The rain had been a miracle, but miracles in the Salt Flats were short-lived.

  Within twenty minutes of the Pearl shattering, the localized monsoon had evaporated. The puddles we had splashed in were gone, replaced by cracking, drying mud that clung to our armor like clay. The sun, seemingly offended by the brief interruption, returned with a vengeance.

  The heat didn't just rise; it punched us.

  “Humidity,” Elmsworth wheezed, wiping steam from his goggles. “It is now ninety percent humidity at one hundred degrees. We are essentially being sous-vide cooked.”

  “Don't use food metaphors,” Faelar groaned. The dwarf was looking better since the water, but he was still pale, and his movements were sluggish. The heatstroke had rattled him deep. He was dragging his feet, his boots leaving heavy furrows in the drying mud.

  I checked the Ward Stone. It wasn't buzzing anymore; it was throbbing, a slow, rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.

  I pulled it out. The screen was stark against the glare.

  [ENVIRONMENTAL HAZARD DETECTED: CRYSTAL SCOURGE.] [ETA: 5 MINUTES.] [SHELTER: 1 MILE NORTH. RUN, YOU IDIOTS.]

  I looked up at the horizon.

  To the west, the white line of the desert was vanishing. A wall was approaching—not a cloud of soft sand, but a towering, swirling mass of glittering white. It looked like a diamond dust storm.

  “Scourge!” I shouted, pointing. “Pack up! We move now!”

  “It’s just wind,” Liam said, shielding his eyes.

  “It’s crystal,” I corrected, tightening my straps. “That’s not sand. It’s shredded salt shards moving at gale force. If that hits us out in the open, it’ll strip the flesh off our bones. Move!”

  We ran.

  Or rather, we tried to run. The mud was sticky, creating a suction with every step.

  “I… I can’t,” Faelar gasped, stumbling. He fell to one knee, his heavy plate armor sinking into the muck. “Go on. I’ll dig a hole. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not digging a hole, and you’re not dying here,” I growled.

  I grabbed the back of his breastplate. “Liam! Get his other side!”

  The elf didn't argue. He hooked his arm under Faelar’s shoulder. Together, we hauled the dwarf upright.

  “Heave!” I yelled.

  We sprinted. The sound of the approaching storm began to rise—a high-pitched shrieking noise, like a million knives scraping against glass. The air pressure dropped. My ears popped.

  “One mile!” I shouted over the wind. “Aim for the rock formation!”

  Ahead of us, a cluster of jagged, red rocks rose from the salt like islands in a white sea. It was the only cover for leagues.

  The wall of white was closing in. The first few stray crystals whipped past us, pinging off my shield like hail. One sliced my cheek, leaving a stinging line of red.

  “Faster!”

  We hit the base of the rocks just as the sun was blotted out by the storm.

  “Where is the cave?” Willow screamed, pressing herself against the cliff face.

  I looked around. There was no opening. No crevice. Just solid, red stone.

  The Ward Stone vibrated so hard it nearly jumped out of my hand. I looked at it. A glowing arrow pointed directly at the solid rock wall.

  “It says here!” I yelled.

  “There is a seam!” Elmsworth shrieked, running his hands over the stone. “Here! It is artificial!”

  He pointed to a hairline crack in the rock face, barely visible. It wasn't natural erosion; it was a perfect, vertical line.

  I didn't have time to look for a handle. The roar of the storm was right on top of us. I did the only thing I could think of.

  I slammed the butt of my spear against the rock.

  “Open up!” I roared.

  CLICK. HISS.

  The rock didn't crumble. It slid.

  A section of the cliff face, smooth and heavy, retracted inward with the sound of pneumatic pistons. A rush of stale, cool air blasted out.

  “In! In! In!”

  We tumbled through the opening, dragging Faelar with us. Willow shoved Elmsworth inside. I dove in last, just as the white wall of the Scourge hammered the cliff.

  I hit a metal panel on the inside wall.

  WHIRRR-THUD.

  The stone door slid shut, sealing with a heavy, final lock.

  The shrieking wind was cut off instantly.

  We lay in the dark, gasping for breath. The silence was absolute. It was heavy, cool, and smelled of ozone and ancient dust.

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  “Light,” I whispered.

  Elmsworth tapped his wand. A soft, blue sphere of light drifted up, illuminating the space.

  We weren't in a cave.

  We were in a room.

  The walls were made of a smooth, matte-gray metal that I didn't recognize. There were no rivets, no seams. The floor was polished stone. Along the walls were simple stone benches and empty shelving racks.

  It looked like a bunker. But the design… it wasn't the jagged iron of the Dwarves or the organic flows of the Elves. It was utilitarian. Perfect.

  “This architecture...” Elmsworth whispered, his voice echoing slightly. He stood up, running a finger along the wall. “It is Pre-Ascension. This predates the Citadel. It predates the Kingdom itself.”

  “It’s a safe house,” Liam said, his voice wary. He had his daggers out. “But whose?”

  “The Game Master’s,” I said, standing up and brushing the dried mud from my knees. “He sent us here.”

  I walked to the center of the room.

  There, sitting alone in the middle of the empty floor, was a chest.

  It wasn't an ancient, rotting wooden chest. It was a sturdy, metal crate. It had no lock. On the lid, stamped in simple white paint, was a symbol: A sword crossed with a quill.

  And below that, hand-painted in fresh letters: FOR THE IDIOTS.

  “Well,” Faelar grunted, sitting up and rubbing his head. “At least he knows our names.”

  I opened the crate.

  Inside, nestled in straw, were five large water skins. I uncorked one and sniffed. Sweet, fresh spring water.

  Beside the water were blocks of wrapped rations. I unwrapped one. It looked like a gray brick of compressed grain.

  “Prison food,” Liam sniffed.

  “Survival food,” I corrected.

  At the bottom of the chest, there was a set of tools. Oil stones. A small hammer. A coil of high-quality leather cord. And a small, iron pot.

  “He wants us to fix our gear,” I said, picking up a whetstone. It felt heavy and dense, humming slightly with enchantment. An Ever-Sharp stone. “And he wants us to eat.”

  “Eat?” Faelar’s ears perked up. “Did you say eat?”

  “It’s just ration blocks, Faelar,” I said, tossing him a gray brick.

  Faelar caught it. He sniffed it. He licked it.

  “It tastes like sawdust and sadness,” the dwarf declared. “But...” He looked at the iron pot. He looked at the water. He looked at Willow.

  “Lass,” Faelar said, struggling to his feet. “Do you still have those dried fire-peppers from the Refuge?”

  Willow checked her pouch. “I have three. And some dried moss.”

  “And I have a knife,” Faelar said, a spark of life returning to his eyes. “We are not eating bricks. We are making porridge. Dwarven Salt-Porridge. It puts hair on your chest. Even yours, Elf.”

  Liam touched his smooth chin. “I’ll pass on the chest hair, but I’ll take the calories.”

  We set up camp in the center of the silent, ancient room.

  There was no wood for a fire, but Elmsworth solved that. He cast Heat Metal on the bottom of the iron pot. It wasn't a combat spell this time; it was a slow, controlled simmer.

  Faelar took charge. He crumbled the gray ration blocks into the water, stirring them until they turned into a thick, bubbling mash. He crumbled the fire-peppers in. Willow added the dried moss for texture.

  It wasn't a feast. It looked like gray sludge with red specks.

  But when Faelar ladled it into our bowls, the smell of warm grain and spice filled the sterile air.

  We sat in a circle on the floor, the magical light of the wand hovering above us like a campfire.

  I took a spoonful. It was hot. It was salty. The pepper kicked at the back of my throat.

  “It’s good,” I said, surprised.

  “It’s food,” Faelar corrected, scraping his bowl. “Hot food. That’s the difference between surviving and living, Commander.”

  We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the scraping of spoons. The storm raged outside, a muffled vibration against the thick door, but in here, we were safe.

  After the meal, we didn't sleep immediately. The adrenaline of the sprint needed to bleed off.

  I took out the whetstone and began to work on my spearhead. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The rhythmic sound was soothing.

  Liam was polishing his daggers, checking the edges.

  Faelar, however, had a project.

  He had pulled the massive, obsidian Void-Beak of the Kraken from his pack. It was curved, black as night, and sharper than any steel. He held it up to the light.

  “What are you doing with that?” Willow asked, braiding a piece of grass she had found in her pocket.

  “Making a point,” Faelar grunted.

  He took the handle of his broken throwing axe—the one he had snapped in the Bear fight—and began to carve the wood to fit the socket of the beak. He used the leather cord from the chest to lash it tight, soaking the leather in water so it would shrink and harden as it dried.

  It was crude, but it was brutal. A war-pick made from the body of a deep-sea nightmare.

  “I’m calling it ‘The Toothpick’,” Faelar announced, swinging it. The black beak sliced through the air with a terrifying whoosh.

  “Fitting,” Liam murmured. “Subtle.”

  “Who is he?” Elmsworth asked suddenly.

  We all looked at the gnome. He was staring at the ceiling, at the smooth, seamless metal.

  “The Game Master,” Elmsworth clarified. “He provides us with information. He manifests rain. He builds bunkers that defy historical timelines. He leaves us whetstones. Is he a Wizard? A God? A trans-dimensional entity conducting a sociological experiment?”

  “He’s a demon,” Faelar said, admiring his new weapon. “Only a demon would drop a Kraken in a desert just to see what happens. He feeds on chaos.”

  “He’s a guardian,” Willow countered softly. “He saved us from the thirst. He guided us here.”

  They looked at me.

  “Commander?” Liam asked. “What’s your read?”

  I ran the stone over my spear tip, watching the metal shine.

  “He’s a Commander,” I said.

  “A Commander?” Faelar raised an eyebrow.

  “He doesn't care if we’re happy,” I said. “He doesn't care if we’re comfortable. He yells at us when we mess up. He warns us when we’re about to die. But he gives us the tools to win.”

  I sheathed the spear.

  “A bad officer sends you to die,” I said. “A good officer sends you to hell, but makes sure you have a map and a weapon first. He’s... he’s trying to toughen us up. I don't think he’s playing a game. I think he’s training us.”

  “For what?” Liam asked.

  I looked at the heavy metal door.

  “I don't know,” I admitted. “But whatever it is, I think the Kraken was just the warm-up.”

  We took shifts sleeping. The stone benches were hard, but compared to the salt ground, they were feather beds.

  I took the second watch.

  The room was dim, the wand’s light faded to a low ember. The others were asleep. Faelar snored softly, clutching his new pickaxe like a teddy bear.

  I sat on the bench, staring at the blank metal wall.

  The silence of the bunker pressed in on me. It was a familiar silence.

  Suddenly, I wasn't in the desert anymore.

  Flash.

  I was six years old. I was small. I was hiding in the linen closet of the Saint-Silo Orphanage. Outside, a summer storm was raging, shaking the old wooden building. Thunder cracked like whips.

  I was terrified. I was clutching a broken wooden soldier—my only toy.

  But then, I felt it. A feeling.

  Not a hand on my shoulder. Just... a presence. A weight in the air. It felt like someone was standing right outside the closet door. Someone big. Someone who wasn't angry at me, but was watching over me.

  It felt safe. It felt like a shield.

  Flash.

  I blinked, coming back to the bunker.

  The feeling was here. The same heavy, silent, protective weight.

  I looked at the chest with the painted symbol. The crossed sword and quill.

  Who are you? I thought. And why have you been watching me for twenty years?

  The storm outside finally died down, the roar fading to a whisper.

  The Ward Stone in my pocket buzzed. A soft, gentle vibration.

  I pulled it out. The angry red text was gone. The letters were a calm, pulsing blue.

  [REST PERIOD COMPLETE.] [STATUS: STABILIZED.] [NEXT OBJECTIVE: THE CANYON OF WHISPERS.] [GOOD LUCK, KID.]

  I stared at the last line.

  Good luck, kid.

  It wasn't a system alert. It was a voice.

  I felt a lump in my throat. I swallowed it down.

  “Understood,” I whispered to the empty room.

  I stood up and kicked Faelar’s boot gently.

  “Up and at ‘em, Misfits,” I said, my voice echoing in the chamber. “Vacation is over. We have a Canyon to cross.”