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But that was ludicrous - an uncertainty brought upon him by the discomfort of the task. Even here, he owned every inch of the earth beneath his sandals.

But that thought does little to loosen the ridged set of the emperor’s shoulders. His countenance only grows more severe as they begin to leave behind the huts more closely sequestered, until they come upon one of communal size - though, even despite the size, was more unkempt than the homes they had already passed.

Azir’s party halts at the entrance, as if the swaying, threadbare covering is barring them from going further. The small guard he has taken with him outside of the city seems grossly out of place in their gold, glittering armor, each curling their gauntleted hands around a staff or spear or lance even taller than themselves. The only one who doesn’t stand out is Xerath, clothed for comfort in flowing robes that match the sand. He holds a sizeable woven basket in his hands, covered by a finely threaded cloth dyed bright. It’s such a small slip of color, yet the striking indigo seems so at odds with its washed out surroundings.

As does the emperor, beckoning his brother to follow as he enters the hovel without the protection of his guard.

Despite Xerath holding the cloth door open and the beaming midday sun mere inches away, light seems completely unable to penetrate the darkness of the space; it’s a wide room, denominated by blankets spread across the floor and little else. There are baskets of stale bread and wilting produce, and there is such a stench permeating the air that Azir can hardly take more than the shallowest of breaths.

It is unwashed bodies and rotting things and despair, left to fester in a too small space.

Even so, Azir walks to about midway the room, and Xerath dutifully takes his side; a shifting piece of the darkness moves in a halting, painful way, detaching itself from the gloom and presenting itself as nobly as is ever possible to its emperor.

It is only years of coming here, and even more of courtly lessons in etiquette and poise, that keeps Azir from gagging on the disgust in his mouth.

The man could not have been much older than the young emperor, and should he have led another life, he would have been fit and strong; instead, his back is stooped to an aching degree, making it near impossible for him to stand, and his once strong fingers end in crooked claws. Azir considers the worst part to be the dry, nasty swaths of skin that cut stripes across a proud nose, a strong jaw, and most of the exposed skin. They are covered in dull, flaking scales that ooze and peel and apparently plague the man terribly - there are gouges along the patches that suggest many a night spent itching or clawing at the deformity.

With another glance to the talons that tip his fingers, it’s all Azir can do to keep from shuddering.

“Emperor,” he hisses, uncurling from his bow by some minor degree. “We are blessed.”

What a cruel, wicked joke; as if Azir’s presence could somehow balance the curse that will be inflicted on the poor man for the rest of what promises to be a short, exceedingly miserable life.

“Iahi,” Azir says. He inclines his head as is polite, and waves Xerath forward. “It is I who has been blessed with plenty; please accept my humble offer.”

Xerath peels away the covering of the basket, laden with warm loaves of bread, clay pots of fruit preserves and precious honey, blankets made of cotton fit for emperors and their courts. It is a lavish thing to give - and hard for some to accept.

Even though he clutches his fingers around a robe that is riddled with moth eaten holes, Iahi swallows hard. Azir can see it in his eyes - he begs for a time when he could have - would have - refused such a thing, would have considered it a slight to his pride to be coddled by the emperor without duly earning his favor. He was a warrior, once. A man with promise that had been seemingly hand-chosen by the gods themselves to Ascend.

But gods, it seems, rarely make their motives so clear. The path they take is so seldom followed.

“We are blessed,” Iahi repeats, opening his arms so that Xerath may place the basket in them.

The other slumped forms begin to shift, eager and prideless; Azir sees forked tongues, slit eyes, mouths bulging with teeth that do not fit and scales warm with infection. These are the godless few - Baccai, who, before his reign, would have been given a swift and merciful death.

His father had made that choice for them - Azir had given it back.

He wonders - as he sees an old woman so deep in her years she must wait for  one of the others to take pity on her and bring her food - if his father had been right. If the gods had not chosen these people - if their Ascensions were doomed and they were cast from holiness - should they be spared? Was Azir dooming himself, too, by overruling the god’s will?

Would they have condemned his pity, or praised it?

With his own Ascension nearing, Azir feels worry once again stir in his stomach; he visits the Baccai in the hopes of paying homage to the gods he some day wishes to join. He prays for a guided Ascendance; he prays and prays that he does not fall as they did.

With Iahi’s attention now lost and his composure unable to handle much more, Azir leaves the Baccai to his gift; they will await him at the next moon, and the one after, and they will anticipate his Ascension like bitter vipers, eager to sink their fangs into something soft and unruined. No one here will grieve if this hut becomes Azir’s home, too.

When they are again in the comfort of the sun, with the the Sun Disc guiding them home, Xerath easily picks up Azir’s unease.

“My highness, there is no need for worry,” he assures. “Your Ascendance is blessed.”

Azir nods, as is habit, but even free from the stench of the damned he can hardly breathe.