“In Lycar’s heart, the Selvian wastes stretch wide,

  ‘Twixt Sariz and Dethos, where ancient terrors hide.

  A realm of echoes, where life treads sparse and slow,

  Where sandwyrms hunt, and brave men dare not go.

  Beneath the tyrant sun, dunes shimmer like molten glass,

  Each breath a heartbeat from inferno’s mass.

  Through deep sands, wyrms weave, death’s own deadly tune,

  Lords of the mirage, beneath both sun and moon.

  Yet in this crucible of flame and burning fear,

  Bold souls still seek what whispers ancient and dear.

  Some for treasures beneath the scorched earth’s face,

  Others, chasing dreams, for distant lands embrace.”

  – Fintale, Our World in Words

  Covered head to toe in desert garb, Ifthal and Dara crouched low in the searing sands, hiding in the shadows of the towering dunes around them. Or, at least, that was what they hoped to achieve.

  Waiting. Watching.

  The harsh winds of the Selvian desert swept mercilessly through their hair, filling their nostrils with the earthy scent of parched soil.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Dara whispered, her gaze never leaving the nomads before them, a huddled mass of shades of gray and brown. Her tone oozed disdain and fascination, the same mix that Ifthal had often seen on people’s faces when they ogled disfigured beggars. “How different their lives are. So close to us, and yet so far away.” Dara shook her head in disbelief.

  He glanced at her, noted the way the desert sun caught in her eyes, turning them into molten gold. Hard not to notice, to be fair. Ifthal nodded warily and felt a pang of sadness at her harsh judgment. “Different, yes,” His gaze followed hers to the group of desert dwellers. “But not lesser. Not necessarily.”

  “Look,” Dara’s whispered urging was unnecessary. Ifthal was already watching as the A’kari gathered around an odd formation in the sand. A protrusion he would likely have passed without a thought, under different circumstances. It still took him a moment to realize what it was—a crude altar, weathered by the elements. Or rather, an ancient pile of sun-bleached bones shaped uncannily like an altar, upon which a recently slaughtered goat lay, blood soaking into the sand beneath it.

  “Different,” Ifthal murmured, echoing his earlier thoughts. This was what they were looking for. What they had been tasked to do. Suddenly, his gaze was focused, the playful demeanor that so often accompanied his words gone. He watched the nomads with renewed interest.

  “Animal sacrifice,” Dara muttered, gaze fixed on the gathered men and women. “A barbaric custom.”

  Ifthal briefly glanced over to her, trying to catch her face in the dim light between the dunes. He immediately wished he had not. Her usually calm and unflappable face was distorted into a grimace. Even his brief glance told him everything he needed to know about Dara’s stance on these people.

  He was not even angry. How could he be, in his position. Not angry. Just sad.

  “That’s not barbarism. That’s fear,” he chided her, not unkindly, “They just seek protection, Dara. In a desert, you cling to whatever hope you can find. I can sympathize. Life—survival—comes first. Everything else, everything, comes a distant second.”

  From the frown on Dara’s face, Ifthal knew it had not been enough to sway her. Yet before she could retort, a low rumble echoed from the bowels of the desert. Beneath Ifthal, the ground shook gently, sand grains tumbling down the dune on which they lay in rivulets. Despite these changes warring for his attention, he kept his gaze straight on the altar, taking in the scene.

  The nomads had frozen in their places. Bodies rigid, breaths held. Just when Ifthal thought this earthquake was the sign the A’kari had been coming for, a scaly shape emerged from the shifting dunes.

  Sand everywhere. Erupting from the ground, scattering to all sides, streaming down an uncurling shadow in its midst.

  It was huge.

  Its monstrous form dwarfed the nomads easily, slitted eyes glinting in the dying light of the day.

  “A sandwyrm...” Ifthal’s voice faltered to a whisper. His eyes widened at the sight of the colossal creature. Of course, he knew about sandwyrms. He prided himself on being educated, after all. Maybe not as much as the First but that was why he was not the First, was he now? He had read about the beasts. This one seemed even larger than the ones described in the stories. A creature from old Lycarian legends, the embodiment of the desert’s wrath. Seldom seen by mortal eyes. At least seldomly reported by said eyes, Ifthal corrected, noticing the razor-sharp fangs of the sandwyrm as he bared them at his convocation.

  All conversation, between them as well as among the nomads, hushed as the attention of the whole world—well, the whole world in this strip of forlorn desert—watched the wyrm approach the goat.

  Thump, thump.

  Even from their vantage point, Ifthal could feel every pondering step the beast made on its journey toward the altar. Now just a few sandwyrm-sized paces away, the nomads seemed rooted to their spots, a blend of fear and reverence etched on their faces. The wyrm considered them for but a moment, its gaze sweeping over them disinterestedly, before it descended on the goat. One talon grabbed the carcass and flung it upwards. Then, with an inexplicably elegant lunge, the head of the sandwyrm snapped forward and snatched the goat out of the air, swallowing it whole.

  “Observe, Dara,” Ifthal whispered, even though his voice was carried away by the relentless wind. “The lengths desperation drives us to.”

  As if pushed by an unseen force, the A’kari suddenly fell to their knees, heads bowed low in submission. The creature raised its spiked head in response and released a throbbing roar that echoed off the dunes. Just when Ifthal thought it was over, the creature blasted a lance of flames into the darkening sky.

  As if it basked in their tribute. He watched the nomads begin their slow retreat, still prostrated. From his concealed vantage point, the A’kari looked like grains of sand that were gently pulled away by the wind. Their movements were painstakingly measured, as if each backward slide was a note in a choreographed dance of humility. Perhaps it was. The sandwyrm merely watched them out of swirling eyes.

  Whispered prayers reached Ifthal’s ears, a distant hum carried on the fickle desert wind.

  “That... was not something I ever expected to witness,” Dara admitted in a voice filled with a reverence that mirrored the nomads. “Worshipping bones, sacrificing animals.” She turned to Ifthal with a questioning look on her face. “Is this the society we seek to understand?”

  While Ifthal kept his gaze on the spectacle, he responded softly, “Our mission here is to observe—to learn—not to judge. Each culture carries both wisdom and folly. The A’kari have made this barren waste their home for hundreds of years and still survive. It seems we have much to learn yet from them.” Ifthal continued to consider the departing figures of the nomads, as they faded away like shadows at dusk. Until the sandwyrm finally spanned its wings and, in a great upheaval of sand, left the sacred site.

  After they exchanged a glance, Ifthal and Dara rose to their feet and dusted off their garments, their bodies casting long, distorted shadows across the dunes. They left their watch post and, with them, Ifthal’s shadows left too. As they began their journey back to the city, the setting sun painted the sky before them in hues of crimson and gold, transforming the surrounding Selvian desert into a sea of fire.

  “I still find their reverence curious,” Dara mused with a distant look in her eyes, mentally still lingering on the spectacle. “In the face of such destructive power, they choose submission rather than defiance. Why? It’s not like that beast is bringing them water or anything.”

  “Perhaps that’s exactly the point,” Ifthal countered, eyes downcast on the treacherous path. They had lost more than one sand-scout to quicksand or dune slides recently. “In the harsh reality of the desert, they’ve found a deity in their deadliest threat—a paradox for sure, but maybe one that lends them strength for survival.” He turned to his companion and a slightly bitter edge crept into his voice, “Remember one thing, Dara. At least they chose their own god.”

  They continued their conversation as they neared the city. Ifthal always enjoyed the lively back-and-forth with Dara. They usually had very different opinions on subjects, but he had found—over his years in this world—that this was no indicator for the quality of a conversation. More and more, he valued the simple willingness to engage, to consider, to probe. And engage Dara did.

  While they talked, the city slowly revealed itself behind the dunes. On one side, she was hemmed in by the unforgiving desert, while the Tailfin Mountains towered toward her back. Like a child tugging at the skirts of their mother. The fringes of the city were dotted with men sparring in the training fields. Grunts and the clash of weapons cut through the desert’s silence as Ifthal and Dara approached the city gates. They passed and the city enveloped them. Soon, the gentle sounds of the desert were replaced by the rhythmic symphony of pickaxes, echoing through the mining quarters.

  “It seems like an entirely different world here,” Dara noted as she watched a group of children play in a dirty side alley. “From nomads to the people living within these walls in just a few hours. It’s hard to believe they’re part of the same continent, the same stretch of land even. It just took us a brisk walk to pass from one world into the next.”

  “Contrast is the very essence of life, Dara,” Ifthal responded as he took in the vibrant city life. He had always loved cities, always fed on the myriad, ever-present details in their daily life. He breathed in deeply. “Our purpose here is to understand these contrasts,” he continued. “To unravel the intricacies of their lives, as the First put it. For in understanding them, we can better serve our cause.”

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  Their path had taken them through the city’s most labyrinthine streets—grown naturally over the centuries—all the way to the Granite quarter, where their destination lay. At the grand council chamber, they parted ways. For a while.

  Ifthal, the senior operative of the two, had been tasked with immediately reporting to the council upon their return, while Dara was to write a detailed report for the archives. They arranged to meet down in the tavern later in the evening. Ifthal let his eyes linger on her vanishing figure in the womb of the cavernous building. Then he ascended the worn stairs to the inner chamber.

  He opened the heavyset doors and stepped into a vast, domed room. The council appeared to already be in session.

  Ifthal remembered when he had first entered this chamber. Just having arrived in the city. Tired, hungry, uncertain. Being overwhelmed by a masterpiece. The whole room was adorned with murals that told the history of the city, all her triumphs and trials, reaching back to the time of Selvi himself. An impressive sight on any day. On the other side of the room—same as on that first day—stood a long, curved table made from polished dark wood. Seated around it was the ruling council. His ruling council.

  Opposite Ifthal sat Margrave Eldun, scepter of office laying before him, a man as formidable as the city he governed. You did not rule a city at the edge of the world without pure iron in your spine, after all. Seated next to him was a scarred woman, whose sharp eyes and steely demeanor radiated so much power and natural command that it threatened to overshadow the Margrave. Vela, the First’s right hand and his representative during his absence from the city. Not a woman to cross.

  “Ifthal,” Vela’s command resonated through the chamber. “The scouts announced your return. Welcome back. Report.”

  Note who speaks first in this assembly, Ifthal thought. “Very well,” he nodded. He took a final moment to gather his thoughts before he began. “Following up on our last excursion, we again went out to one of the rocky outcrops in the desert expanse, a few hours southeast of here. We successfully tracked the nomads and observed them during their ceremony.” He paused for a moment. “But it wasn’t like anything we’ve expected. The A’kari gathered around what seemed to be... an altar. It was just a pile of bones, really, sun-bleached and worn by desert winds. But they must have built it. The structure looked like it was at least several decades old.”

  There was a stir around the council table at his words. Ifthal tried to let his eyes meet everyone around the table during his tale, but he kept being drawn back to Vela, taking in her reaction. Framed by cropped blonde hair, her face appeared unmoved. Her piercing gaze never wavered, not once.

  After a short pause to let the information sink in, he continued. “They offered a sacrifice to this... deity of theirs? A goat. Looked like it was killed on the altar. The blood was everywhere, seeping into the sands, staining them a dark red.” He continued, keeping his tone level despite the gruesome scene in his memory. “Then, it came.” He paused again. A slight smile played on Ifthal’s lips. He really could not help it.

  “Go on,” Margrave Eldun urged, leaning forward with interest and a bit of impatience.

  “A sandwyrm,” Ifthal continued and let his voice echo in the now completely silent council chamber. Satisfied, he noted how all eyes were on him, waiting for his next words. “It rose from the dunes, acknowledged the nomads. I can only describe the reaction of the A’kari as reverence. Then, the creature consumed the offered sacrifice. It really seemed like some kind of exchange. The A’kari fell to their knees, heads bowed low in submission. After that, they disengaged and it was over.”

  The council members remained speechless for a moment, processing the new information. While their expressions were hard to read in the shadowed chamber, their excitement was evident. Furtive glances were exchanged among colleagues, and murmurs slowly rose throughout the grand room.

  The cascading chatter was eventually broken by Councilor Miran. The old man was a scholar at heart and Ifthal knew his insatiable thirst for knowledge. Miran pounded on the table in front of him with a gnarled fist. Silence re-established itself.

  “Most curious,” he mused. “This behavior aligns with descriptions of ancient bone-worshiping cultures mentioned in our libraries, even before the desert. Maybe the A’kari of today have more in common with the old steppe tribes than we thought. It appears there is much we don’t know yet about these nomads.”

  “Indeed, councilor,” Margrave Eldun grunted his agreement. “Our understanding of this part of the desert, it seems, is ever evolving. We should connect these new findings with recorded sandwyrm sightings! Perhaps the beasts travel with the A’kari.”

  After joining the Gathering—or, rather, being made to join by the First—Ifthal had quickly learned about some of the alliances in the council and beyond. One of the first relationships he had noted was that of Miran and Eldun, who had already been working together long before the Gathering, before the First had convinced the Margrave to transform his city into his experiment. It seemed the Margrave had a soft spot for history, especially old history. Probably not a coincidence that they had found refuge here.

  He noticed Vela, taking stock of the reactions to his account, before she settled her gaze back on Ifthal. “Fascinating,” she deadpanned. “But this revelation, enlightening as it may be, must be put aside. Operation Desertclaw requires our full attention. Operation Sandscript is on hold. For now.”

  Ah, another thing he had learned. Vela did not agree with Eldun’s position as second-in-command, leading the Gathering after the First. In her view, it had been an unfortunate necessity to offer this arrangement to the Margrave, back when the Gathering started. A necessity she meant to slowly undo. So, as the conductor of Operation Desertclaw, she would likely use any opportunity to wield her position like a weapon, if it meant cutting down Eldun to size.

  There was a palpable shift in the room, from curious speculations to resolute somberness. The mention of Desertclaw did that to people. It was easy to forget what waited for them, living in their little desert paradise, a long way from the rest of the world. Not that he had a choice here. Reluctantly, Ifthal nodded and drowned his own curiosity with what was expected of him. With the weight of the task that lay ahead. They had all worked toward that, after all. “Understood,” he pressed out, “the research will be put on hold until after the operation.”

  Vela had the room under control. The only sounds of irritation emerged from the corner of Miran and Eldun, which were miraculously silenced with a sharp glance by the scarred woman. “Very well,” Vela finally announced as her attention fell back on Ifthal. “You’re dismissed, Ifthal. We’ll reconvene after Operation Desertclaw to revisit these findings. Report to Major-General Kaz for active duty tomorrow. You’re heading south with the rest.”

  Tomorrow already? With a nod, Ifthal rose from his chair, his departure casting long, wavering shadows on the stone floor. He could feel the eyes of the entire council on his back, as he strode out of the chamber. He kept his own eyes fixed on the mural atop the entrance, a miner striking a vein of gleaming copper. Behind him, the door creaked shut, sealing the council in their chamber of secrets and strategies.

  Outside, the city was alive in ways the council room was not. Could not. The city thrummed with life, energy, and noise. An orchestra of sounds reverberated through the streets. A group of children ran past him, their laughter a melodic overlay atop the rhythmic thud of blacksmith hammers and the indistinct chatter of the market. Workers returned from the mines, their bodies heavy with fatigue but eyes bright with the promise of a hot meal and a good night’s rest. A minstrel plucked a lute, adding to the symphony of a city that never slept. He took in all he could.

  Despite all these people, all this activity, Ifthal could not shake off a distinct sense of absence as he walked down the streets. Sure, the common people were all around, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer of his own kind. Not that they were ever many to begin with. A bitter aftertaste of the meeting with the council lingered and forced him to finally acknowledge that things were about to change. Again.

  He turned a corner, and a familiar sign swung into view. The Bronze Mermaid, a tavern known—and appreciated—among the Gathering for its inconspicuous nature and high-quality ale. Dara was already here, seated in a dim corner, her figure half-lit by the flickering lantern above. As Ifthal slid into the seat across from her, she raised an eyebrow in wordless question.

  “Well, the council is intrigued,” he began, summarizing the meeting as best he could. Dara held up her thumb, as she listened attentively, eyes reflecting the flame of the lantern and a spark of curiosity. “But,” he added, “our research is on hold. Desertclaw takes precedence.”

  Dara’s thumb turned downwards as her brows furrowed in the dim light. He could immediately tell that she was disappointed. She never hid these things. “But we’ve just made a major breakthrough, Ifthal,” Dara’s tone echoed her frustration and her fingers began to tap a restless rhythm on the worn wooden table. “They can’t just expect us to drop everything and shift focus entirely. You saw it too. They were worshipping that thing. The First was right on the mark. This could be huge!”

  He leaned back and studied her. Should he appeal to duty? To the greater good? He still did not know with her, sometimes. But before he could respond, Dara continued bitterly. “You know, for a group so committed to understanding, the council seems remarkably keen on forgetting.”

  Ifthal let out a slow breath and scanned the neighboring tables to make sure nobody could overhear them. The First might not be an intolerant man but Vela was a different matter entirely.

  He understood her frustration though, shared it even. But arguing about it was futile. Vela would not reconsider her position. Not for this. “There are times, Dara,” he finally replied, aiming for a conciliatory tone, “when we must pick up a thread and follow it, and times when we must set it aside. For a while. Even if we don’t like it.”

  Dara remained silent for a moment. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. This doesn’t come as a huge surprise. I received word, just before this. Troop mobilizations have begun while we were gone. We’ve seen parts of it outside the city walls,” she murmured. “Apparently, some of our people are already leaving for the south. It’s starting, Ifthal.” Dara looked up, the ghost of a sad smile on her face. “And I worry. I worry that this is far more of a threat than we might imagine now. For us. For everyone.”

  He glanced at Dara, her face cast in soft hues, eyes dark, almond-shaped pools. “We’ll get through this, Dara.” Carefully, Ifthal laid his hand on top of Dara’s. “Remember, we’re going through this together. Nothing can stop us if we keep that in mind. Let’s hope the world is ready for us,” he finally said and lifted his glass in a toast to an uncertain future.

  Dara returned his gesture and clinked her glass against his. “To hoping,” she said, and then, after a thoughtful pause, “and to drinking!” She grinned—uncertain, weak, but mischievously—and Ifthal laughed, joining her attempt to lighten the mood.

  “How about a different challenge!” he proposed, raising his cup again. It was an old, familiar game between them—that ritualized exchange of exclamations—one that regularly involved exaggerated groans of defeat, teasing jabs, and bursts of infectious laughter. For a few merciful hours, at least, the day’s events—the events to come—were momentarily forgotten, replaced by a carefree camaraderie.

  “Beware, Ifthal,” Dara teased as she finished her third drink and motioned for another. “This lady of the desert is not to be trifled with!”

  Ifthal raised an eyebrow in response and emptied his glass, setting it down with a decisive thud. “Nor is this man of the city,” he shot back and grinned broadly. And so the night wore on, filled with warm laughter and a seemingly endless supply of ale.

  Finally, leaving the warmth of the Bronze Mermaid behind, Ifthal and Dara began their slightly reeling journey home. The city was still alight, now with lanterns and torches, their warm glow painting the cobblestone streets in hues of orange and gold. The murmur of the bustling city around them was a familiar comfort, a cadence of distant laughter, whispers, and the occasional ruckus outside some tavern.

  As they walked, Dara’s hand found its way to his, their fingers intertwining with an ease born of familiarity. The couple made their way home through the labyrinthine streets, their shared silence a comfortable companion. ‘Home’ for them was a small house nestled within the city’s heart, a sanctuary from all their obligations and the ever-growing tension with the south.

  As they reached the door, Ifthal paused and let his eyes trace the familiar patterns carved into the wood. His days had changed so drastically since he had left his life in Tibara. Adopting a new identity, a new life.

  He still remembered. At first, his powers—once a seemingly unending surge—had been waxing and waning. It had been more than a little disconcerting. He could still remember that first plunge, the scary feeling of being naked and vulnerable.

  Dara squeezed his hand, her touch a grounding presence that pulled him back from his thoughts. He turned to look at her, features softly illuminated by the glow of the streetlamps. The weight of his thoughts seemed to lessen immediately. A soft smile graced Ifthal’s lips as he met Dara’s gaze. Knowing that no matter how the world changed, they had each other to rely on.

  He pulled out his key, unlocked the door, and welcomed the familiar scent of their home. As he stepped in, he left all the uncertainties of the council meeting, secret operations, and their future back at the doorstep.

  Tonight, it was just Dara and him. Just a couple in the never-sleeping city of Dethos, here in the shadows of the Tailfins, finding comfort and strength in each other.