Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Author's Note:
This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)
ActI
Undoing The Quest
Chapter 91: Khafir's Iron Trials
PartIII
Haradwaith, January 5th 3019
The group sat in silence within the dimly lit tent. The air was thick with exhaustion and unspoken tension, each of them grappling with the weight of what they had endured—and what lay ahead. The loss of Halid hung over them like a shadow, his death a grim reminder of the stakes they faced.
Xena sat in a worn wooden chair near the corner of the tent, a bowl of water on the table beside her. She dipped a cloth into the cool water, wiping the grime and blood from her face. The simple act gave her a moment of clarity, but her thoughts were already turning to the decision they all needed to make.
Her piercing gaze remained on the cloth as she asked, her voice low but firm, "Does anyone want out?" The question hung in the air, unanswered at first. The tension crackled, as if the desert heat had followed them into the tent.
Finally, Scarface broke the silence, his tone unsteady. "I do," he muttered, barely lifting his head.
Malik scoffed, leaning back on his makeshift bedding. "What a surprise," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been whining since day one."
Before Scarface could respond, Xena cut in, her tone sharp. "Enough." Her eyes met Scarface's. "If you want out, I'll make it happen. You'll get the rest of your gold when you collect your horse and gear from Malhazan."
Scarface hesitated, glancing at Malik and then at the others, before nodding. "I'm done. This isn't worth dying for."
Rafiq, tall and lean with his perpetually fidgeting hands, shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flickered to Scarface and then to Xena. "He's not wrong," he admitted reluctantly. "But I can't leave. Not yet."
Malik raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, Halid?"
Rafiq's jaw tightened, and he nodded. "He died out there, and no one cared. I can't just walk away like that. Someone has to pay for what happened to him."
Xena exhaled, leaning forward in her chair. "Rafiq, listen to me. You won't find revenge here. This isn't a place where grudges end in justice. It's a machine, and Khafir is the one pulling the strings. Do you think Rhazak or Khafir will lose a wink of sleep over Halid? You'll bleed yourself dry trying to fight them, and for what?"
"I don't care," Rafiq snapped, his voice breaking. "He was my friend. He deserved better."
"No one deserves what happens here," Xena said, her voice softening slightly. "But if you stay, you're not avenging him—you're just signing up to join him. If you want to honor Halid, take Scarface and leave. Go back to Malhazan, bury Halid properly, and let this madness go."
Scarface looked nervously between Xena and Rafiq, his anxiety plain on his face. "You think Rhazak will just let us walk out of here?"
Xena's gaze locked onto his, calm but unwavering. "I'll handle Rhazak. But this is your choice. You have an hour to decide. If you're going, you leave together."
Rafiq stared at the ground, his fingers twitching restlessly. He wanted to argue, but Xena's words had struck a chord. Halid's death had gutted him, and the thought of leaving him out in the desert was unbearable. But the idea of abandoning the fight for vengeance felt like cowardice.
"Rafiq," Azar said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence. "Think about what Xena's saying. Revenge won't bring Halid back."
Rafiq looked up at Azar, his expression conflicted. He nodded slowly, the anger in his eyes dimming into resignation.
Scarface exhaled in relief. "So we're leaving?"
Rafiq glanced at Xena. "If you can get us out... I'll go."
Xena stood, rolling her shoulders and glancing at the others. "Good. Gather your things and be ready. When I speak to Rhazak, I'll make sure he doesn't stop you."
"How?" Scarface asked, his voice trembling with doubt.
Xena gave him a small, humorless smile. "Leave that to me."
She turned and headed for the tent's entrance, the cloth door rustling behind her as she stepped into the cool pre-dawn air. The camp was still, the quiet before the storm of another grueling day. But Xena's mind was already racing, formulating a plan to ensure Scarface and Rafiq got out alive.
Behind her, the others began to prepare for what they knew would be another brutal trial. Malik, leaning back on his bedding, smirked faintly. "She's going to pull it off, isn't she?"
Azar, stoic as ever, simply nodded. "She will."
The camp was alive with tension as soldiers prepared for the final trial. Only the strongest would remain for this ultimate test, destined for Khafir's elite forces. The others—those who had proven merely adequate—would be assigned to training camps, their futures defined by mediocrity. The announcements loomed, and with them, the harsh reality of survival in Khafir's brutal world.
Xena stepped out into the camp, the evening sun casting long shadows over her battered form. She still wore the black Haradim outfit given to her by Malhazan, though it was now torn and stained with blood—her own and that of others. Cuts and bruises marred her arms and legs, and the claw wounds from the warg still burned. Yet she walked upright, her expression betraying nothing of the pain coursing through her body. This was her choice, her fight. She would endure it, but she couldn't let others be dragged down with her.
The deaths weighed heavily on her. She had already seen Halid fall, helpless to save him in time. These men—criminals, outcasts, and survivors—were not friends, but they didn't deserve to die because of her. Scarface, jittery and fraying under the weight of the trials, would break soon if he stayed. Rafiq was strong, but his grief for Halid had dulled his edge. They wouldn't last. And dragging them further into Khafir's unrelenting gauntlet would be their end.
Decision made, Xena sought out Rhazak.
The soldiers at their posts straightened as she approached, sensing her intent. Their stiffened posture and watchful eyes betrayed wariness; the woman from Azrath was known to be reckless and bold. Rhazak stood nearby, overseeing preparations with his usual commanding presence. When he turned to face her, his eyes lit with curiosity, as though weighing what her next reckless act might be.
From the day she had entered the camp, Zahrya—her chosen alias—had caught his attention. There was something in her sharp gaze, something fierce and untamed. Few women sought places among Khafir's warriors, but those who did were tempered by fire, earning respect with their resilience. Yet this one... this Zahrya... she was different.
Xena met his gaze unflinchingly, her voice cutting through the air with precision. "I need two of my men released. Scarface and Rafiq. They've come far, but they're not fit for this. They don't belong here."
Rhazak raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "They've made it through the tests so far, haven't they? If they survive the training camps, they'll make fine additions to the army."
"That won't do." Xena's voice was firm, her tone brooking no argument. "They didn't swear loyalty to Khafir, and they're not bound to stay. They followed me out of curiosity, nothing more. Let them leave, and I'll take responsibility for getting them out. Whatever it takes."
Rhazak studied her closely, his dark eyes narrowing. He could see through her half-truths—there was more to this than she was saying. Still, men like Scarface were liabilities, often dying early or botching missions. Khafir's forces needed numbers, yes, but quality was harder to find.
Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and detached. "Ten lashes."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Xena's expression didn't waver, though a flicker of understanding passed through her eyes. She had expected no easy terms. "Done. But they leave immediately, and they're not to know about this. You throw them out of the camp, and the rest is my concern."
Rhazak's smirk returned, a predator's grin. "Agreed. I'll have them gone. As for your punishment... I'll decide when and how it's delivered."
Xena inclined her head, not in submission but acknowledgment. The deal was struck.
Rhazak gestured to nearby soldiers, who moved swiftly to locate Scarface and Rafiq. They would be thrown out, their departure swift and unquestioned. As the men were dragged from the camp, Xena turned away, her shoulders tense. The price had been set, and she would pay it—but for now, the lives she had saved were enough.
As promised, Scarface and Rafiq were forcibly removed from the camp. Confusion flickered across their faces as soldiers dragged them from their tent, barking orders to keep moving. Xena stood nearby, her posture rigid, watching silently as they disappeared into the horizon. She gave no indication of what it had cost her to secure their release.
Malik was leaning against a tent pole when she returned. His sharp eyes narrowed, curiosity evident. "How'd you pull that off so quickly?" he asked, his tone half admiration, half suspicion.
Xena brushed past him without breaking stride. "Get ready," she said curtly. "The final test is coming, and Rhazak's got something special lined up."
Malik opened his mouth to press further but thought better of it. Something in her tone warned him not to push.
Outside, the air was thick with tension. The remaining candidates were gathering in the open square, their battered and weary figures a testament to the brutal trials they'd endured. Ragged clothes hung off bruised and bloodied bodies, the dirt and sweat of countless days clinging to them like a second skin. Soldiers stood nearby, their watchful eyes scanning the group.
Rhazak emerged from his tent, his presence commanding immediate silence. He strode to the center of the assembly, his armor catching the pale sunlight. For once, his voice carried none of the cruel edge it usually held. Instead, it was steady and formal, delivering words that hung heavy with consequence.
"You have survived," he began, his tone cutting through the oppressive quiet. "Each of you standing here has proven your strength, your will, and your worth. You have passed the tests and earned your place."
The group shifted, exhaustion mingling with a flicker of hope. Rhazak continued. "Today, you will leave for the training camps. There, you will be forged into warriors. Each of you will be trained in the skills best suited to you, and when you are ready, you will find your place in the forces of Khafir."
His gaze darkened slightly, and a faint smile curved his lips. "But not all of you will take that path. For some, the tests are not yet over."
A murmur rippled through the candidates, anxiety sharpening their exhaustion. Rhazak raised a hand to silence them. "I will call your names. Those chosen will face one final challenge. Succeed, and you will bypass the training camps. You will join the Elite forces of Khafir directly."
Xena stood beside Malik and Azar, her expression unreadable as Rhazak's words washed over them. She felt no fear, no hesitation. This was the shortcut she had been waiting for—the fastest way to get close to Khafir. Malik, ever the opportunist, shifted with barely contained excitement. Azar, however, looked uneasy, as though suspecting his fate lay elsewhere.
Rhazak began calling names. His voice echoed across the camp, each word a weight on the gathered group. One by one, candidates were selected, their faces hardening with a mix of determination and dread. The list was short—barely twenty names in total.
"Zahrya," Rhazak called, his eyes briefly meeting hers. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Malik."
Malik grinned, elbowing Xena as if to say I told you so.
Azar's name was not called. His face fell, though he quickly masked it with indifference. The remaining candidates, including Azar, were instructed to prepare for their journey to the training camps. Soldiers would escort them out within the hour.
As the groups began to split, Xena turned to Azar. Their farewell was brief, practical. "Your gold is waiting," she said flatly. "The innkeeper will have it."
Azar lingered, his eyes searching hers for something unspoken. He nodded but said nothing. Instead, he turned to Malik, clasping his shoulder. Their conversation was hushed, filled with words Xena didn't care to overhear. She stood a few paces away, her arms crossed, waiting for it to end.
When Azar finally left, Malik joined her. His usual cocky demeanor was tempered by something heavier—perhaps regret, or perhaps he was simply savoring the thrill of being chosen. "Guess it's just us now," he said, watching as Azar disappeared into the distance with the others.
Xena didn't respond. She had no need for sentiment. This was the path she had chosen, and attachments would only slow her down. Malik and Azar had followed her for their own reasons—gold, survival, curiosity. Now, one was gone, and the other remained, at least for now.
The soldiers called for the remaining candidates—those bound for the final test—to gather on the west side of the camp. As Xena and Malik fell into step, she spared one last glance toward the training camp-bound group. Whether she would see Azar again, she neither knew nor cared. Her focus was on the tests ahead and the greater game that awaited her beyond it.
The twenty chosen candidates gathered hesitantly in the western part of the camp. The area was shrouded in shadows, with flickering torches casting erratic light over the harsh, rocky terrain. At the center stood a pit—wide and ominous, its depths concealed by darkness. Behind it was a crude wooden platform, upon which rested a throne-like chair. Around it, a handful of Khafir's men stood guard, their expressions hard and unreadable.
As Rhazak approached the throne, his posture grew more deferential, a marked shift from his usual domineering arrogance. He leaned toward the figure seated there, whispering a report. The man on the throne did not reply immediately but nodded slightly, his presence commanding without effort.
Xena and Malik joined the gathering quietly. Xena's eyes first went to the pit, assessing the challenge ahead. However, her attention soon shifted to the man on the throne. His mere presence shifted the air; it felt heavier, charged with authority.
Even seated, the figure radiated power. He was tall, his build lean yet undeniably strong, his movements restrained but calculated. His dark eyes burned with sharp intelligence and a ruthless edge, the kind that could dissect a person with a glance. His weathered skin, bronzed by the unforgiving desert sun, bore faint scars—marks of battles fought and survived.
His long, dark hair was tied back into a sleek ponytail, and he wore armor unlike any Xena had seen before: an obsidian-hued metal engraved with intricate patterns, craftsmanship unique to Harad. Around his neck hung a talisman—a shard of blackened glass that seemed to drink in the torchlight. It radiated an unsettling energy, a subtle but unmistakable connection to Sauron's dark influence.
Xena's gaze lingered. So, this is Khafir, she thought. The warlord was younger than she expected, his features sharp and striking in a way that would have once intrigued her. She allowed herself a smirk. 'Bad boys' had once been her weakness, back in a time when power and danger enticed her like a moth to a flame. Yet those days felt like a lifetime ago. She had changed—death and resurrection had seen to that.
Still, the past had left its marks. She could appreciate the appeal of such a figure, even as she stood resolute in her purpose. Her priorities had shifted, especially since arriving in Middle-earth. The elves—particularly one woodland prince—had tested her self-control and focus in ways she hadn't thought possible. The memory of Legolas flickered through her mind, and for a moment, her smirk softened. But there was no time for distractions. She was here on a mission, and Khafir was her target—not in the way Legolas had once been, but as the key to unraveling the larger threat she pursued.
Khafir's demeanor spoke volumes without words. The way he sat, his back straight but relaxed, communicated an assurance born of absolute control. As Rhazak spoke, briefing him on the candidates and their trials, Khafir's gaze swept over the gathered group. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes seemed to weigh each individual, evaluating their worth without uttering a sound.
When his gaze fell on Xena, it lingered a fraction too long. She met his stare, unflinching, her own eyes sharp and calculating. Rhazak noticed the exchange and took the opportunity to explain. "This one," he said, gesturing toward Xena, "calls herself Zahrya of Azrath. Moments ago, she freed two of her company and accepted ten lashes as punishment, to be delivered after the trial. She's… different, my lord."
Khafir's lips twitched in a faint, almost imperceptible smile—a predator acknowledging a worthy opponent. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice low but rich, carrying easily in the quiet.
Rhazak turned his attention back to the group, raising his voice to address the candidates. "This is your final trial," he began, his tone a mixture of menace and formality. "The Abyss of Souls lies beneath your feet. It is an underground cavern that will test not only your strength and skill but your will to survive. The winds in the cavern carry the cries of the damned, or so it is said. The labyrinth below is riddled with molten rock, narrow ledges, and chasms of fire. Only those with the strength, cunning, and endurance to navigate its depths and emerge alive will earn their place among Khafir's elite forces."
He gestured toward the pit. "You will be lowered into the Abyss. There is no time limit, but the weak will not last long. Survival is the only goal. Fail, and the Abyss will claim you."
The candidates murmured nervously among themselves, but Xena remained silent, her expression unreadable. Her thoughts churned. The challenge was dangerous, but it was also an opportunity—a chance to prove her worth to Khafir and inch closer to the answers she sought. She glanced at Malik, who offered her a grim nod. "Ready?" he asked.
Xena smirked faintly. "Always."
As Rhazak barked orders, the guards moved to position ropes and harnesses for the descent. Khafir remained seated, watching the preparations with a detached yet discerning eye. Xena couldn't help but feel his gaze on her, even as she focused on the task ahead. This trial wasn't just about survival—it was a game of strategy, and she intended to win.
The Abyss of Souls was aptly named. As the twenty candidates clung to the ropes and began their descent, an unnatural chill filled the air, despite the molten heat radiating from the cavern below. The pit swallowed them, its darkness vast and oppressive. Above them, the dim light of torches quickly faded, leaving only faint glimmers illuminating the jagged walls as they climbed deeper into the unknown.
The descent was treacherous. The rocks were slick with moisture and loose in places, making every foothold and grip uncertain. The sound of boots scraping against stone and the occasional curse broke the eerie silence. The howling winds whispered through the cavern, echoing like the mournful cries of the damned.
Xena was among the first to reach the bottom. She dropped down lightly, scanning the surroundings. The air was heavy, thick with the metallic tang of heated rock and something acrid that burned the nostrils. She turned to Malik as he landed beside her. "Be careful," she muttered under her breath, already taking her first cautious step forward.
The ground beneath her was slick, forcing her to adjust her balance. For a moment, she wavered, arms outstretched, before regaining her footing. Malik wasn't as lucky. As he followed close behind, he slipped on the uneven surface and instinctively grabbed her shoulder to steady himself.
Xena whipped her head around, her sharp glare cutting through the dimness. "Watch it," she hissed.
"Sorry," Malik grumbled, straightening himself, though his expression was sheepish.
The group spread out cautiously, each candidate taking a different path as the cavern walls narrowed into twisting passages. Xena chose the central path, the winds stronger there, their force whipping at her hair and clothes. She knew it meant the air was moving toward an opening—possibly the exit—but instinct told her it would also be the most dangerous route. Her suspicions were confirmed when she stepped forward and felt an almost imperceptible click beneath her boot.
"Trap!" she barked, diving to the side.
Arrows shot from hidden slits in the walls, a deadly flurry aimed to kill. With reflexes honed by years of battle, Xena caught two mid-air, the sharp tips slicing into her palms as she redirected them harmlessly. The rest embedded themselves in the rock where she had stood moments ago. She exhaled sharply, her heart pounding.
"Khafir's not playing games," Malik muttered, his face pale as he stared at the arrows.
"No," Xena agreed grimly. "Keep moving."
As they pressed on, the challenges grew deadlier. The cavern narrowed into precarious ledges that barely allowed a single person to pass. The winds here were relentless, howling like banshees and threatening to knock them into the chasms of molten lava below. Xena pressed herself against the wall, inching forward. She could feel the heat rising from the glowing depths, a stark reminder of what awaited anyone who fell.
Screams echoed through the cavern as one of the candidates lost their footing, their silhouette briefly visible against the fiery glow before vanishing into the abyss. Xena gritted her teeth and kept moving. She couldn't afford to look back.
The traps became more insidious. Hidden tripwires triggered falling boulders, crushing two more candidates. A false step sent Malik tumbling onto a spiked panel that erupted from the ground. He cried out in pain, his leg punctured by the sharpened wood.
"Malik!" Xena crouched beside him, assessing the injury. Blood poured from the wound, staining the rocky ground. She tore a strip from her tunic and bound it tightly around his leg. "Can you walk?"
"Barely," he grunted, his face contorted in pain. "But I'll manage."
"Good, because stopping isn't an option." Xena helped him to his feet, supporting some of his weight as they continued.
More fell along the way. One candidate triggered a pitfall, disappearing into the void below. Another stumbled into a tripwire that unleashed a torrent of molten rock, their agonized screams fading quickly.
Xena and Malik pressed on, their bodies battered and bloodied. Xena's arms ached from catching herself repeatedly on the slick walls, her hands raw and stinging from cuts. Malik limped beside her, his breathing labored but steady.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached a large chamber. The winds were even stronger here, nearly pushing them back. In the center of the chamber was a massive stone door, intricately carved with symbols of Harad. It was partially open, a sliver of light seeping through.
"This has to be it," Malik said, his voice hoarse.
"Stay sharp," Xena warned, stepping cautiously toward the door.
The moment she moved, the floor beneath her shifted. A grinding sound echoed through the chamber as massive blades emerged from the walls, swinging in deadly arcs. Xena dodged the first, rolling to the side as it cleaved the air where she had stood. Another blade sliced past Malik, nicking his arm and drawing blood.
Xena pushed herself forward, weaving through the deadly gauntlet with a mixture of precision and sheer willpower. She reached the door, throwing her weight against it to push it open further. "Malik, move!" she shouted.
He stumbled toward her, narrowly avoiding another blade. Together, they forced the door open just enough to squeeze through. They collapsed on the other side, gasping for breath.
When they looked around, they saw that only ten of the original twenty had made it. The survivors were bloodied, their expressions a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The Abyss of Souls had lived up to its name, and Khafir had gotten what he wanted—a brutal test that left only the strongest standing.
Khafir's brutality was unmistakable. The trials had been designed to test the mettle of anyone daring to join his forces, and to him, the deaths along the way were mere sacrifices to weed out the unworthy. Yet for those who survived, who proved themselves, a different side of Khafir emerged—one that was cunning and calculating, with a touch of charisma that bound his followers to him.
Xena and the remaining candidates emerged from the Abyss of Souls, weary and bloodied, into a starkly different world. The passage from the treacherous caverns opened to Khafir's elite camps, and the transformation was immediate. Gone were the filth, chaos, and stench of death. Instead, the air was clean, the grounds orderly. Tents were neatly aligned in rows, their canvas fresh and unstained. There were stations for everything—meals, supplies, and even designated healing tents.
Servants moved efficiently, some carrying pitchers of water, others tending fires that roasted meat. Soldiers clad in polished armor stood at attention, their demeanor disciplined yet calm. No one appeared haggard or neglected; every soldier looked as though they had a purpose and the resources to fulfill it. It wasn't the ragtag encampment of a warlord—it was the domain of a ruler with vision and control.
Xena leaned against the nearest stone pillar, her sharp eyes scanning every detail. She noted the soldiers' clean armor, the presence of healers, and the consistent structure of the camp. It wasn't just an army—it was a machine, finely tuned and disciplined. Khafir wasn't just a brute with ambition; he was intelligent and capable, building not just an army but a community that inspired loyalty.
Her lips tightened into a thoughtful line. He's no ordinary enemy, she thought. This isn't just force—it's strategy. He gives to his men, keeps them fed, healthy, and strong. That's how he earns their unwavering devotion. If I can get closer to him, I'll need to exploit that.
Khafir himself stood at the center of the camp, flanked by Rhazak and a handful of guards. His posture was commanding yet composed, the glint in his eye assessing the survivors as they stumbled into the camp. Rhazak stepped forward, his gravelly voice cutting through the exhaustion hanging over the group.
"You've survived," he said, his tone almost begrudgingly impressed. "You've earned the right to rest here, to become part of Khafir's elite. Follow the guards. Clean yourselves, heal your wounds, and be ready. Tomorrow, your roles in this land will be revealed."
Khafir's gaze swept over them, a flicker of approval evident as he nodded. Without a word, he turned and strode away, his guards falling in step behind him.
The candidates barely registered Rhazak's words, their exhaustion overwhelming. They allowed the guards to guide them to the healers, some staggering and others nearly collapsing into their arms. Xena watched them move off, her body tense with pain and fatigue, but she forced herself to stay upright. Malik gave her a questioning glance, but she gestured for him to follow the others.
"Go," she said firmly. "I'll catch up."
Malik hesitated but eventually nodded, limping after the guards. As he disappeared into the healer's tent, Xena turned back to Rhazak, who stood waiting with a faint smirk.
"You owe me," he said, his tone hard but almost smug.
Xena nodded silently, bracing herself. She followed him as he led her past the neat rows of tents, deeper into a secluded area where the ground was rougher, stained with old blood. The orderly atmosphere of the elite camp was gone here, replaced by the grim reminder of Khafir's ruthlessness.
Rhazak stopped near a jagged rock formation, turning to face her. A group of guards surrounded them, one stepping forward to hand Rhazak a whip. Xena didn't flinch as he took it.
"Turn around," Rhazak ordered coldly.
Xena obeyed, her jaw tightening as she faced the stone. She bit her lip as she felt the rough snap of her tunic being pulled aside, exposing her back. The fabric tore away in strips, leaving her skin vulnerable to the lash.
The first strike landed with a sharp crack, a searing pain tearing across her back. Xena's knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself, refusing to fall. Rhazak delivered each lash with precision, the whip cutting through skin and leaving thin trails of blood. By the fifth strike, her breathing was ragged, her nails digging into the rock to steady herself.
Each lash felt like fire, the pain radiating through her body. She could feel the warm trickle of blood running down her back, soaking into the torn fabric of her tunic. Rhazak didn't pause, his expression devoid of sympathy as he delivered the full ten lashes.
When it was over, Xena's body trembled, her legs threatening to give out. But she didn't collapse. She straightened slowly, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The guards stared at her, some with faint admiration for her resilience, others with detached indifference.
Rhazak stepped back, motioning for two guards to approach. "Take her to the healers," he ordered. "Make sure she's treated properly. I need her alive and functional."
Xena didn't respond, her mind too focused on the raw, burning pain in her back. As the guards lifted her by the arms and began leading her away, her gaze flickered toward the edge of the camp. There, partially obscured by the shadows, stood Khafir, watching.
His expression was unreadable, but the fact that he was there at all gave Xena a flicker of hope. He's watching me. 'Good. If he's paying attention, I've taken the first step toward earning his trust.' she thought.
For now, she let the guards lead her to the healer's tent. Rest and recovery would come first. But tomorrow, the real challenge would begin: finding a way to get closer to Khafir and exploiting his ambitions from within.
((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Two))
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