I've set aside Comes The Sandstorm and  One More Mile for a week or so. Bit mentally frazzled, so I needed a break before I went back to them and added final polishing for the stories to be added here in a more full format.
 

So, because I cannot keep my hands off the keyboard, I've taken an earlier short story I wrote and did extensive background work on, Hades Rising, and decided to fold it impetuous young nature into the more mature background of Prawa V.

Below, I've posted the prologue. It features Czajka. No, I will not give any background on this, as it will spoil the story arc between Comes The Sandstorm and One More Mile. Let's just say he's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy.

Thought and constructive criticism, as always, welcome.

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Prologue

He walked out of the desert at dawn. Not toward the camp, at first. He stopped short of it, where the sand gave way to trampled ground and old fire pits, where the boundary existed only because everyone agreed it did. He waited.

Stenrik was already there, arms folded across his chest, coat hanging loose, the wind tugging at the hem, and his face mask to protect him from the stinging sands at his hip He had not come to greet him. He had come to receive him. "Du er kommet langt."

"Ja. Længere end jeg nogensinde kunne forestille mig."

They stood like that for a moment. The desert behind him. The camp behind Stenrik. No ground offered between them. Stenrik studied him openly. There was no accusation nor welcome. He just stood, assessing him. “They remember,” Stenrik said at last.

Czajka nodded and cast his eyes down for a moment. Of course they did. The nomads remembered everything that mattered, and nothing that could be safely forgotten.

“You were judged,” Stenrik continued. “Not by us. By those who fought beside you. That judgement stands.”

“I know.”

Silence again. Wind over canvas. A kettle rattling somewhere behind the tents. In the distance, one of the domesticated langkløv brayed softly.

“You cannot stay,” Stenrik said. “Your presence legitimises a harder response than the situation warrants.”

Czajka did not argue. Argument belonged to men who still had a place. “Where would you have me go?”

Stenrik turned, gesturing east, not toward anything visible, but toward routes, schedules, things that moved without asking permission. “There is a vessel,” he said. “It leaves this system. A long passage. A quiet one.”

Czajka followed the gesture, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You will not find redemption here, Lapwing,” Stenrik went on. “Nor forgiveness. But elsewhere… a man can become useful again.”

“I thank-”

“Do not.” Stenrik did not look at him as he said it. The word was not sharp. It was final. “This is not mercy,” he added. “It is balance.” He turned back toward the camp and walked away, already done with the matter.

Czajka stood alone at the edge of the boundary. Then, without looking back, he turned east and began to walk.

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Note: Czajka means 'Lapwing'. "langkløv" means long-hoof/long-legged. These I do explain earlier, but thought I would add as context.