The day was hot, though not unbearably so. For Quatre, the novelty that had accompanied his first homecoming in years had not yet worn off. It helped, too, that the Maganacs were as pleased to see him home as he was to be home. Since stepping foot over the Arabian border, he hadn't known a moment's peace—and together they'd made for an Earthen Sphere base only three days after his arrival. Even here on the long trek through the desert and alone in his private bedouin tent, his mind was filled with the echoes of their many cheers and questions, and privately he stewed in his shame.

Little Master, said Rashid to Quatre as they embraced, you were sorely missed.

Master Quatre, said a captain, please tell us of your time in Japan!

You simply must regale us, others agreed. We want to know all that you've learned!

What he's learned?! came the voices of others still. Piss on that; let's hear what our Little Master was able to teach them!

In the distance now was the squawking of birds, and Quatre rolled from his back and onto his stomach to see if he could spot them. But he'd missed their ascent, or wherever they'd flown off too, and the only thing out there now were the miles of dunes against the mesas on the horizon in the breaking dawn. Their camp was dotted with a few lanky, spindling trees and dry brush, and soon the bustling of his men could be heard as they awoke and made ready for Riyadh, which they were to reach by midday.

With a sigh, he hoisted himself up. In his time away from home, he'd deeply missed his native robes, but now that he was in them he found himself tripping over his thawb, as accustomed to the multiple layers of kimono and flowing hakama as he'd become. As he fastened his keffiyeh atop his head with a black cord, Rashid approached the tent, leading Sandrock by the reigns.

"Master Quatre," he said with a nod, "good morning. At your command, we'll make for the city. The men are itching to roll some Zodiac heads."

"I'm sure."

"And you'll find Sandrock fed and watered by yours truly."

Quatre smiled as the horse in question bent down his head to sniff at the rug laid out over the sand, the floor of his tent. He admired the steed with as much reverence as he always did; he quite liked the way his inky-black coat soaked up the sun, and the way his legs tapered into white as if he'd been standing knee-deep in a snowbank. Rashid had already outfitted the steed with the black-and-gold armor the Maganacs had made for him, matching the shotel and shield heirlooms he'd been given before abandoning his family altogether and running off with the freedom fighters.

"Thank you," he said to Rashid, just as a small group of his men arrived to dismantle and pack up his tent. He took a few short steps and climbed into the saddle, giving his second-in-command the order to depart the moment the packing was completed. He kicked at his horse's flanks, picking up speed under the pretense of scouting the area—but in truth, he was ashamed.

How was he supposed to tell the Maganacs that he'd been turned away in disgrace and branded as rōnin?

Beneath him the horse broke from a trot and into a gallop, sand kicking up from behind his mighty hooves. Sandrock had been a gift from Rashid, given to Quatre the night before he'd first departed for Japan at the behest of a shogun known only as H, who'd sought colonials as recruits to train up in the way of the samurai. The horse had been raised in the desert sands, but spent much of his adult years in the sprawling greens and mountain ranges on the island of Shikoku. It'd taken Sandrock as much time as it had Quatre to re-adjust to life in such an arid place, but by the time they were to reach the outskirts of Riyadh that afternoon, they would be too busy fighting to worry about it.

Atop a nearby dune, he came to a stop. He'd meant for the breeze on his face to clear his mind, to help him understand how best to break the news to his small army, but from his new vantage point he spotted an unusual cloud rising off on the horizon. He squinted his eyes and saw the faint outlines of horses and their riders in distinctly European-style armor, at the front of which flew a tall flag bearing the crest of the Order of the Zodiac; reinforcements, no doubt.

Quatre had wanted to believe it was happenstance, that the Maganacs had taken up arms against the Zodiac—the very group that H-tono had told him must be destroyed, just before he'd thrown him out and into the snow. But something tugged at his conscience, and shortly after he'd returned home, he'd heard all about how the Earthen Sphere had begun to encroach on colonies in Arabian territory, bolstered by Zodiac weapons and armor and horses. There was a suspicious air to it all, but there was little else Quatre could do as an outcast with a brand marking his wrist. He hid it as best he could, effortlessly melding back into his position as leader of his own little army, and hoping to God no one would notice his overcast mood or the brand itself.

For as long as he could manage, he would hide it all. He had a job to do.

Over the dunes then came battle cries, just where that battalion had been headed. Behind him he heard as his own men began barking orders, and without another thought he took the shotel from its leather scabbard. As Rashid crested the dune atop his own horse and stopped beside him, a loud boom sounded over the desert, echoing off the faraway mesas. A thick, black plume of smoke rose, and another battle cry came.

Quatre shivered; even with all of his expertise, the telltale signs of combat still made him uncomfortable and downcast. More of his troops met him on the hill, battle-readied in their chain mail and leather. One man from Rashid's own company brought Quatre's armor, sliding the black leather chestpiece over his head, the golden hauberk following. The warrior passed leather gauntlets over and helped Quatre fasten them, taking great care in his ministrations. Rashid handed over a helmet, and with that, the last of the Maganacs arrived on the dune.

Now ready for battle, he steeled himself with a sigh and raised the blade up over his head. Another boom came then, followed by a rapid popping and pained screams. He'd had enough, but could not back down now as Zodiac soldiers had come within their grasp. With all of the confidence he could muster, he brought down his arm in a powerful swoop and sucked in a mouthful of that dry air, scorching his throat and warming his lungs as he called for a full charge towards the skirmish.

The sound of nearly two-hundred horse hooves beating down on the sun-baked sand was not something that could easily be concealed, and the cloud of dust was much the same. They thundered down over the hills, crossing the plains with lightning speed before finally happening upon the battle, where the scene was something exceedingly curious:

The corpses of about twenty men already littered the ground, the sand stained red with their blood. Frenzied and panicked horses in Zodiac colors trotted in circles or ran off in all directions, but the most curious aspect was the charred limbs strewn about the area, their flashy armor melted through or dented with smoldering holes. That was all Quatre had the time to take in before entering the fray, and he sliced the head clean from the shoulders of a soldier who'd charged another—someone who stood alone there in the midst of the chaos. He rounded into a turn to head back, for what caught his eye was that the lone warrior wore nearly the full samurai getup.

It felt as though his heart had leapt up into his throat. Was this an assassin, sent here to kill him? His former master would not be stupid enough to command a fully-dressed warrior to go deep into the desert—perhaps the man was acting for another shogun, here to clean up H-tono's mess.

Another soldier rode past, and Quatre barely had time to duck his head to miss the sweep of a broadsword. He took his shield from its place strapped to one of Sandrock's saddlebags, steering into another turn. All around him, Maganacs were desecrating what remained of the Sphere's troops with minimal effort. Rashid fell into stride beside him and opened his mouth to speak when another explosion boomed, so close that he felt the earth tremble as his ears rang. Sandrock bucked in surprise, then darted off at such speed that Quatre fell from his back.

He gave a quick glance to catch his bearings, and as he scrambled to his feet, he heard a strange whistling sound that seemed to be headed straight for him. He closed his eyes, calling upon his single greatest strength: his inner peace, that calm and levelheadedness for which he was so praised both at home and abroad. For just a split second, his world went dark and quiet, and it was here in his mind's eye that he saw the projectile that careened towards him, a small orb-shaped thing reeking like sulfur. In a flash he raised his shield, parrying the explosive off to his side.

He chided himself; he should've known the mysterious man was the one responsible for such brazen tactics. The stenches of blood and gunpowder were overpowering without the wind hitting his face, and his stomach flipped in protest as he ground his teeth. He did what he could to quickly take in the warrior's appearance: his armor, tiered like dragonscales, was a brilliant mix of shimmering golds and burnt oranges. He looked almost camouflaged here in the sands, and his stance was severe as they squared off. He was well trained, indeed.

Violence was always easier for Quatre when it stemmed from self defense, and he braced. Without Sandrock, he would have to be crafty and careful—more so than usual, anyway. But he had his blade and he had his shield, and he'd been in plenty dire straits before. He took a defensive stance, aware now of the ranged capabilities of his new opponent, and swallowed.

The warrior moved in a blur, the projectiles soaring from his hands just as quickly. Quatre ducked and dodged, blocking with his shield when he could and striking others away with the tip of his shotel. In the man's arsenal seemed to be an endless array of explosives derived from fireworks, clapping like thunder or popping like logs in a fire. The sounds were disorienting, but that was likely all part of his battle tactics. Every time Quatre managed to get close, the other man would leap away with a surprising amount of grace for someone so heavily armed. After a few moments, the rowdy cheers of his comrades could be heard over the ringing in his skull, whooping on their encouragement for their leader. He was vaguely aware that the overall fighting had ceased, and now only his duel with this samurai remained among the lifeless bodies of Sphere soldiers.

But Quatre was still on the defensive; he had a gap to close, but didn't yet have the opportunity. He tried with the curved edge of his blade to sweep sand up into the man's eyes, who spun like a dancer out of the way. It would take more than a simple trick to get near, and he drew on all of that inner calm to track the arcs and the speed of each projectile, and the angles from which they were thrown. It was difficult to manage while dodging, but each attack was a chance to analyze and formulate a strategy. What use was a soldier if he could not adapt and learn on the fly? That's what his shogun would say, he recalled.

When the man's hands disappeared once more into the sleeves of his flowing robes, Quatre knew that only speed and accuracy could win him this battle. He angled himself to the best of his ability, and when two of those small explosives appeared between the man's fingers, they were tossed with force and precision—exactly as predicted. Quatre swung his blade, knocking one bomb to the side, then stood his ground to send the other flying back at the warrior, where it exploded in a fiery roar.

Finally, his opening! He ran into the smoke to hook the tip of his blade up under the warrior's helmet and pulled, flinging the headpiece up into the air before it crashed into the sand behind them. With all of his restraint he positioned the sharp edge of his shotel against the warrior's throat and stared into his face, searching: his fringe hung long over his eyes and was the color of the earth after a rainstorm on the mountainside, his eyes the deep green of a forest in twilight. Most troubling, though, was that they were entirely unafraid.

It was no one Quatre knew, at least. He was sure he would remember such a striking expression.

In his distraction, he did not notice that the man had produced a dagger until it was nearly too late. Just before it stabbed him through the neck, he dipped his head and threw down his sword and shield, replacing them with the warrior's wrists. Here in close combat, their strengths were equally matched. When Quatre pushed, the warrior resisted with a similar force. The dagger fell and landed somewhere between them, and just as he thought to demand to know the man's identity at last, a familiar red mark caught his eye. It was a brand, there on his arm, in the same simple design of a falling star as the one on Quatre's own arm.

Another rōnin, cast out from his brothers-in-arms. What were the chances, that they'd happened upon each other here in such a desolate place? But then it dawned on him, as the scent of blood and death caught in his throat, that it appeared that their enemy was something they had in common.

"We shouldn't be fighting," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "This isn't right."

He gave a heavy push to create just enough distance to tug at the sleeve of his thawb. Before he could be attacked again, he angled his forearm to display his own brand, that shameful mark burned there into his skin. Around him the Maganacs murmured in surprise, and a strange look came over the man's face. Still he did not charge back, and Quatre could scarcely feel anything but his shocked surprise and growing hope. He hadn't anticipated that he'd be understood, let alone obeyed by this person. The man slid his hands into his dangling sleeves, hiding away the mark on his arm for only a moment before slowly pulling them back out.

The Maganacs all braced, but there were no further explosions; there was nothing left in the man's arsenal, he understood then, and his palms were empty as he held them above his head in surrender.

Quatre stared, unsure what he should make of such a turn of events. Was the man forfeiting simply because he was out of options? Or had his words and the sight of their matching scars reached this stranger, convincing him in some way to ceasefire? He stared into the other man's eyes, searching there for the answer he sought, but he could not dredge a thing from their dark depths.

He could only laugh then, a pitiful, defeated sound that was closer to a huff than anything.

"You don't need to put up your hands," he said quietly. "Wasn't I the one who held up my own first?"