me cry like an old fool."
As the others shuffled past, Sayf remained outside. Ever loyal, ever watchful. "I'll stand guard," he said, his voice unwavering. "Besides, I have a report to make—Black Fang Corsairs are no more."
Jhon glanced at him, nodding approvingly. "Then Warm Oasis is safer than it's been in years."
Jhon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as the others settled in. But his gaze eventually landed on Rahotep and the dwarves, still standing by the entrance. "Well?" Jhon called out. "You lot coming in or planning to stand there like statues?"
The dwarves exchanged glances, hesitant. It wasn't in their nature to trust easily, especially not in unfamiliar places. But then, Gorim—cleared his throat. "Khaltar's friend is friend to dwarves," he declared, stepping forward with a nod.
"Fair enough," Jhon smirked. "What about you, Captain?" His eyes locked onto Rahotep.
Rahotep, who had been silent up until now, tilted his head slightly, studying Jhon like one would an old painting—searching for traces of something long forgotten. Then, with a slow, almost knowing smile, he finally spoke. "At least you seem to have grown up."
Jhon blinked. His smirk faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "I don't know you." His voice carried the weight of certainty.
As everyone settled inside, Jhon took a deep breath and called out. "Ma! We've got guests!"
From the kitchen, the sound of clinking pots and a soft hum filled the air before a woman emerged—an older lady, wrapped in a simple yet elegant shawl, her dark eyes warm yet sharp.
"Ahh, finally, some manners from my boy," she teased, wiping her hands on her apron before turning to the group. "Welcome to my home. I'm Safiya."
The way she said it carried more weight than just an introduction. There was warmth, but also strength—this was a woman who had seen storms and survived them.
She placed a gentle hand on Jhon's shoulder. "This one here? He's like a son to us. We found him when he was stranded, half-starved and half-dead—"
"Ma, please." Jhon groaned, rubbing his forehead. "They don't need to hear this."
Safiya simply waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. A good story is like good food—it brings people together." She turned, already heading back toward the kitchen. "Speaking of which, I'll start cooking. We have guests to feed."
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Jhon shook his head with a small smile before turning back to Khaltar. "So... where's Yaraq?"
The question hung in the air like a blade, its sharp edge cutting through the brief moment of warmth. Khaltar's expression shifted instantly. The light in his eyes dimmed, his shoulders weighed down as if something unseen had settled on them.
"He's dead," Khaltar said simply. His voice was even, but beneath it, there was grief—a quiet, heavy thing that words could never truly carry. For a moment, silence filled the room.
Jhon exhaled slowly, his usual smirk gone."Shit."
That was all he said, but it was enough. Because sometimes, there were no right words—only the weight of loss and the silence it left behind.
Khaltar's gaze darkened as he continued, his voice rough. "Yaraq… he sacrificed himself, along with the others, so we could escape with the Azerite."
Jhon's expression hardened. He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Azerite?" he asked, as if needing to hear it again to believe it.
Khaltar nodded. "Yes. The red steel. The only thing that can kill an Elder Dragon."
At those words, the room fell into a heavy silence. Even Safiya, busy in the kitchen, paused for a moment, as if sensing the weight of the conversation.
Jhon's jaw tensed. "And you found it? In the Ashblood territories?"
Khaltar exhaled. "We barely got out alive."
Jhon didn't reply immediately. He simply sat there, staring at Khaltar and the others, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden table. For a man who always had something sarcastic to say, his silence was unsettling.
Jhon finally broke the silence, leaning back with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "After I left the Silver Axe, I came back here." He gestured around the house, then out toward the oasis beyond. "Had to make sure Warm Oasis stayed safe. After the last king was... well, let's say 'removed' by me, someone had to step up."
Khaltar's eyes widened slightly. "You— You became the new Oasis King?"
Jhon chuckled, shaking his head. "Not the kind that sits on a throne drinking spiced wine, if that's what you're thinking. But yeah, me and my men—" he jerked a thumb toward the assassins outside "—we keep Warm Oasis clean. One by one, we've been wiping out the warbands, pirates, goblins… any filth that dares to crawl too close."
His voice grew colder. "But the Ashblood? That's different."
Khaltar frowned. "Why?"
Jhon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Because they don't come looking for blood. And they never leave the Red Wastes. You know what that means?"
Rahotep, arms crossed, narrowed his eyes. "They're not just some raiders or slavers. They have their own laws."
Jhon nodded. "Exactly. And more than that—" he tapped the table for emphasis "—they're too strong and too many. Even if my assassins went in full force, we'd be crushed in minutes."
Rahotep suddenly burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained. The sound echoed through the house, making everyone turn to him in confusion.
Jhon frowned. "What's so damn funny?"
Rahotep wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. "You. At least you really grew up, junior."
Jhon's confusion deepened. "Junior? Do I know you?"
Rahotep exhaled, still grinning. "Oh, you wouldn't remember me, but I remember you. Edenia. Harbour of Kalesport."
Jhon's eyes narrowed, trying to recall. Rahotep leaned forward, tapping the table. "I was there, watching from the docks when you first bought your ship—'The Seafarer,' wasn't it?" He chuckled again. "You were just some reckless rookie, barely knowing port from starboard, grinning like a fool as you paid more gold than you should've."
Jhon blinked, then scowled. "Wait... you were there?"
Rahotep nodded. "Aye. Watching a wide-eyed boy about to sail off, thinking he owned the damn sea." He laughed even harder. "And look at you now! 'Oasis King' and all."
The others exchanged glances. Nadra raised an eyebrow. "I think the desert heat finally broke him."
Hadeefa shook her head. "Or maybe he's just had too much fun watching you struggle to remember, Jhon."
Jhon crossed his arms, lips twitching. "So you just stood there and watched me make a fool of myself?"
Rahotep shrugged. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Jhon smirked, crossing his arms. "You sound more like a pirate than a so-called 'wise captain.'"
Rahotep grinned, leaning back. "At least I didn't rob those crumpled Lyd you left in your pockets back then. Thought about it, though." He winked. "Anyway, you must be rich now, ruling over Warm Oasis. How many men do you have under your command?"
Jhon exhaled and leaned against the table. "Enough to keep this place standing."
Then, he began listing them. "First, my personal guard—the 'Dune Blades.' Forty of them. Best assassins and hunters in the desert. They move like shadows, kill before their enemies know they're dead. Then, the 'Sand Striders'—eighty mounted skirmishers. Fast riders, excellent archers. They strike, retreat, and strike again before anyone can catch them. I've got another sixty 'Black Talons'—former mercenaries, now loyal to Warm Oasis. They're my enforcers, keep order, deal with troublemakers. Fifty 'Stormwalkers'—warriors trained to fight in sandstorms and night raids. They fight dirty, but they fight well. And finally, the 'Oasis Sentinels'—a hundred strong. They hold the walls, man the towers, and ensure no warband, slaver, or beast sets foot in my city without bleeding first."
Jhon looked at Rahotep with a smirk. "So, yeah, I'd say I have enough."
Rahotep whistled. "Hells, you really did grow up, didn't you?"
Jhon sighed, shaking his head. "Still, that won't be enough to fight against the Ashblood. Not by a long shot."
The room fell into a brief silence, the weight of his words settling over them like a desert storm. Before anyone could speak, the door to the kitchen swung open, and in walked Safiya, carrying a massive brass tray. The rich, savory aroma filled the room instantly, making stomachs growl in protest.
"Enough talk about war," Safiya said, setting the tray down in the center of the table. "Eat first. Plan later."
On the tray was a grand spread:
A whole roasted lamb, its skin perfectly crisped, glistening with fragrant spices and oils. The meat looked so tender it might fall apart at the slightest touch.
Golden saffron rice, steaming, mixed with nuts and dried fruits—slivered almonds, sweet raisins, and bits of dates.
Flatbreads, fresh from the oven, still warm, stacked high with a slight char on the edges.
Thick chickpea stew, rich with cumin and garlic, simmered to perfection, drizzled with olive oil.
Stuffed peppers, bursting with spiced minced meat and grains, the juices pooling at the bottom of the dish.
Bowls of olives, figs, and pomegranates, their colors vibrant under the lantern light.
Small clay cups of honeyed yogurt, dusted with cinnamon, placed beside the main dishes as a cooling counterbalance to the spice.
The sight of the feast silenced them all. Even the hardened warriors, who had faced death in the dunes, hesitated—not out of fear, but out of reverence for the meal before them.
Safiya smirked at their hesitation. "Well? Will you fight over who takes the first bite too, or is that only for war?"