The soldier's name was Tariq, and he had the look of a man perpetually bracing for the worst.
He spoke quickly, his eyes darting between Malik and the Princess as though uncertain which of them he should address.
"They number in the hundreds, my Lady. Perhaps more. The scouts counted at least twelve war-sand constructs, and the infantry behind them stretches to the dunes. They fly the black banners of the Ashen Caliph."
Ashen Caliph.
Malik filed the name away without reacting, keeping his expression neutral, commanding. He had learned long ago in his previous life that the fastest way to expose uncertainty was to ask the wrong question. So he asked none. He simply nodded, as though all of this confirmed something he already knew.
"My sword," he repeated.
