He saved the boy from the sands. What people do not call him is the saih'kharash'i who lived.
It was not an alpha Xer'Sai by any means, with teeth that rattle with unknown pulsing energy and claws sharper than any stone or steel he had seen carved and forged. Rather, an infant - it barely measured past three feet long, and it curled in upon itself as it died.
But it clawed for the fallen prince all the same, blinded by the storming sands. Xerath does not know what overcame him to rescue Shurima's legacy with only his body to shield him. Perhaps it was dying loyalty to an empire that will use his corpse to pave further roads, indebted or not. Perhaps it was concern.
He realized, when Azir was swept into the arms of his mother and the soldiers gathered the injured slave, that should he have died, his martyrdom would have been used to tell the people of Shurima the undesirable class of slavery enjoyed their subjugation - see how one gave his life, thankful and loving, for the crown prince.
But death would have spared him, eradicated the chance of being honoured.
They sit at a balcony, food shared between them and a servant Xerath cannot say he recognizes retreating from fetching wine. The parapet above them has running water through it. He is reminded of an oasis.
"'Xerath'," he says, and when Xerath looks at him he realizes Azir is only thinking, curling his tongue around his name. "Your name means 'ferocious birth''. A name of the people from the Sai Desert's borders."
"So you have learned," Xerath responds, his gaze lingering.
"It was fate that you were with my family on our travels," Azir responds, eyes scanning the uneven skyline of Shurima's capital, buildings that are complete with their clean-cut stone roofs, eking out into ones made of stone slab - carved out of necessity to house the poor. He sees the temples, rounded roofs and painted beautiful colours, and Xerath misses the warm smiles of their priestesses. "Your namesake speaks of your capabilities."
"You survived because of your family's hesitation to issue an escape when they realized it was not I who had fallen prey to the Sai Desert," Xerath says, as if to remind him. Azir's smile is genuine, and wanes in its own misery.
"Had I not chosen to walk the sands instead of ride alongside my brother…" he speaks with understanding, and then meets Xerath's lasting gaze. "I am alive because of you. You know I am in your debt, Xerath."
Lying is most unbecoming of you, Your Highness. "I did what any man loyal to Shurima would have done."
"Any man would protect their crown prince, distracted by his own idiocy?" Azir is laughing, the insult ripe on his tongue like fresh fruit. "You may insult me if you wish, Xerath! The simple mind of a child is a dangerous one - I thank the gods I was allowed to survive that day, with the intervention of the desert's own son."
"Sir," Xerath attempts, and his silence is not cold.
"I am a fool who was allowed a second chance on his life. Do not allow me to forget that."
There is something inside him that has him respond to his smile. So he does, his own curved in a tense slit, mirroring the apparent comfort of his second. He ought to talk less, smile more, be thankful of who it is that brought him to his status, but the shame of his position never wanes from the depths of his stomach, and he can feel it spreading like a root through his body. "I will not, sir."
His smile is as warm as the sun and the disc that swallows its glory, engorged on its light, feasting on its power and illuminating the city. He is reminded of empires, and the fates of their emperors, and the unforgiving sands of the desert. Azir's smile allows him to ask anything, without the prying ears of searching servants and uncertain royalty, beneath the parapet build by men like Xerath. Shuriman afternoon are warm, and Azir's smile is as steady as the gentle wind rolling through the open doorway.
"Should we travel again," Xerath begins, tentatively looking at one of the cups brought to them, lukewarm water inside, still and listless, "where shall I ride?"
"At my side, of course," Azir speaks wth fact, dark eyes light like a new fire.
Xerath thinks of those who will crawl at his side, staring up at him with their swollen knees and their tired eyes, wondering why it cannot be them elevated to the status of the emperor-to-be himself. He smiles, but cannot shake the vision.