Jeroush stumbled in the door, panting and nearly fainting before a pub patron ran to catch him. His skin felt cold and he was not sweating despite the extreme heat of the day. “Help!” he called to other patrons and the staff as he cradled the limp form of Jeroush in his arms.

The man’s body was emaciated and weighed so little from the hunger he had faced in his flight, that the patron could lift him with barely an effort.

“Hey, Steven,” the owner asked, “who is that?”

“I don’t know,” he spat back. How was he supposed to know who this random stranger was who just collapsed in his arms? “He just came in here and fainted!”

Just then, the Jeroush’s eyes opened slightly and he struggled to speak through parched lips “I am Jeroush, Prince of Howansea. There is an army coming here through the desert to conquer you. It was too late for us.” With these words, he exhaled the last of his breath and his soul left his body.

Steven lowered the badly sunburned and dehydrated body of the prince to the floor and stood. Without another word to his friends within the pub, he took off running toward the palace. Someone had to warn their King of the coming war.