Three firm knocks on the door, followed by a soldier’s voice:
— By order of Her Highness, the presence of the Shadows of the Crown is required immediately.
I dressed without thinking, my hands moving on instinct. Outside, the palace corridors pulsed with a disciplined silence: officers in short tunics ran with tablets in hand, the banners of Sel?nrah were lowered and replaced by golden insignias of campaign.
No one shouted. No one cried.
It was the kind of calm that only comes before storms.
When we entered the strategy hall, the Sultan was already standing.
She wore no veil, no adornments. Her black hair fell loose, a living shadow against her battle tunic—dark gray linen threaded with silver filaments.
Before her, a pool of water projected a tactical map: luminous lines spreading like veins across the sand.
Zayrah, Mahtani, and Irsah awaited us.
Their faces were the embodiment of Al-Rahad itself: tempered, solemn, unreadable.
The Sultan didn’t wait to speak.
— Eiswacht has crossed our borders. — Her voice was not alarmed, only certain. — They do not seek land. They seek what they lost.
The lights on the map shifted, showing the northern border: metallic columns advancing like a swarm.
— They’ve deployed resonance artillery — said Mahtani, her words heavy as lead. — Each projectile distorts the sand. Hybrid technology.
— They’ve chosen the most sensitive points — added Zayrah. — Where the earth still breathes.
The Sultan turned toward us.
— My Guardianas have already been deployed to the western and southern fronts. But you seven… — her gaze lingered on each of us, then stopped on me — …you will go to the epicenter.
— The Ser’dah Fault — whispered Irsah, and the name weighed like a forbidden prayer.
— Correct — the Sultan continued. — A line of trenches has opened there. Our tanks and armored units are holding the advance, but Eiswacht moves with drilling drones. We must drive them back before they reach the city.
The water’s surface projected miniature images: ivory tanks rolling through dunes, light helicopters with silver talismans dangling from their blades, cannons etched with ancient script.
The army of Al-Rahad.
Elegant. Precise. Devout.
But small against the relentless machinery that waited beyond the horizon.
The Sultan lowered her eyes to the water.
— This will not be a long war. But it will be one that is remembered.
I met Velka’s gaze. Then Caelia’s. Neyra’s. Zayrah, Mahtani, Irsah.
We all understood the same thing: it wasn’t a command. It was an early farewell.
Then, the Sultan gave her final order.
— Go with my Guardianas. Defend our land… and listen to whatever the sand chooses to tell you.
The water in the map vibrated for an instant.
Only a second.
Just long enough for me to feel the ground beneath my boots breathe.
The echo of the Sultan’s final order still lingered in the air as the corridors filled with motion.
Officers in reinforced tunics barked directions, banners were taken down from the walls, and the smell of temple incense mixed with fuel and iron.
We were escorted through a descending hallway beneath the palace until it opened into a marble platform bathed in the first light of dawn.
The convoy awaited us there.
Ivory-colored armored vehicles stood in precise rows, their sides etched with ancient inscriptions and protective seals.
Behind them, transport trucks loaded crates marked with runic sigils, while above, on an improvised helipad, two light helicopters turned their blades slowly, lifting gold dust into the air.
The soldiers of Al-Rahad didn’t shout orders—they sang them, in a language that sounded more like prayer than command.
Each unit checked their gear with the reverence of a ritual.
Among them, the Guardianas looked like calm lights amid the organized chaos.
Zayrah climbed into the first vehicle and gestured for us to follow.
— This one’s ours — she said, her voice firm against the growing roar of engines. — Ser’dah Fault, central sector.
Mahtani was next, reviewing the tactical map projected from her luminous tablet.
Irsah took her place beside her, closing the hatch with a sharp metallic thud.
I was the last to look back—toward the palace fading into the dust.
Azhara remained there, high above, motionless, a figure of silver and shadow watching the sunrise.
She didn’t raise her hand.
She didn’t need to.
The engine roared, deep and steady, and the convoy began to move.
The ground trembled beneath us, as if the desert itself had obeyed the order.
The vehicle rumbled through the dunes with a constant growl, as if the earth itself were breathing beneath the wheels.
Dawn painted the sky in dusty orange, and the wind lifted veils of sand that lashed against the armor.
Inside, the air smelled of oil, metal, and something else—an ancient blend of faith and fear that only exists before war.
No one spoke.
Zayrah, up front, kept her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her breathing was slow, methodical—almost a silent prayer.
Mahtani checked her equipment for the third time.
Irsah played with a small blue crystal pendant hanging from her neck, rolling it between her fingers in a hypnotic rhythm.
I didn’t need to hear them to understand.
It was the same kind of tension I had felt once in the mountains of Seravenn—that heavy stillness that clings to your chest and pretends to be discipline.
Velka was the first to break the silence.
— How bad could it be? — she murmured with a crooked smile. — Just sand, heat, and angry people.
Neyra let out a dry laugh.
— Don’t forget the shrapnel.
Caelia, without turning around, spoke calmly.
— Don’t underestimate the terrain. Sand is treacherous… like fear.
The three Guardianas glanced back at us.
Mahtani gave a faint, wry smile.
— We’ve… never been to a real front.
Zayrah nodded, her eyes steady but her hands tight on the console.
— We didn’t think the first time would be on our own soil.
Irsah, her voice barely above a whisper, added:
— There’s a first time for everything… even fear.
I looked at them, and before I could think, I answered softly:
— Fear isn’t conquered. It’s shared.
No one replied, but the looks they gave me had changed.
There was no distance anymore.
Only a single rhythm—one pulse, one breath.
The radio crackled with a metallic voice.
— Main trench in five kilometers. Prepare for descent.
The engine shifted tone.
And on the horizon, a column of black smoke rose—marking the beginning of the day… and of the war.
The engine’s roar was swallowed by something else.
First came a low hum—a vibration running through the ground. Then, the explosion.
The horizon flashed white.
The sound followed a heartbeat later—sharp, violent, shaking the armored shell around us.
— Caelia! — I shouted, but she was already moving.
Her hands rose by pure instinct, and the shield bloomed around the vehicle like a dome of liquid glass.
The blast hit the side—metal screamed, air turned to dust, and the vehicle lurched violently.
The barrier held—partially.
A luminous crack spread across its surface before fading into nothing.
The rest of the convoy wasn’t so lucky.
One of the transports behind us erupted—a flower of fire and sand blooming into the morning light.
Our vehicle skidded several meters before stopping, smoking and tilted.
Pain burned in my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was from the impact or the magical feedback still thrumming in my veins.
Caelia’s forehead was bleeding, but she stood firm, her hands still raised, the last fragments of the shield flickering between her fingers.
It had lasted longer this time—not because of fortune, but because the explosion had grazed the edge instead of striking the core.
— Anti-magic! — Mahtani’s voice cut through the static — They’re using anti-magic shells!
The air filled with metallic whines. Another impact. The sand exploded nearby.
Zayrah opened the roof hatch, scanning the front.
— Trench line, five hundred meters! We move, now!
We looked at each other. No one needed to speak.
Light surged beneath our skin—marks, scars, fragments of living radiance answering the call.
The heat of the sigil burned against my abdomen.
Blood of the Crown awoke like a contained sun.
One by one, we transformed.
The air turned electric. The desert quivered beneath our steps.
The Guardianas leapt out of the vehicle too—
But they were no longer the immaculate figures of the temple.
Zayrah staggered as her boots hit the sand. Mahtani’s breathing was ragged, each inhale heavier than the last.
Irsah stared ahead, eyes distant, as if she were hearing an ancient prayer between the thunder of gunfire.
We took cover behind the charred hull of the vehicle.
The detonations kept coming—like a monstrous drumbeat.
The sky had become smoke and iron.
— Move! — I shouted, gripping my sword. The blade pulsed, hungry.
Caelia pushed forward, her shield shimmering ahead of us.
Velka charged beside her, crimson light flaring from her blade.
Neyra wove illusions that unraveled with every blast, buying us precious seconds.
The sand swallowed us. The heat struck our faces.
And through it all—
Fear, that old companion, breathed right beside us.
The air smelled of iron, ozone, and fear.
We ran toward the trenches under the constant roar of artillery.
The sand burned beneath our boots, trembling with every blast. Al-Rahad’s cannons answered in the distance, but the rhythm was broken—uneven—like the desert itself was breathing in pain.
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We were no longer passengers.
We were light in the dust.
Our transformations flickered in and out between the smoke columns, flashes of color in the haze.
No helmets. No armor. No human weapons.
Only living magic clinging to our skin, our breathing syncing to the pulse of war.
Caelia was the first to shout.
—“Cover at three o’clock! Move in line!”
Neyra followed, her tone sharp, almost military.
—“Formation Delta! No one gets separated!”
The Guardians —Mahtani, Zayrah, and Irsah— ran beside us.
Zayrah hurled dense waves of sand that swallowed incoming projectiles.
Mahtani raised both hands, weaving walls of light that flickered every time a rune-charged bullet struck.
Irsah whispered prayers that trembled through the air, dulling the panic creeping into our veins.
Velka ran behind me, gasping, still managing a crooked grin.
—“This isn’t a battlefield, it’s a slaughterhouse. Remind me who booked the tour to hell?”
A blast nearby threw us to the ground. The world went white.
Pressure crushed my chest; metal flooded my mouth.
The dust burned down my throat.
For a heartbeat, sound disappeared.
Only lips moving, eyes widening, bodies crawling for cover.
Caelia grabbed my arm and dragged me behind a cracked stone wall.
Her shield flickered to life again, a ripple of blue light.
The next explosion struck the front line, and the barrier held—barely.
I caught Mahtani’s voice through the ringing in my ears:
—Anti-magic Again! This damn shell are a real pain
Zayrah spat grit, her face streaked with sweat and dust.
—Trenches—twenty meters ahead! Follow my signal!
We moved as one.
Velka sprinted first, her crimson blade cutting through the smoke.
Neyra covered the flank with illusions, confusing enemy sensors.
Caelia reinforced the soldiers’ shields as we advanced.
I just kept pace—heart hammering, explosions drowning every thought.
We reached the main trench.
Al-Rahad soldiers looked up at us—half in awe, half in despair.
Their weapons glowed with cracked runes, their uniforms soaked in sweat and blood.
Mahtani dropped in first, her voice slicing through the noise:
—General Mahir! Situation report!
A dust-covered man with a bandaged arm shouted back:
—Light tanks from the north! Infantry pushing through the valley! We’re losing the left flank!
Caelia nodded without hesitation.
—Neyra, with him! Velka, right flank with me! Lyss, on high ground—saturate their advance with magic!
The orders cut clean through the chaos.
I climbed the nearest ridge—what was left of a scorched vehicle half-buried in the sand. From there, the whole front opened before me: smoke, fire, silhouettes moving through the dust like ghosts too stubborn to die.
—Lyss, high position. Now,” Caelia ordered from below.
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me anymore.
I knelt at the edge. The rifle appeared in my hands as if the air itself remembered it. The barrel—dark, long, and alive—pulsed with a red, corrosive glow. My magic of rancor coiled along the weapon, devouring even the metal it touched, leaving behind the scent of burnt iron.
I aimed.
Through the scope, the world became a narrow, trembling line.
A light tank moved between the smoke pillars. Soldiers ran beside its armor, shouting orders.
I exhaled.
Fired.
The shot hit the side cleanly. No explosion—just corrosion.
The metal twisted in on itself, melting like flesh.
The tank collapsed under its own weight, the turret spinning wildly before it caved in.
Another.
Further ahead, a squad running through ruins.
I pulled the trigger.
The ground beneath them turned liquid for a heartbeat, swallowing them whole with a single, wet snap.
To my right, Neyra’s magic flared as she redirected enemy fire.
Farther ahead, Velka tore through the battlefield, her crimson blade cutting the air like a comet.
Caelia held the defensive line, her shield expanded to protect what remained of Al-Rahad’s soldiers.
The Guardians, scattered across the chaos, lent their power to ours—threads of divine energy holding back the inevitable.
I focused again.
The wind roared, the shells screamed.
Then, silence—too sudden, too perfect.
I saw it.
A faint glint, cold and sharp, across the valley.
A reflection.
Sniper.
My heart jumped.
The bullet came almost at the same time as the thought.
Instinct took over. I lifted my arm, channeling—
The round evaporated midair, inches from my face, dissolved by a corrosive wave that left my skin burning.
No breath. No hesitation.
I turned, aimed, and fired back.
My shot tore through the wind with a low hum.
The glint vanished.
A shape fell seconds later, sliding lifeless down the dune.
My hands shook—not from fear, but from anger.
The scar on my abdomen pulsed hot, and the voice of Sangre de la Corona hissed through my mind:
“Do not hesitate. Do not forgive.”
—“Lyss, left side!” Neyra shouted.
I swung the rifle and fired again, stopping a squad that had broken formation.
The air turned orange with fire and dust.
The soldiers of Al-Rahad shouted prayers between bursts of gunfire, and in their voices I heard something strange: they didn’t see us as saviors.
We were the line—nothing more.
Caelia’s command ripped through the noise:
—“Hold the line! Do not break!”
And as my rifle burned against my palms, I realized something simple and cruel:
sand, blood, and magic all smelled the same.
Like vengeance.
The air had turned into a living creature.
Everything we breathed smelled of gunpowder and fear.
From my vantage point, I saw Caelia move like a blue shadow, her shield spreading in a perfect arc, deflecting shrapnel and bullets with a near-divine gleam.
Neyra crouched among the ruins, tracing routes on the ground with her analytical magic—her mind a map that turned chaos into order.
Velka guarded her flank, leaping between shattered pillars, her crimson blade aflame, laughing between ragged breaths each time an enemy fell.
The Guardianas endured.
Zayrah molded the living sand into ephemeral walls;
Mahtani raised shields of light that flared like temporary suns;
Irsah knelt in prayer, her hands glowing faintly as she dulled the pain of the wounded crying within the trenches.
The Al-Rahad front was holding—barely.
And then, I felt it.
A shift.
The roar of the sky.
—“Aircraft!” —Neyra’s voice cut through the wind.
I looked up.
They were fast—too fast. Black wings marked with the sigil of Eiswacht streaked overhead, leaving behind a vibration that made the air itself tremble.
The anti-air alarms screamed to life, but it was already too late.
—“Take cover!” —Caelia shouted.
Zayrah’s arms rose, and a wall of sand enveloped us in a golden veil.
The sky split open.
They weren’t bombs.
They were metallic spheres—silent, fireless—falling like heavy tears.
When they touched the ground, they didn’t explode.
They shone.
A white pulse.
Then another.
And another.
The world shrank into a sharp, piercing hum.
My rifle slipped from my hands. My blood burned in my veins. The scar under my abdomen throbbed like it was being torn open.
And then I heard it.
It wasn’t a sound.
It was something tearing through the air. A long, low shriek, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
It wasn’t human.
It wasn’t animal.
It was the desert itself, screaming with an ancient voice.
The ground shook.
Caelia called my name. Velka collapsed to her knees.
The Guardianas looked to one another, their auras cracking like glass.
And that shriek kept echoing, as if the whole world had inhaled at once—remembering something it should have forgotten.
The dunes rippled. The earth pulsed.
An invisible wave tore across the battlefield.
The Eiswacht aircraft retreated, leaving behind a silence so heavy it hurt.
A silence that wasn’t natural.
A silence that listened.
I fell sideways, the taste of iron on my tongue.
My ears rang with static and dread.
That wasn’t a bomb.
They had touched something sleeping beneath the sand.
And now—
it was awake.
The silence after the bombardment didn’t last.
It never does.
The roar of engines came back like a second heartbeat—tanks and transports from Eiswacht pushing through the haze, their cannons turning toward the horizon.
The sky still vibrated from the strike, the air rippling with heat as if the world itself were breathing in spasms.
Caelia moved first, her body tense, her face streaked with soot and blood.
—“On your feet!” she shouted, raising her shield in a sharp motion. “We’re not giving them a single inch!”
Zayrah slammed her spear into the ground, and the desert answered. Pillars of sand rose in front of the tanks, halting their treads.
Mahtani raised her light barrier, though even her magic trembled under the pulse of the lingering anti-magic field.
Velka, panting, hurled herself forward with a furious cry, cutting through the storm toward the advancing line.
Neyra, regaining her composure, started barking coordinates and orders between the thunder of explosions.
I ran with them.
The rifle burned across my back; the sword in my hand throbbed with that humid, living glow of the Blood of the Crown.
Gunfire whistled past, the air thick with ozone and dust.
A blast went off nearby. The shockwave hit me square in the chest—I fell to my knees.
Caelia stepped in front of me, her shield sparking under pressure.
—“Up, Lyss! Now’s not the time!”
I nodded and forced myself upright.
Zayrah roared a prayer. Her spear struck the earth again, and the sand rose into a blazing storm, swallowing the flanks.
Neyra’s voice rang through the comms:
—“Left side! Suppression fire! Velka, cover Mahtani!”
—“On it!” Velka shouted back, half laughing, half gasping.
The enemy line faltered.
Tanks slowed, soldiers fell, the air itself melting around them under the blend of magic and metal.
Then the ground began to shake again.
Zayrah turned, her eyes wide.
—“No…” she whispered. “Not again.”
A fissure split open just meters away.
Amber light pulsed from within, beating like a heart.
And then came the hands—giant, carved in stone, marked with glowing runes.
The constructs.
But they weren’t the same.
They were bigger now—faster—and their energy was darker, tainted by the chaos of the strike.
The first one emerged beside us and swung its arm, cleaving an Eiswacht tank clean in two.
The second crushed an Al-Rahad gun emplacement without hesitation.
—“They don’t care who we are!” Neyra shouted.
I ran forward, the sword vibrating in my grip, crimson light flickering like a wound refusing to close.
—“Caelia, full barrier!”
She nodded, her shield expanding until it trembled under its own force.
I fired burst after burst—each corrosive round cracking into the stone flesh, burning holes that hissed and sealed back over.
Fighting them was like trying to kill the desert itself.
Zayrah and Mahtani joined forces. The ground caved beneath the constructs, the light turning unbearably white.
Velka screamed and tore through one of the monsters’ legs; it collapsed like a collapsing tower, screaming without lungs.
—“Lyss, the rift!” Neyra’s voice came through the static. “Break the source, or they’ll never stop!”
I ran.
The earth pulsed like a dying heart.
Every step was a tremor in my bones.
The fissure glowed ahead—a liquid shimmer, alive and wrong.
I raised the rifle.
Fired.
The projectile of rancor hit dead center.
For a second, the world went silent.
And then it collapsed.
Black light.
Sand spinning in vortexes.
The constructs froze, convulsed… and shattered.
The wind exhaled a long, trembling sigh.
The battlefield was nothing but smoke, ash, and bodies.
I fell onto the burning sand.
Velka reached me first, laughing with a broken voice.
—“You’re still alive,” she rasped. “Then the war’s not over yet.”
I almost smiled.
The sky growled in the distance.
And I knew—that wasn’t an ending.
It was the breath of something we still didn’t understand.
The desert wind kept blowing long after the gunfire had faded.
Over the battlefield, smoke stretched into pale columns, tangled with the light of dawn.
The soldiers of Al-Rahad gathered the fallen, counted ammunition, or simply stared at the horizon—unsure whether to thank or fear the fact that they were still alive.
Among the cracked earth, the sand moved on its own, breathing softly, as if the world itself was dreaming.
Far from the frontlines, deep beneath the stone refuge carved in black rock, Yareen opened her eyes.
The shriek had reached her.
Not as sound, but as a pulse—something that crawled through bone and blood.
An old voice. A familiar one.
She smiled.
Slowly. Patiently.
—“So… you’re still here,” she murmured, her tone a silk thread drawn across glass. “After all this time.”
Her figure stood framed by the dim light of the lanterns.
For an instant, the dark veil that hid her face slipped, revealing a smile that did not belong to the sane.
In front of her, Ashad knelt.
Mareike and Ilse stood to the side, their necks still marked with the black veins of her last warning.
The air itself seemed to fear her—it refused to move.
—“My lady… you heard it too?” Ashad dared to ask, never raising his head.
Yareen rose.
Her shadow lengthened until it touched the walls.
—“I didn’t hear it,” she corrected. “I felt it.”
“Sadness has a sound, you know. One you recognize, even after centuries.”
She walked to the arched window of the refuge.
Outside, the dawn painted the desert red, and the wind carried the scent of war.
—“Nerys…” she whispered the name like forbidden wine.
“You always were good at hiding. But the dead… don’t sleep forever.”
Turning back to her followers, her eyes gleamed with quiet fire.
—“Prepare everything. If the earth screamed, it means the gate is about to open.”
—“To where, my lady?” Ilse’s voice trembled.
Yareen lowered herself slightly, her fingers brushing the stone beneath her feet.
A vibration rippled through the chamber, deep and alive, as if the rock itself answered her.
—“Home.”
Her smile curved, soft and lethal.
—“We’re going to reclaim what’s ours.”
Her laughter followed the wind into the desert.
And for a brief moment… even the sand seemed to bow.