Arcane: Red Sands

Bel'Zhun had a pulse of its own.

It wasn't just the waves crashing against the docks, the sharp cries of gulls overhead, or the scent of brine and spice clashing in the humid air.

It was the people.

The voices. The movement. The rhythm of a city that never truly slept, but never rested easy.

And Samira knew that rhythm better than most.

She strode through the streets with her usual swagger—casual, confident, but always watching. Her red and black ensemble made her stand out, but it didn't matter. She had spent years blending into crowds even when all eyes were on her.

Some eyes held warmth.

Some held resentment.

And others?

They did not forgive.

As she weaved through the busy market, a booming voice called out.

"The Desert Rose walks among us!"

Samira turned, smirking as she saw an elderly vendor standing beside a stall overflowing with spices, dried meats, and gemstones that glimmered under the sun.

She grinned. "You trying to flatter me, old man?"

The vendor laughed heartily, holding up a small polished sapphire.

"Not at all. Just thought you might want something to match your style. First time in a while I've seen you without a blade drawn."

She snorted, rolling the gem between her fingers before tossing it back. "That's 'cause nobody's pissed me off yet today."

The vendor chuckled. "You always had a sharp tongue Little one, But keep in mind—this city may have changed but Some still see you as one of us."

Samira's smirk faltered just slightly.

"And others don't," she muttered.

The vendor hesitated, before sighing. "You know how it is. Some folks remember your mother, your father."

Samira shrugged, tossing a few coins onto his stall. "Dead folks don't get to complain."

The vendor gave her a look.

She ignored it.

"Keep the change, old man."

And with that, she walked on.

She was just about to head toward the harbor when a **voice behind her—sharp, cutting—**made her stop mid-step.

"Filthy Traitor."

Samira's fingers twitched toward her pistols.

Slowly, she turned, seeing a young man standing just beyond a fruit stall.

He wasn't armed.

Didn't look like much of a threat.

But his expression was cold.

Samira sighed. "Y'know, if I had a coin for every time someone called me that, I'd be richer than the Medardas."

The man's lips curled in disgust. "You fight for those monsters, you betray your city."

Samira tilted her head. "And who should I fight for, then?"

He stepped closer, voice lowering. "For your people, for Bel'zhun."

Samira's smirk didn't waver.

But **inside—**she felt something coil tight in her chest.

"Listen, pal. My people are the ones who made it out. The ones who survived. You wanna hold onto ghosts? Be my guest. But I'm not dying for them."

"No," he spat, "you're just killing for them."

That one almost got her.

Almost.

But instead, she just clicked her tongue, brushing past him.

"Go cry to someone who cares."

She didn't stop walking.

Didn't look back.

But she could feel his stare burning into her back.

And this time?

She couldn't shake it off.

--------------------------

By the time she reached the lower district, Samira needed something to take the edge off.

And as fate would have it, she found it in the form of a group of kids playing a street game, using painted stones to knock each other's pieces off a makeshift board.

She crouched beside them, arms resting on her knees. "Mind if I try?"

The kids looked up, startled—but quickly grinned when they recognized her.

"Samira! You can play, but you gotta bet something."

She smirked. "Bet, huh? Alright, let's see..."

She reached into her belt and pulled out a single gold coin.

"Winner gets this."

The kids whispered excitedly amongst themselves before one of the older ones nodded. "Deal."

For the next few minutes, Samira lost herself in the game.

Laughter replaced the bitterness.

For a little while, she didn't think about the war. The rebels. The stares.

She just played.

And when she lost—**because, of course, she lost—**she flicked the coin toward the winner with a lazy grin.

"Spend it wisely, kid."

And just like that, she walked away.

This time?

She didn't feel the stares.

Just the faint echo of laughter in the wind.

And for a moment—that was enough.

-----------------------------

The waves lapped against the wooden docks, their rhythm steady, relentless.

The wind carried the briny scent of the ocean through the quiet, emptying harbor, brushing against the man who stood motionless at its edge.

Su'Rhaal.

He did not move.

Did not blink.

His eyes were locked on the horizon, watching the sun begin to dip beneath the water, bleeding its gold and crimson hues into the vast, endless blue.

But he was not seeing it.

His mind was elsewhere.

Zanaiya's voice.

"I just hope that, by the end of everything, I won't have lost you to this."

Ambessa's voice.

"This city shall be yours, Su'Rhaal."

Rictus' voice.

"When the storm comes, I need to know—will you be ready?"

A hand resting on his shoulder.

A smirk carved from stone.

A letter written in secrecy.

A choice made long before he even realized he had been given one.

The weight of it pressed down on him, heavy, suffocating.

And yet—he did nothing.

Didn't speak. Didn't move.

He simply stood there, like a statue worn by the wind but refusing to fall.

"You look like you're thinking way too hard."

Su'Rhaal did not react.

He knew the voice.

Knew who it belonged to before he even saw her.

Samira.

She stepped beside him, her red coat fluttering slightly in the sea breeze, arms crossed, stance relaxed.

"Big guy like you, staring at the ocean like it's gonna give you answers. That's gotta be exhausting."

Su'Rhaal said nothing.

Didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her.

But she didn't seem to mind.

She leaned against the crate beside him, tapping her fingers idly against the wood.

"You ever notice how the sea's kinda like people?"

Still, no response.

Samira sighed dramatically. "Think about it. It looks all calm and peaceful, but underneath? Underneath it's just chaos. Waves crashing into each other, creatures tearing each other apart, currents pulling everything under."

She tilted her head, glancing at him. "Bet that's what it's like inside your head, huh?"

Still, nothing.

Samira rolled her eye. "Gods, you are the worst drinking buddy."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a dark glass bottle, popping the cork off with her teeth.

The strong scent of rum filled the air.

"Bilgewater's finest," she said, taking a long swig before holding the bottle out toward him.

Su'Rhaal didn't even glance at it.

Samira smirked. "What, too early for a drink? You're making me feel like a degenerate here."

Still—silence.

Samira huffed, taking another swig. "Y'know, talking to you is like trying to have a conversation with a rock."

She sighed, leaning back, watching the waves.

And for a moment—she simply spoke.

"The City's restless."

"People are getting nervous. I can see it in the way they talk, the way they move. Something's coming, Captain. I don't know when, but it's coming."

A pause.

"Vendors are running short on food. Water's disappearing. And I know damn well the rebels are getting supplied from somewhere. People here? They look after their own—even in war."

She took another drink, exhaling slowly.

"You ever wonder if you're just on the wrong side of history?"

Still, Su'Rhaal didn't answer.

He remained locked in his silence, unmoving, unyielding.

But then—

For the first time since she arrived—

He looked at her.

Samira wasn't even looking at him.

She was staring out at the sea, bottle still in hand, her expression unreadable.

But Su'Rhaal was watching her now.

Watching the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around the bottle.

Watching the way her shoulders held tension she tried to mask with ease.

Watching the way she was speaking—not to him, but to herself.

And slowly—**without a word—**he reached forward.

And took the bottle.

Samira blinked.

"Well, damn. That only took you, what, five minutes?"

Su'Rhaal didn't respond.

Didn't smirk. Didn't roll his eyes.

Instead, he tilted the bottle back and drank.

The moment the alcohol hit him, his brows furrowed slightly.

The taste was harsher than he expected.

And for the first time in a long time—he let it show.

His jaw clenched slightly, the burn rolling down his throat.

Samira grinned.

"That's the face of a man who's never had a drink in his life."

Su'Rhaal exhaled through his nose, setting the bottle down beside him.

"Alcohol is not seen favorably in my tribe."

Samira's grin widened. "Well, lucky for you, we're not in your tribe."

Su'Rhaal glanced at her.

She nudged the bottle toward him.

"Go on. One more sip. You won't die."

A pause.

Then—he took another.

This time, he didn't grimace.

Samira's smirk softened just slightly.

"Rough day, huh?"

Su'Rhaal exhaled slowly.

"Rougher than most."

A beat.

Then—Samira looked back at the sea.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

The bottle sat between them, its glass sweating from the cool night air.

The harbor had grown quieter as the last of the dock workers finished their shifts, their voices fading into the hum of the tide.

Samira rolled the bottle between her fingers, tapping the glass idly against the wooden crate she sat on.

Su'Rhaal sat beside her, his posture as rigid as ever, but something in his silence had shifted.

He wasn't simply ignoring the world anymore.

He was thinking.

And for someone like him—someone who kept his thoughts locked behind steel walls—that was dangerous.

Samira exhaled, leaning back, stretching her arms.

"Alright. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I've had enough."

She set the bottle down beside her with a dull clink.

Su'Rhaal said nothing.

But his hand lingered near the bottle.

She smirked. "Go ahead, take it. You're the one that needs it more, anyway."

Su'Rhaal didn't react.

Didn't deny it.

Didn't do much of anything.

Instead, he simply reached forward—slow, deliberate—and took another sip.

Samira grinned.

"You're getting used to it, huh?"

A pause.

Then—quietly.

"No."

Samira laughed, running a hand through her dark curls.

"Yeah, well. It never really gets easier. You just get better at pretending it does."

A beat.

Then—her voice softened.

"That's what we're doing, huh? Pretending?"

Su'Rhaal didn't answer.

But she didn't need him to.

She already knew.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye.

The way his fingers curled around the bottle.

The way his jaw was set a little too tight.

The way he still stared at the horizon, as if it held the answers he was too afraid to say out loud.

Samira sighed, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"You know, I think I figured you out, Captain."

Su'Rhaal finally turned his head slightly.

Not much.

But enough.

She smirked. "You like to act like you don't care. Like everything's just orders and duty, no feelings involved."

A pause.

"But deep down? You care too much."

Her voice was light. Not mocking. Not pressing for a response.

Just stating the truth.

Su'Rhaal looked at her, his Red eyes unreadable.

For a moment—**just a moment—**Samira thought he might actually say something.

But instead—he looked away.

Back to the sea.

Samira let out a breath, shaking her head.

"You really are impossible."

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence.

The tide rolled in, the stars blinked above, and the weight of the world felt a little lighter.

Then, out of nowhere—Samira chuckled.

Su'Rhaal arched a brow. "What?"

She smirked. "Just thinking. Y'know, we should do this more often."

Su'Rhaal stared at her.

Samira nudged him with her elbow. "C'mon. You need someone to remind you to be a person every now and then."

He exhaled through his nose. "I am a person."

Samira snorted. "Could've fooled me."

A pause.

Then—her smirk shifted.

"Seriously, though. We got enough bullshit waiting for us tomorrow. No reason we can't steal a little time for ourselves tonight."

Her tone was easy, playful—but there was something else underneath.

Something unspoken.

Su'Rhaal studied her for a long moment.

Then—he leaned back slightly, shaking his head.

"You are trouble, Samira."

She grinned. "Worth a shot."

The tide pulled in.

The wind coiled around them.

Samira stretched again, rolling her shoulders. "Alright, alright. We'll call it a draw. But just so you know—"

She turned toward him—and stopped.

Because Su'Rhaal was already looking at her.

And something in his expression was different.

Not soft.

Not hesitant.

Just… watching.

Like he was calculating something.

Like he was deciding something.

Samira raised a brow. "What?"

Su'Rhaal held her gaze for a beat longer.

Then—without a word—he stood.

Samira blinked. "Oh, so we're leaving? Just like that? No goodbye? No 'thanks for the drink, Samira'?"

Su'Rhaal turned slightly over his shoulder.

A pause.

Then—his voice, quiet.

"I will see you tomorrow."

And just like that, he walked away.

Leaving Samira watching his back, bottle still in hand, pulse beating just a little too fast.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"Yeah."

She took one last swig from the bottle.

"Definitely worth it."