The morning sun poured through the sandstone lattice of the chamber’s window, painting soft golden patterns across the tiled floor. The air was dry but not yet scalding, a rare gentleness before Azane’s heat took full command.

  Xhiamas stepped inside the room, his boots echoing against the stone. The scent of dried parchment and ink hovered faintly.

  At the desk, Michael sat hunched over, his dark cloak draped behind him like a fallen banner. He didn’t look up as he scribbled the final lines of the letter, every word deliberate, weighted.

  Xhiamas gave a soft grunt of greeting.

  Michael responded with a nod, eyes never leaving the page. “A few more lines. Then I’ll be done.”

  Xhiamas leaned against the nearest column, arms crossed. The sound of quill on parchment continued a moment longer—then stopped. Michael blew gently to dry the ink and folded the letter with practiced precision.

  “To Primera,” he said simply. “Byronard needs to know we’ve made progress… and that we’re still breathing.”

  He slid the sealed letter into a satchel and stood.

  “Give me a moment. I’ll see it dispatched.”

  With that, Michael exited the room.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Xhiamas turned—and found Ziyad standing near the open archway, his silhouette framed by the pale light of the hallway. The younger brother was fastening leather wraps to his wrists, checking the daggers on his belt.

  He was preparing.

  Ziyad glanced out at the horizon, then at Xhiamas. “The wind’s shifting. Picking up fast. If we don’t leave before midday, the southern pass will be swallowed. The dust storms are unforgiving this season.”

  Xhiamas nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

  A pause.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Ziyad hesitated, adjusting a strap unnecessarily.

  “I—” he began, then stopped. “Brother, may I speak plainly?”

  Xhiamas raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Ziyad took it as permission.

  “We’ve come far. A third of the way through the task the world thought impossible. If we can unite our land… if we bring peace to Azane—and Primera survives the fire that’s coming…”

  He looked at his brother with eyes yearning for forgiveness.

  “…would there be a chance for us? To mend what we broke?”

  Xhiamas’s jaw tightened.

  Ziyad’s voice was steady, but quiet. “I know we’ll never see eye to eye again. Not after… what happened. But even if the world changes around us, even if you’ll never forgive me, I still call you brother.”

  The word lingered. Heavy with regret. Hopeful. Honest.

  Xhiamas said nothing.

  Not yet.

  The silence between the brothers was taut—delicate as a thread pulled tight. Xhiamas opened his mouth to speak—

  —but the door creaked open.

  Michael stepped back into the room, his presence cutting clean through the stillness like a blade through silk.

  He looked different.

  The greatsword Fortitude was strapped across his back, but its hilt had been carefully wrapped in deep umber and sand-gold cloth—Azanean weave, marked by the delicate embroidery of the Qadarin sigil. It wasn’t for ceremony. It was practical, tightly wound for grip, the fabric designed to wick sweat in the desert heat. Still, it gave the weapon a new identity.

  Michael, the captain forged in Primera, now bore the marks of a foreign land.

  He raised an eyebrow, sensing the tension in the room.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  Ziyad stepped back, composed once more, his usual veneer sliding into place. “Only the wind,” he said with a faint smile.

  Michael nodded, resting his hand on Fortitude’s newly-wrapped hilt. “Then let’s ride with it before it turns.”

  He turned to Xhiamas. “Our escort’s ready. Lord Hazrakan’s men are waiting near the southern arch. And Rashid left a copy of the map he mentioned—Khamsura’s Hollow to the southeast.”

  Xhiamas nodded stiffly, but his gaze lingered on Ziyad for a moment longer. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  The three of them stepped out into the hallway, the wind already starting to howl through the stone corridors like a whisper of what lay ahead.

  As they walked, no more words passed between the brothers.

  But the question Ziyad had asked remained—unanswered, and still alive.

  The gates of the Qadarin capital yawned open with the groan of sun-bleached iron and ancient stone, revealing the vastness of the desert beyond.

  A wave of heat struck them first—dry and biting, like an invisible furnace spreading its breath across the dunes. The sand, fine as powdered bone, stretched far into the horizon where jagged rocks broke through the golden sea like the ribs of a buried colossus.

  Stormclouds churned in the far west, dark and sluggish, while a column of spiraling dust danced across the valley like a ghost searching for a name.

  Michael squinted beneath his hood.

  It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. There was no mercy in the land before him. No quarter, no softness—just survival, raw and relentless.

  And yet…

  He couldn’t help but feel humbled. Awed, even. The desert didn’t need permission to exist. It just was—older than kings, crueler than war, and more enduring than history.

  “By the Smith…” Michael muttered.

  Ziyad, already adjusting the reins of his mount, chuckled. “You’ll stop cursing his name eventually.”

  Michael glanced at him. “How do you live in this?”

  Ziyad gestured broadly. “It’s a land of fire and silence. It either shapes you… or buries you.”

  To him, the sweeping dunes, the wind-carved canyons, and the ever-changing sky were simply home. Familiar. Predictable, even. The shifting sands whispered memories, not warnings.

  Xhiamas pulled up his horse beside them. His eyes scanned the land with something deeper—recognition. And sorrow.

  “Once,” he murmured, “I knew every pass by name. Every turn of the wind. I dreamed of crossing them again one day…”

  His words trailed off, caught in the wind.

  Ziyad glanced at him but said nothing.

  They rode forward, the caravan moving as lean and efficient as the desert tribes who’d mastered this journey over generations. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise.

  Just the long, quiet march into a land that did not care who you were.

  As they passed a half-buried ruin—pillars leaning like dying men toward the sun—Michael asked, “What was that place?”

  Ziyad barely turned his head. “One of many forgotten cities. The sand remembers more than we do.”

  Michael looked once more toward the horizon.

  Out there, somewhere, was Godric. And out there, waiting in the dunes, were truths no letter could explain.

  Night in the desert was a different kind of silence.

  Gone was the heat, replaced by a biting chill that crept into bone. The sky, a blanket of stars undimmed by smoke or lanterns, seemed to stretch endlessly above. The campfire crackled in the center of the caravan, its amber glow painting dancing shadows across the worn faces of men and rock.

  Michael sat close to the flames, warming his hands, his greatsword Fortitude resting beside him like a sleeping sentinel. Ziyad knelt nearby, sharpening a curved dagger with rhythmic strokes. Xhiamas stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the northern ridge where the wind carried distant howls.

  A rider approached from the dark—one of the Qadarin escort captains, cloaked in patterned leathers and bearing the black-and-gold sash of the Lord’s banner. He dismounted with a nod of respect and addressed the three.

  “My lords,” he said. “Scouts returned not long ago. There’s been a skirmish spotted just beyond the Salt Spine Ridge—dead center of our intended path.”

  Michael stood. “Who?”

  The captain’s brow furrowed. “Centaurs from the Broken Herd… and beasts.”

  “Beasts?” Xhiamas asked sharply. “Shahr Zulm?n?”

  The man hesitated. “Too far south for them. These ones bore no clan markings. Wild-born. Ferals.”

  Ziyad sheathed his blade, standing now as well. “Then they’ve come up from the Hollow. The blood sands are stirring…”

  The captain gave a grim nod. “We have three options.”

  He held up a gloved hand, ticking off each one with a finger.

  “One: join the battle and cut through the chaos while both sides are distracted. Swiftest route. But bloodiest.”

  “Two: wait it out. Let the dust settle. Could take hours. Could take days. That’ll cost us time—and water.”

  “Three,” he said, glancing westward toward the yawning dark, “trek through the Unbowed Dunes. It's a narrow passage that skirts the edge of Zulm?n lands. Risky. The orcs there don’t parley. Not even with us.”

  The fire crackled again between them, filling the silence.

  Ziyad exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Of course it couldn’t be easy.”

  Michael exchanged looks with Xhiamas, then with Ziyad.

  Each option carried its own danger.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Each step forward felt like the land testing their will.

  Michael’s hand hovered over the fire, eyes fixed on the flickering flames. “If it’s beasts and centaurs, we can push through. A quick strike in the chaos might buy us enough cover to pass unnoticed—or clear a path if it comes to it.”

  He looked up, his voice edged with anticipation. “We’ve handled worse.”

  Ziyad gave a low grunt of agreement. “That’s true. But I’d rather not risk another ambush like the one we walked into outside of Nakarrah. We were lucky then. Luck doesn’t often strike twice.”

  He paced once around the fire, gesturing to the dunes beyond. “Besides, I can’t even bend the field down here. The ore’s too deep, too dormant. Magnetic spells are useless when there’s nothing near the surface to anchor them.”

  Michael furrowed his brow, but nodded slowly.

  Ziyad gave him a faint smile. “Still… I’d pay to see what you could do with that greatsword in a mess like that. Would be a sight.”

  They both looked to Xhiamas, who had remained quiet, thoughtful.

  He finally spoke, voice calm and deliberate. “We take the dunes.”

  Michael blinked. “The orc lands?”

  Xhiamas nodded. “The Unbowed Dunes. If memory serves, there’s a passage that leads through the outer territory of the Shahr Zulm?n. The Hollow Path.”

  Ziyad’s face tightened. “That’s not a road—it’s an invitation to war.”

  “Not if we treat it with respect,” Xhiamas replied. “The Shahr don’t take kindly to intrusions, true. But they do respect strength—and honor. If they intercept us, there’s a chance they offer challenge instead of slaughter.”

  Michael tilted his head. “Challenge?”

  “A task. Or a test,” Xhiamas said. “Something to prove ourselves. If we pass, they may let us through. Or better yet…”

  He looked at Michael.

  “…they might grant us an audience.”

  Ziyad narrowed his eyes. “You’re suggesting we ask the Shahr Zulm?n to listen to us? A tribe that treats diplomacy like a joke?”

  “They might not listen to me,” Xhiamas said. “But they might listen to him.” He pointed to Michael.

  Michael blinked. “Me?”

  “You’re Michael of Primera,” Xhiamas said. “Captain of the Seven. The one chosen by the crown regent himself to lead the group of the world's most fearsome and talented individuals. Your name has weight now—even here. And if there’s one thing the orcs respect above all, it’s a name forged in battle.”

  Ziyad folded his arms, uncertain. “It’s a gamble.”

  “But one with honor,” Xhiamas replied. “And a better alternative than bleeding ourselves thin in someone else’s war.”

  The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows over their faces.

  Michael gave a sharp breath through his nose. “If they want strength, then I’ll give them strength.”

  Ziyad sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. “Then the Hollow Path it is.”

  ***

  The sun hung low behind them as they stood before the first crest of the Unbowed Dunes—endless waves of golden sand that shimmered like molten glass in the dying light. The wind was still, unnaturally so, as if the desert itself were holding its breath.

  Their Qadarin escort stopped short at the invisible boundary, where the hard-packed road gave way to the soft, whispering sands of forbidden land.

  The captain reined in his horse. “We go no farther.”

  Michael looked back. “You’re not coming with us?”

  The man shook his head solemnly. “The Shahr Zulm?n honor their borders… and punish those who forget them. You have strength, yes—but you’ll need more than steel to survive these sands.”

  Ziyad gave a small wave. “Your concern is noted. Your horses are better off where the sand doesn't swallow them.”

  The captain nodded once, placing a fist over his heart. “May your shadows walk beside you.”

  “And yours behind you,” Xhiamas replied in kind.

  With that, the Qadarin turned back, their caravan vanishing behind the ridge like dust caught in the wind.

  The silence afterward was total.

  The trio crossed into the shifting expanse, every step sinking slightly into the hot, uncertain terrain.

  As the dunes rose higher around them, Xhiamas’s expression shifted—alert, cautious. His pace slowed. He motioned for the others to stay close.

  “Watch your steps,” he said. “We are not alone here, even if it seems so.”

  Michael glanced around. “Orcs?”

  Xhiamas shook his head.

  “Worse.”

  He knelt for a moment, brushing his fingers across a patch of sand. The grains were smoother here. Looser. As if something had stirred them recently.

  Then he stood and whispered, “Shivarak.”

  Ziyad stiffened. “Do you believe that relic still lives?”

  Michael furrowed his brow. “What’s a Shivarak?”

  Xhiamas didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slowly pulled the dagger from his belt—its curved edge darkened with age. A serrated, jagged tooth, black and ridged like volcanic stone.

  He held it out for Michael to see.

  “This,” he said, “is a tooth I took from its snout. Quite sharp, and penetrates even through steel.”

  Michael’s eyes widened.

  “It’s a predator,” Xhiamas continued, “blind, but drawn to vibration and scent. Its arms are long and bone-plated, sharp enough to crack stone. Its maw—wider than a cart—and it moves under the sand.”

  “Charming,” Michael muttered.

  “They hunt in the cool hours,” Ziyad added. “When the wind stops. Just like now.”

  Michael adjusted Fortitude on his back. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We stay quiet. We stay light,” Xhiamas said. “And we pray we don’t wake it.”

  The sun was sinking now, casting long, amber shadows over the dunes. Every gust of wind dragged a whisper across the sand, like a warning half-remembered. They came across it just beyond a crescent ridge—half-buried in the sand, but unmistakable in form.

  A totem.

  Rising from the earth like the spine of some ancient beast, it was carved from obsidian-black wood, wrapped in braided cords of red sinew. Small bones hung from it like wind chimes, swaying soundlessly in the wind. A snarling boar’s face was etched at its top—jagged tusks curling upward, its eyes filled with iron nails driven in deliberately.

  Ziyad stepped forward and knelt beside it.

  “This wasn’t made by a traveler,” he muttered. “This… this is noble work.”

  Michael raised a brow. “How can you tell?”

  Ziyad traced the weaving near the base with gloved fingers. “The detailing here. These are clan runes—Shahr Zulm?n, no doubt. But look at the craftsmanship. The braids are ceremonial, dyed with bloodroot and dusk pigment.”

  He brushed away a thin layer of sand.

  “Not much dust. Which means someone passed through here. Recently.”

  “Recently enough to still be watching?” Michael asked, eyes scanning the dunes.

  Xhiamas didn’t respond. His hand hovered near his blade.

  Then—a sound. Faint, but unmistakable.

  Steel… against bone.

  Roaring. Screeching.

  They moved quickly up the next ridge, keeping low.

  And there, down in the shallow basin of two dunes, they saw it.

  An orc, broad-shouldered and battered, wrapped in chains—not bound, but worn like armor. His tusks were cracked, his green-gray skin smeared with black blood. And before him…

  A Shivarak.

  Just as Xhiamas had described.

  Its form was a thing of nightmares—armored limbs that bent at unnatural angles, claws like pickaxes, and a maw that split from chin to neck, filled with rows of jagged fangs. Its eyeless face snarled in Michael’s direction, as if it sensed their presence.

  The orc slammed a chained fist into the beast’s forelimb, barely deflecting a bone-hooked strike that shattered the rock behind him.

  Michael’s jaw tightened. “We can’t just stand here.”

  Ziyad grabbed his arm. “Don’t—”

  But it was too late.

  Michael was already sliding down the dune, Fortitude in hand, cloak snapping behind him.

  “Of course,” Ziyad muttered, exasperated. “Primerans.”

  Xhiamas chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “Say what you will. Their bravery’s never been in question.”

  And then he followed, sword flashing in the twilight.

  The Shivarak thrashed wildly, its plated limbs smashing into the sand, spraying dust into the sky like a storm-wrought wave. The creature towered over the basin where it fought, blind but guided by uncanny instinct, its claws cleaving through stone and air alike.

  At its center stood an orc, chained not in submission, but in ceremony.

  Each movement was brutal and deliberate—fists wrapped in iron striking hardened chitin with deafening force. Blood ran down his arms, yet he stood his ground like a fortress.

  “Who is that?” Michael asked, eyes narrowing as he gripped Fortitude.

  “I don’t know,” Xhiamas muttered. “But he’s either a fool—or a legend in the making.”

  The Shivarak lashed toward the orc, but before it could strike, Michael surged forward. His blade sparked with magnetic polarity, pulling grains of ore-laced sand toward its edge. With a powerful upward swing, he struck the creature across the side of the head.

  The beast staggered, screeching. The orc turned, startled—then surprised.

  More figures arrived. Ziyad emerged from the shadows, already in motion. Xhiamas followed in tandem, reading the creature’s next twitch before it happened.

  Together, they fought—a dance of sand, steel, and fury.

  Michael anchored the Shivarak’s movements, absorbing each blow and countering with force. Ziyad moved like a phantom, slicing at tendons and weak points. Xhiamas directed them with quiet warnings, every prediction steering them from death.

  The orc fought beside them without question—until, wounded and overwhelmed, the Shivarak shrieked and burrowed into the dunes with a blast of wind and sand. The battlefield fell silent, their breaths heavy against the settling dust.

  The orc, panting, rolled his shoulders with a grunt. His tusks were chipped, and a gash ran down his bicep—but he was smiling.

  “You three fight like wolves,” he said gruffly. “I thought I was done for.”

  Michael gave a nod, still catching his breath. “You held your own.”

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Xhiamas asked, brushing off his cloak.

  The orc paused, his eyes drifting toward the north. “Not here. I fought in the City of Chains. In the pits.”

  Ziyad's brow arched. “You’re a pit champion?”

  “No.” The orc tapped a fang. “But I have endured through countless battles and have earned a name back through blood and shackles. I broke my bonds and clawed my way east. Been trying to find my way home ever since.”

  Michael stiffened. “Wait. In the City of Chains… Did you ever come across a man—tall, brown hair, dressed in rags, a foreigner who wields twin blades that change shape?”

  The orc blinked. “Of course.” He then gave a short laugh and nodded solemnly. “I know him.”

  He raised his chained arms and clenched a fist. “He beat me in the final bout of the Festival.”

  The others exchanged glances, eyes wide.

  “He freed me and a few others in the night that followed, ” the orc continued. “An odd one, that boy. If not for him, I’d still be a dog in chains.”

  Ziyad’s voice was low. “So he made it.”

  The orc turned to them fully now, pride in his stance. “I am Ka’laar of the Shahr Zulm?n. I owe a debt to the one you call Godric.”

  Michael met his eyes. “Then you owe it to more than just him.”

  Ka’laar smirked. “Then you are welcome to join me in my journey to find my home.”

  The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting the dunes in molten gold as the four figures trudged across the sands. Their footsteps left no trace against the ever-shifting sea of grit, and the wind howled softly as if whispering secrets buried for centuries.

  Ka’laar moved at the head of their formation, his chained armor clinking faintly with each step. The others followed behind, silent for a time—until Michael finally spoke.

  “You should know,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “Godric didn’t end up in Azane by chance.”

  Ka’laar glanced over his shoulder. “Go on.”

  Xhiamas walked with his arms folded behind his back. “We were sent here on behalf of Primera. A war brews on our shores—a dark one. Godric’s mission was to seek aid from Azane’s fractured clans. Unite them.”

  Ka’laar slowed to a halt, turning to face them. “Unite Azane?” He chuckled dryly. “A foreigner trying to gather the clans is a fool’s errand. We barely trust each other.”

  Ziyad tilted his head. “You’re not wrong. But Godric isn’t just any foreigner.”

  Michael met Ka’laar’s eyes. “He’s believed to be the Uhrihim—the one spoken of in your oldest legends. The Stranger, reincarnated in human flesh.”

  Ka’laar’s expression darkened. “You speak those words easily.”

  “We do not take them lightly,” Xhiamas said. “He didn’t, either. He is carrying the burden alone. Thought he had to earn every answer before daring to ask for help.”

  Ka’laar looked down at his chained wrists, remembering. “That explains it,” he murmured. “He disappeared immediately after we parted ways in Khamsura's Hollow. Just vanished like a ghost.” He tightened his grip. “But he moved like someone who had found his purpose.”

  The group pressed on, the wind swirling around them in slow, rising gusts.

  Ka’laar continued, “He could have accepted to join the ranks of the Qadarin. Become a lord. Earned coin. Glory. A place in any warband. But he refused.”

  Ziyad looked toward the horizon. “That sounds like him.”

  Ka’laar nodded, then gave a small grin. “If he's truly the one you say he is… then the clans have no choice but to listen.”

  Michael raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

  “Because Azane respects tradition above all else, despite hidden plans and animosity. ” Ka’laar said, turning toward the towering shadowed cliffs in the distance.

  He pointed to the black-stone spires rising from the earth like spears. “And if the Chieftain of the Shahr Zulm?n sees a fire in his eyes, he might just rally a mountain of warriors to his cause.”

  The wind picked up.

  And in the far distance, the smoke plumes of a stronghold peeked over the final ridge.

  The sun dipped low behind the dunes, casting long, jagged shadows over the sands as the travelers crested the final ridge. What awaited them beyond stole the breath from Michael’s lungs.

  The stronghold of the Shahr Zulm?n unfolded before them, carved into the stone cliffs and spreading outward like a defiant wound upon the land. Towers of black iron and sun-bleached bone rose high into the sky, bound together by leather straps, thick ropes, and wooden scaffolding—chaotic at first glance, yet deeply intentional. Smoke rose from forges embedded into the canyon walls, while massive drums beat at intervals, their deep tones echoing across the valley.

  It was not a city of refinement—it was a city of endurance.

  A citadel born of survival.

  “By the Divines,” Michael muttered. “This place…”

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Ka’laar said proudly, slowing his steps. “Crafted by blood, fire, and war. The stronghold of my people. The last unyielding bastion of the Shahr Zulm?n.”

  Ziyad gave an approving nod. “Orc design… as brutal as it is beautiful.”

  From the cliffs above, movement stirred.

  Two war trolls, their gray-green skin gleaming in the light, leapt down from the ridgeline, landing with thunderous weight. Their armor was adorned with bone charms and braided hair from past victories. They approached warily—until their eyes fell upon Ka’laar.

  One of them squinted. “Is that—”

  “It’s Ka’laar!” the other bellowed, and the two war trolls rushed forward.

  The reunion was swift. Fists clasped. Foreign tongues. A dozen gruff words exchanged before Ka’laar was hoisted up, halfway carried, halfway marched toward the gates. Michael and the others moved to follow—only to find themselves stopped by a line of orc warriors.

  Six of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Towering, scarred, and silent.

  “Halt,” the lead orc growled.

  Michael’s hand instinctively found Fortitude’s hilt—but he stopped himself.

  “They’re with me,” Ka’laar called back, twisting in the grip of his kin. “Let them through!”

  “No foreigner enters the city without the Chieftain’s word,” said the orc in front of them, unmoved.

  “But they helped me fend off the Shivarak!”

  “And yet they carry the scent of another banner.” The orc glared at Michael. "And this one carries the scent of a foreign land, reeking with magic."

  The gates behind them creaked open, revealing the blazing heart of the stronghold. Roars and drums echoed within.

  Ka’laar hesitated. “Then bring them in as my guests!”

  The lead orc crossed his arms. “Only the Chieftain may decide that.”

  Michael stepped forward, controlled but unflinching. “Then take us to him.”

  The warrior sneered. “You don’t request audiences here, outsider. You survive your worth. Wait.”

  Without another word, the gates closed behind Ka’laar and the trolls. The wind picked up around the cliff base, stirring dust in heavy gusts.

  The trio stood before the sealed gates of the Shahr Zulm?n, denied entry but not defeated.

  Ziyad narrowed his eyes. “So… how do we convince a chieftain who doesn’t want to see us?”

  Xhiamas exhaled slowly. “We wait. And when the test comes, we pass.”