I place the flowers back into the soil and pat them. Once I am sure they are stable, I move onto a budding family of bell-shaped angelblooms. I repeat the process again. Pick it up by the roots, mix the soil underneath, and ensure that the plant is healthy before placing it back. 

I like the physical effort that gardening requires, and often lose myself in the continuous rhythm of labour as the desert sun shines above. I enjoy smelling the sweet fragrance of my flowers and feeling the rich silt sift through my fingers. What is most rewarding is at the end, when I have tended my garden for the day and all that is left to do is watch. Watch as days and months cultivating delicate saplings amount to the brightest fruits and flowers. It leaves me with a feeling that no words will ever be able to describe.

I stand up and lean into a neighbouring joshua tree. Running my fingers down its trunk, I survey the scenery before me.

The well-tended shrubs form a natural perimeter around the garden. In each of the four corners stands a mature joshua tree, two of which that flank the fortress' sides. Pebbles of all shapes and sizes lay scattered among small vegetation and flowers. A silt road navigates through the garden, diverging into two paths to make way for the center flowerbed. And although I like to think I give each plant an equal amount of attention, I cannot deny I have a soft spot for that particular flowerbed.

Every year, I take the seeds of the old flowers and preserve them. It took a scorching summer scouring the desert's plains to find the flowers, but it was worth it. This spring,  lillies, orchids, poppies and every flower that could be found in the Swift Desert are flourishing beneath the radiant sun. I have planted the seeds in such a way that each group of flowers would grow into the figure of a flying swift. The hundred or so swifts are facing east, towards the direction of guidance and new beginnings. I have shaped the flock into the figure of a larger swift as a final touch. They are individuals, but together they are one.

A sharp yipping reaches my ears. I turn around to find Harun and Hura snapping at each other over a fig. Hura sprints up to me and hides behind my legs, whining.

I raise a brow at Hura, whose lips merely pull back into a grin. She swallows her fig in one gulp as Harun catches up. He tackles her to the ground. The siblings roll around as they play-fight.

I separate the two by their cuffs. Hura whines in defeat and Harun paws at my hand, but they both comply. "I hope you are not fighting over the fig," I say, "because there is enough for all of us." One only needs to look at the mess hall for proof. Harun huffs. I shrug. Sibling rivalry it is, then. I release them.

Hura instantly dashes away, jumping over the swift flowerbed and disappearing behind the fortress. Harun looks at me.

"Very well," I sigh. I proceed to follow Hura's pawprints to the back of the fortress. Along the way, I run my hand along the Home's worn walls, which are well polished from the persisting desert winds. I turn the corner to see a blur of caramel before it knocks me to the ground.

I lift Hura off of myself, but not before she finishes washing my face. "Now, there," I chuckle. I pat her glossy fur, which has recovered after a week thanks to a proper diet. Satisfied with her ambush, Hura trots to the grass field and picks up a stick. 

Of course.

She gives me the stick. "Be prepared," I say with a smile. The jackals tense. 

My wrist flicks and sends the stick flying across the field. 

Hura steps forward, but Harun bounds ahead and seizes the stick with his jaws. He saunters back, his tail swishing as he goes. Hura whimpers, disappointed.

"Good. Again." 

But before Harun can hand me the stick, Hura tries to yank it from her brother's jaws. He growls and stands his ground. Hura continues her endeavour but to no avail. Harun snorts and tackles her to the ground, the stick still firmly in his jaws. He looks at me for approval.

One of the things I admire about Harun is his air of self-assurance. He is always so sure of himself, but not to a fault. That night he was the one that followed my trail and led his younger sister to me, believing I was the answer to their plight. That is why I named him "Warrior Lion": one with a heart that never wavers.

I watch as Hura leaps to her feet and just as quickly tries to snatch the stick again. In comparison, Hura is a bird that never leaves the clouds. She lives life with a contagious care-free attitude. "Freedom" is most fitting for her: a soul that does anything she pleases, with nothing to hold her down.

"Again?" I ask. It seems that "no" is the answer. Not five seconds later, Hura dashes away and leaps through a trapdoor into the fortress. Harun growls and chases her.

"Ay!" I hobble as fast as I can through the back door. I scan the hallway, then spot a flash of caramel fur as they disappear into the main room. I can hear them bumping into furniture. There is a crash.

I step into the main room to witness one of the biggest messes I have ever seen. 

Books have fallen from their shelves and lay strewn on the carpet. The coffee table is turned onto its side, as well as a wooden chair. The couches are covered in dirty pawprints. My favourite vase is broken, and its shards presents a hazard to anyone who is not mindful of their surroundings. And in the middle of it all are the jackal siblings, racing through the whole scene and having the greatest time of their lives.

I tap my staff on the the ground, twice, to show that I mean business. "Harun and Hura." They continue to chase each other and yip and whine. 

"Stop!" I say more forcibly, but they ignore me. Hura leaps onto the couch to evade Harun, then attempts to jump over him. She succeeds—but stumbles and steps onto the broken shards of my vase. She howls in pain.

I rush over. "See? This is what happens when you do not pay attention," I say with an air of exasperation. Harun droops his ears in acknowledgement. I gently turn Hura onto her back. Her paws are fine, with only a small shard lodged in one of them. But there is a large cut across her belly, with blood flowing freely from it. 

My breath hitches. 

"Harun," I say. Harun dashes to the fireplace and returns with an emergency kit. My hands shake as I clean the wound and try to stanch the bleeding. Hura whimpers with every touch. Slowly, carefully, I wrap a bandage around her and tie it. Bright red appears through the white cloth almost immediately. My breath quickens as it seeps through the cloth.

I pick Hura up and wince at her cry and hurry to the basin room. Lowering her into the tub, I gently apply pressure to the wound with a layer of cloth wrapped around my hand. 

Hura whines in pain.

She gasps in pain.

"Shh..." I say to Hura. "I am here. Everything will be all right..."

"I am not going to let you die," I tell her firmly.

I pet her flank reassuringly.

My hands shake as I grip her hands.

Blood begins to soak through the cloth, the velvety liquid spilling into the tub. Bright red starts to take over the other colours in my vision, muting the sounds that I would be hearing if not for the slow trick trick of blood. The jackal's warm flank pressing beside me is replaced with cold space. The taste of tea that I had this morning turns to a parched emptiness that leaves my mouth dry and cracked.

No no no no this is not happening again, don't do this to me, please don't let this happen again like last time I'll do anything anything you ask of me just don't do this please I won't leave them alone take me instead-

 I try to stanch the bleeding but it isn't enough. Yari gasps.

"Master, it hurts," she says. Her voice is strained with an agony that no child should ever feel. She cradles her belly, which is impaled by a knife.

"I am not going to let you die," I tell her firmly. She manages a small smile even as my hands tremble. "Think about a happy thought, all right?"

"Mmm." Her eyes close and for a moment I think she is dead, dead like all the others. Yari opens her eyes. "I have it," she says. "It was the night of the harvest festival."

"All right, continue," I say lightly. I press onto the wound, ignoring the blood that leaks out.

"It was really pretty that night," she says softly. "We didn't train that day because you wanted us to prepare and have fun. We hung lanterns on the trees, we danced, and we sang songs to the gods to thank them for watching over us."

"We did," I say. I lock my eyes onto hers, trying to hold the macabre images that flash in my mind at bay.

"I had fun," she says. Her voice is getting quieter. "Sister braided and put flowers in my hair. I looked so pretty. And I danced, remember? I danced with the dress you made me, and everyone clapped at the end."

"You didn't make a single mistake, Yari," I say. My hands shake as I grip her hands. "I am so proud of you. All of you."

"I had fun," she repeats. "We were so happy that night. You were also happy. Sister and her friends talked while you read stories to the rest of us." She continues to talk, even as a spark of life escapes her body with every word. "You let us stay up so late that we fell sleeping on the grass, but you didn't get angry. And we weren't sleeping, we tricked you so you would sleep. We counted the stars in the sky and giggled and talked about how amazing our Master was."

She coughs. Blood trickles down from her mouth. 

I start. "Don't-" 

"You are so nice, Master," she whispers. Her eyes brim with tears."You did everything for us. You love us. And we love you too."

"Yari," I gasp. I squeeze her hands as if I'm pouring my soul into the girl's body, trying to exchange my life for hers. My vision blurs. "I-I will make things right some day. I promise."

Yari smiles. Her eyes, though locked onto me, are seeing things that lay far beyond this world.

I scream. Everything is falling, floating, spiraling into a colourless void. Somewhere, the wind is moaning in lament. Somewhere, the bodies of a hundred pupils lay on the ground, their white linen robes soaked in blood. Somewhere, the gods have tipped the scales in the Hunters' favour. But the only thing I see is my failure to protect—contained in the image of a little girl's cooling body.

The air is cold, mixed with the metallic smell of blood. 

"No!"

I sit up and look around wildly, expecting to see shattered windows and futures. A mass of fur is next to me, and I grab it before realizing it is a black-backed jackal. 

Its dark honey eyes search my face. Finding nothing, it cautiously licks my face. 

I flinch.

It huffs and nuzzles my arm. It looks at me again. I stare, uncomprehendingly, until my mind is fully anchored by the present. The jackal in front of me is Harun. I have adopted him and his...sister. 

I become aware of a soft whimpering coming from the tub—which means I am in the basin room. Inside, Hura looks at me with pleading eyes. Her wound has clotted, but it is obvious that she is in pain. I pet the side of her flank, feeling the clumps of fur the blood has dried onto. Hura relaxes. She watches me out the corner of her eyes.

After a moment of contemplation, I pick her up and make my way out of the fortress. I forgot that shallow cuts bleed the most, so Hura's injury should not be of major concern. I cross through the backyard and continue to walk westward. Along the way, I reassure Hura with an occasional murmur or two. At some point, Harun catches up. 

The ground gradually slopes up and becomes firmer. Before long I am overlooking another valley situated in the south, where a myriad of flowers are flourishing. Usually I would refrain from going further beyond this point. Especially when I have nothing for them. But I make an exception.

Once I have descended, the gentle humming of insects greets me at the bottom. I look around. Small headstones are spread throughout the valley floor, nearly concealed by the marigolds planted beside each. The flowers and grass sway in the breeze. Scattered leaves dance about, their rustles playing a tuneless song. The painted bluebell sky floats far above.

I set Hura down and leave her with her brother. I am not sure if they would want to come. After taking a few steps, I solidify my resolve and make my way to the last grave on the left.

Kneeling down, my fingers trace the headstone's letters. My hand lingers on a carving of a butterfly. I trace the etched lines as I begin to speak.

But I cannot. Suddenly I realize how futile this is. What am I doing here? What is my purpose? To reassure them? That everything would be all right? Or to drown myself in my own guilt, while my pupils are left alone? Again? I put my head to the ground. Growing flowers, enduring the nightmares and forcing myself to walk the plane of this world without them have amounted to nothing. Nothing I say or do would ever be enough to honour my pupils. Nothing I say or do would be able to separate their legacies from my mistakes.

That familiar feeling washes over me. I embrace it. Saffiyah was right; nothing would ever bring them back. But although raising the dead was never my intention, she saw the truth buried within the depths of me. That should I continue to live, my life would have no meaning without them.

I am too tired to scream, or even silently cry. Instead, I bury my head in the earth and hope that the flowers' sweet fragrance will suffocate me.