The days in the Althera Desert passed swiftly, yet each one carried weight. The golden sands, shimmering beneath the relentless sun, stood silent witness to the growing preparations for war and the intense training that followed.
Kirana, once a commander shaped by conventional strategy, now faced an entirely new challenge. Zephyr, the enigmatic Desert Ninja, had taken it upon himself to mentor her. His fighting style—swift, deceptive, and carved from survival—was unlike anything she had known. He began teaching her Shaqu'ira, the battle discipline of the Altheran tribes: a dance of sand, wind, and shadow.
That afternoon, beneath the blistering sun, Kirana hit the ground hard while attempting an aerial twist Zephyr had demonstrated moments before. She coughed, spitting out a mouthful of sand, then let out a breathless laugh.
"You make it look effortless, Zephyr. I feel like I'm wrestling my own bones," she said, half-amused, half-frustrated.
Zephyr's voice carried a teasing calm. "I breathe as the desert breathes, Kirana. The sand is my ally. The shadows are my kin. You haven't yet heard the voice of the desert—that is your struggle."
Kirana raised a brow. "The voice of the desert? You're starting to sound like a poet."
Zephyr stepped closer, his silver eyes locking onto hers, this time completely serious. "Althera is not just sand. It lives. It speaks. Listen to the whispers in the wind, the trails the dunes leave behind. The desert tells you everything. Battle isn't only power; it is oneness with your terrain."
Kirana closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath. She let the wind graze her skin, let her body relax into the shifting rhythm of the sands. Her movement shifted—from forced precision to fluid instinct. Each motion became a balance of grace and danger, guided by something deeper than skill.
Zephyr watched her in rare silence, awe softening his usually unreadable expression. In that moment, she seemed like a living echo of the Desert Goddess, the ancient spirit the elders whispered about around sacred fires.
The moment shattered when a warrior sprinted toward them, panic etched across his face.
"Zephyr! Kirana! News from the west!"
Zephyr turned sharply. "Speak."
"The Edenan forces have expanded. The villages near the Skarion Crater have fallen. They submitted under the threat of Edena's weapons. At this rate, Althera will be the last line of defense on the Aravex Continent."
Kirana's chest tightened. "So it's only a matter of time. If we fall, Edena will cross the seas. The other continents... they don't even know this war has begun."
Zephyr's jaw set. "That is what haunts me. We're not fighting for sand—we are fighting for the world."
That night, the leaders of the Tarchan Tribe gathered inside the Grand Tent. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows across faces filled with worry yet solid with resolve.
Orath, the chieftain—an elder with a silver beard and a voice like shifting stone—spoke first. "Children of the sands, this desert has shielded us for generations. Now it calls for our defense. If Edena conquers Althera, they will consume all. We must stand together."
Zephyr stepped forward. "The Tarchan Tribe has never bent to fear. But this battle will demand everything we have. Kirana has learned our ways. She brings the world's knowledge beyond these dunes. Together, we will unleash a fury Edena has never faced."
Kirana rose beside him, her voice steady and strong. "Edena may wield advanced tech, but they do not understand this land. The desert is on our side. We must use it: sever their supply lines, ambush their convoys, force them into retreat. This isn't just their war. It is our fight to survive."
Orath nodded solemnly. "Zephyr. Kirana. You have ignited hope in us. We will summon every tribe. Our scouts will watch the western borders. We will defend this land with our lives."
Hours later, under a cold desert night, Kirana stood atop a dune staring into the endless dark. Zephyr approached quietly.
"Are you ready for this war, Kirana?"
She looked up at the stars, inhaling deeply. "I have to be. If we lose here, there will be nowhere left to run. This world is worth fighting for."
Zephyr allowed a rare smile and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then let's make them regret ever stepping into Althera."
And so, the final preparations began. The Althera Desert—harsh, ancient, and full of hidden strength—would soon become the battlefield that determined the fate of Aravex.
The Northern Peaks
Far to the north, beneath endless snow and shrouds of pale mist, rose the Calvarra Peaks. Jagged and towering like spears of ice thrust into the heavens, the mountains stood in a silence so complete it felt sacred. Few dared to approach them—not merely because of the lethal cold, but because of the legends whispered across generations. They claimed Calvarra was home to the ancient Guardians, four sages who once kept the balance of the world.
At the summit, inside a vast hall carved from living stone, the sages gathered in a circle. Wrapped in white robes that blended with the frost, each held a staff etched with forgotten runes. Their faces bore no trace of age, suspended in an ageless calm.
Above Calvarra, the sky churned into a spinning vortex. The wind, once a quiet sigh, rose into a wild roar. An ancient voice thundered across the peaks.
"Valthar aenara sil'thorin..." (Eternal power flows from sacred light...)
A second voice followed, low and sharp.
"Gael'thora valthar narain ven'tar lothan..." (From the earth, ancient strength rises, bound by an ancient vow...)
A third voice stirred the air, soft yet piercing, like thought given sound.
"Thar'avel naerim sol'kharis ven'rethar..." (In the deepest shadow, the last hope shines...)
Then the fourth, a steady rumble like distant thunder.
"Il'dar il'marash an'melorr... athal hendir ash'khorin." (When sky and land unite, destiny shall open beneath the stars.)
Their staffs struck the stone floor in unison. The impact rang like a thousand storms, shaking the entire mountain. Avalanches thundered down the slopes.
Lightning arced across the clouds. Winds spiraled like living things. From deep within the ice caverns and ancient fissures, dormant creatures woke. Massive beasts with glowing eyes and swift, shadow-born forms stirred from their ages-long sleep.
The voices of the sages rose together:
"Thal'marash, il'marali th'khazrath... thal'marash, in'khoras illu'balar. Thal'vorn!" (For the sacred land, for the spilled blood... we rise in the will of light. Awaken, ancient guardians!)
The mountain trembled. A fissure split open in the center of the hall, releasing a surge of silver-blue light. The radiance shot upward, piercing the storm clouds and turning the entire peak into a pillar of shimmering crystal.
"They have been called. The time has come," one sage murmured, his voice quiet as wind yet heavy with power.
Within the rising glow, a shape began to form—its nature uncertain, savior or ruin.
Back in Althera, as Kirana rested in her tent, a faint tremor passed through the air. She turned to Zephyr, her brows tightening. "Did you feel that?"
Zephyr's expression darkened. He nodded. "The wind has changed. Something powerful just awakened in the north."
Kirana looked toward the distant horizon. Flashes of pale light flickered across the dark sky, and far-off rumbling echoed through the night.
"Is it a good sign... or a bad one?"
Zephyr didn't answer. His gaze remained on the sky, troubled. Deep inside, he felt it—the stirring of something far older and far greater than Edena.
And whatever it was, it was coming.