A massive tent stood over ten feet tall, its crimson canopy stretching seven feet in every direction from the central pole. The deep red fabric rippled softly under the dry wind.
Inside, elegant furniture adorned the space. A grand bed hung high above the ground, suspended by thick chains fastened to the central pillar. Beneath it, the floor was covered by a luxurious purple carpet, embroidered with an intricate design of a phoenix spreading its wings across the center.
The tent stood firm under the scorching glare of two red dwarf suns, each blazing from opposite ends of the sky. The air outside was thick with ash and fumes from countless erupting volcanoes, painting the horizon in molten hues.
Lying motionless upon the carpet was a man. His skin was deeply tanned from relentless exposure to the twin suns. Naked save for a small cloth draped over his waist, he stared blankly at the tent's ceiling. Yet, anyone who saw him would know his thoughts were far, far away.
A faint gust of wind slipped through the tent's entrance, stirring the silence like a whisper from a dying world.
"Another failed expedition," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The third one this week.
"When?"
His hand tightened around his arm until the veins stood out and his knuckles turned pale. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with a hunger that had long since rotted into vengeance.
"When!"
The word tore from his throat like a wounded animal's cry.
He shut his eyes. The memories came rushing back sharp, relentless, uninvited. The night he lost everything replayed again and again, each image carved into his mind like fresh scars.
The pain never faded. Ten years had passed, yet it still felt new. Every scream, every flicker of fire, every heartbeat from that night he remembered it all.
And above it all, that face.
That madman's smile.
Cold. Lifeless.
The smile of the man who took everything he loved.
"...Lumire?"
The voice was barely a whisper, seeping through the tent's entrance and shattering the silence that had chained his thoughts. He knew that voice he could recognize it even in his dreams.
"What is it, Naira?"
"Ah… um, I just— you haven't eaten in two days, and I thought maybe"
"I'm not hungry," he said, his tone sharp despite the softness of his words. "Go back to your fort. The suns are out you'll get sick again."
"I'm fine, Lumire!" she snapped, though her voice cracked halfway through. "I just think you should eat some"
"Naira."
His gaze darkened, the weight of his name on her tongue fading into silence.
"I said I'm fine. Go back to your fort."
The tent fell quiet once more. Only the faint hum of the wind remained carrying with it everything they didn't say.
His voice sent a shiver down her spine. Naira stood frozen, the words she wanted to say dying before they could form.
Her brother the man she trusted more than anyone looked at her with eyes that no longer held warmth. He would never say it aloud, but she could see it clearly each time their gazes met.
Blame.
Judgment.
For that night.
The silence between them stretched until it felt endless. Finally, Naira drew a trembling breath, forcing herself to move. Her eyes glistened as she turned away.
"U-Uncle calls for you, Lumire…" she whispered, voice barely holding together. Then she left, her steps unsteady as she approached two girls waiting a few paces from the tent.
Both bowed as she neared.
"So sorry, Princess," said the shorter one a plump girl whose brown skin shimmered under the twin suns. "Sire Nash isn't in a pleasant mood. I should have warned you before we came."
"Forgive us, Princess," the second maid added softly.
Naira shook her head, forcing a faint smile. "No… there's no need. I should have known better than to expect anything else." Her voice wavered, betraying the calm she tried to hold.
The short maid brightened immediately, bowing again. "Thank you, Princess."
"Thank you, Princess," the second echoed.
Naira nodded, gathering what little composure she had left. "Let's go. There's still a lot of food to prepare before the meeting."
Her tone was calm now, but the hurt lingered quiet, like an old wound that never truly healed.
"Yes, Your Highness," the two maids replied in unison, voices bright with youthful energy.
The three of them turned toward the southern path, making their way through the sun-scorched streets that led to the back of the town.
Back in the tent, Lumire stirred.
He had heard the summons his uncle's request, carried through the elders' word.
With a slow breath, he sat up. For a moment, he just sat there, eyes sweeping across the quiet room. Then, bracing himself with one arm, he rose from the warmth of the carpet.
Turning toward the bed, he reached for his garments a pair of dark crimson sirwal. The fabric caught the morning light, glowing faintly like liquid flame. It matched the color of his hair, which shimmered with the same subtle fire.
He drew the cloth tight around his ankles, every movement measured and silent. Then, from the foot of the bed, he took up a pair of twin-bladed daggers. Their edges gleamed cold against the heat of the tent.
One by one, he strapped them to the knotted belt at his waist, the sound of leather tightening breaking the silence.
When he straightened, his eyes were calm but the calm of a storm moments before it breaks.
A weary look shadowed his face as he turned toward the tent's entrance.
Another meeting.
The third one this week.
He could barely stand the thought of it. His body ached, every muscle heavy from sleepless nights spent in training and endless councils of war. The exhaustion clung to him like a second skin a reminder that even princes bled, just not where others could see.
But he couldn't show it. Not to them. Not to his people.
A prince didn't get tired. A leader didn't break.
He drew in a slow breath, exhaling through his teeth. The sigh was soft almost too soft to be heard before he pushed himself forward, dragging his steps toward the light spilling through the tent's opening.
The suns struck him the moment he stepped outside twin rays cutting across his bare chest like blades of heat. He flinched, then straightened, forcing himself to move faster.
The meeting place was far to the north, at the center of town.
As he walked, life unfolded around him.
Women guided heavy beasts through the dusty streets, their voices rising over the hum of the crowd. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and Sunbaked earth. Children darted between stalls, their laughter faint beneath the roar of the forges and the low rumble of distant volcanoes.
The town was alive loud, vibrant, and burning with purpose.
But to Nash, it all felt distant, like a memory he was only watching from afar.
Their land had changed over the years. What was once fertile and green was now nothing but scorched dust and shifting dunes.
Across the barren fields, massive creatures roamed beasts towering over six feet, walking on four clawed legs. Three horns curved from each of their skulls like jagged spears, glinting beneath the twin suns.
Lumire's gaze lingered on them for a moment before he continued on his path.
Farther ahead, the sounds of clashing steel and shouting voices filled the air. The training grounds a wide, open stretch of sand where young boys fought under the harsh light.
They moved with desperation rather than skill, each wielding a weapon too heavy for their age. Some were bloodied and bruised, others stood upright with pride, their chests heaving as they caught their breath.
In the midst of them stood their instructor a man barely five feet tall, half his face burned beyond recognition and hidden behind a metal mask. The other half bore a long, jagged scar that ran from temple to chin. His left arm was gone, but his right hand gripped a blade as he shouted over the din.
"YOU WEAKLINGS!"
His voice cracked like a whip.
"If this were a real battle against the Horrid Horde of Crazins, you'd already be dead! Torn apart and devoured your bones left in the sand for your comrades to collect! Is that how you wish to die? As nothing but meat for the enemy? Just like your miserable fathers before you?"
The words struck harder than any blow.
Cruel as they sounded, the man spoke truth.
Better his voice tore into them now than the beasts of the night creatures with fangs longer than a man's fingers tearing them apart, limb by limb.
Among the sea of boys training as though their lives depended on it, one suddenly froze. His eyes widened, and with a burst of excitement he shouted,
"It's Lumire!"
The cry cut through the air, louder than the clash of steel, louder even than the instructor's roar.
One by one, the others stopped. Dozens of young faces turned toward the path where Lumire walked. Their expressions varied awe, pride, curiosity… but mostly fear.
Nash's name carried weight, heavier than any sword they could lift.
He was the last soldier of Erm.
The final descendant of the fallen kingdom that once ruled these sands.
His legend was built on blood and survival a soldier who outlived an empire and carved his reputation into the bones of the battlefield.
The proof of that legacy rested at his hip, glinting faintly under the light.
The instructor straightened and saluted, his single arm rising in rigid respect before he turned back to his students.
Nash didn't slow down.
He didn't acknowledge the bows or the whispers that followed him.
He had long stopped caring for admiration or pity.
Most of these boys, he knew, wouldn't live to see twenty.
And that was simply the truth of their world
In the distance, he saw it the great council tent.
It towered nearly thirty feet high and stretched wide enough to hold the town's entire population. Its crimson canopy shimmered faintly under the glare of the twin suns, banners swaying in the wind. The tent was guarded by members of the internal force the best the town could offer.
As Nash drew closer, two men came into view, standing at either side of the entrance. Both were massive broad-shouldered, carved with muscle, their armor catching the light like molten bronze. They stood perfectly still, eyes fixed ahead, the air around them heavy with discipline.
To most, they would have looked intimidating.
To Nash, they were nothing special.
His own body bore the kind of strength that came not from show, but from survival a fighter's build, lean and enduring, forged by years of battles against the Crazins.
Those things could fight for hours without tiring. To face them, you needed more than bulk you needed a will that didn't break.
As he approached, both guards straightened and saluted sharply. The moment their eyes met his, their posture stiffened even further muscles tensing, fear flickering in their gaze despite their best attempts to hide it.
Nash didn't respond. He just walked past them, his expression unreadable, the heat of the suns trailing behind him like a shadow.
Stepping into the tent, Nash was swallowed by darkness.
Not the kind born from absence, but the kind that breathed heavy and familiar, pressing against the skin.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust.
Three tiers of seats rose along the walls, each level built four feet higher than the one before, forming a semicircle that overlooked the center of the tent. The floor dipped downward, carved out like a hollow bowl.
At the lowest point stood a round table wide, almost nine feet across, its surface polished to a dull sheen. Around it sat nine figures: four to the left, three to the right, and one at the far end.
At the head of the table a man with crimson hair streaked with gray, his posture straight, his presence cold. Nash uncle.
The seat opposite him was empty waiting.
Knowing the space as well as his own mind, Nash descended the steps in silence. The boards creaked softly under his weight. He took his place at the vacant chair, the air thick with tension.
Every face he passed had a grim their expressions carved in stone. No words of greeting. No warmth.
Finally, the man at the head of the table spoke.
"Nash, my boy," his uncle said, his voice low and deliberate cold enough to draw a chill even in the heat.
"We've been waiting for you."
"Forgive me, Khalir. I got the message barely ten nin ago," Nash said.
The old man's expression eased, lines softening for the first time that night. His gaze lingered on Nash — the boy who'd grown into a man, a warrior he could finally rely on. A man he prayed to live long enough to see lead their people.
"No worries," Khalir said quietly. "How was the expedition? Any casualties?"
"None," Nash replied. "My men and I didn't encounter a single loss." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But we also didn't encounter anything."
A ripple went through the room. The elders exchanged glances, their whispers thick with unease.
Silence hung in the air like the edge of a guillotine, waiting to fall.
"Yes, Grand Elder," Nash finally said.
"What are you telling us?!" the third man on the left roared, slamming a fist on the table. His eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging against his temple. Spittle flew with every word. "That the Kingdom of Anone has abandoned us!?"
"Calm down, Third. Let the boy speak," said a plump man beside him. His hair was so pale it shimmered white under the cold blue glow of the flames circling the pit.
Khalir gave a slow nod. "Speak, Nash. We're listening."
Nash took a breath. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it pressed against the tent walls.
"When we reached the capital of Anone, we requested an audience with the king." He paused, letting the words sink in. "We were refused. The king had nothing to say to us."
A wave of whispers broke out soft at first, then spreading like wildfire across the table.
"What do you mean he has nothing to say to us?" The voice of the First Elder was calm, yet every word carried a razor's edge.
"He did accept the proposal," the Third Elder interjected, his tone defensive but uncertain.
"Then what happened, Nash?" The First Elder's composure cracked, anger bleeding through his voice. "You expect us to believe the King of Anone simply turned his back after agreeing?"
Nash met his gaze. "It appears so."
Khalir's tone fell like frost across the table. "Nash… are you telling me another kingdom has withdrawn from the expedition?"
Nash hesitated for a breath. "Khalir… there are rumors spreading through the capital. Whispers that the king has summoned his special unit they've entered the Hage Forest in search of any trace of the Four Horsemen."
He paused. "After reports surfaced of a sighting… of one of them near Hage."
Silence fell.
Not the silence of confusion but the kind that comes before panic. The elders stared at him, faces drained of color. The air in the tent turned thick, every breath heavy as ash. Three elders rose at once, expressions carved with dread, the weight of age deepening every wrinkle on their faces.
"That's madness… suicide! Why would he do such a thing?" the seventh elder rasped, his voice cracking under pressure.
Nothing exposes a person's true nature like fear. Around the table, no one could hide it that raw, unfiltered terror. Every single one of them had seen it before. The Horsemen.
Four beings who brought the world to its knees. Each commanded legions of Crazins beasts born from shadow and hunger. Cities burned in their wake; kingdoms vanished overnight. The sky had turned red that day, and the screams of the dying still haunted those who survived.
Just one Horseman had erased the mighty kingdom of Dravakar in a single night. Every elder seated there had witnessed that horror firsthand. Cold sweat trailed down the First Elder's bald scalp, glimmering under the pale firelight.
After that night, the Horsemen disappeared. No sightings. No signs. Nothing for over a decade.
"That's not all," Nash continued quietly.
"I sent out the Scout Union to monitor the edge of Hage Forest, to stand watch and"
"AND WHAT, NASH?! Don't leave us holding our breaths!" the Third Elder snapped, face red with fear disguised as anger.
"Relax, Third," Khalir said coldly. "Let the boy finish."
"I received a report earlier this morning," Nash said, voice low but steady. "Late last night, a regiment of men marched toward the edge of Hage… their armor bore the emblem of the Valenor Empire."
He scanned the elders' faces. Grim. Pale. Silent. Each looked as if they had swallowed a handful of arominan seeds, holding their breaths until their lips turned blue.
"They are… led by the King himself," Nash added.
Silence fell like iron. The weight of the words pressed on them, heavy as boulders stacked upon their shoulders. None dared speak.
"So… both the kings of Anone and Valenor ventured into Hage behind our backs?" the Third Elder finally gasped, voice trembling with disbelief. "Alone? That's… madness."
"What were they thinking? They could take on the Horsemen all by themselves?!" the Third Elder barked, disbelief burning in his voice.
"It seems that way, Third," Nash replied, calm as ever.
"And what of Centra? Has their leader responded to our proposal?" Khalir asked, his voice measured, but his eyes sharp, scanning every reaction at the table.
"Unfortunately, no, Khalir," Nash said. "With the only route connecting the city to the eastern islands cut off, and the Hage Forest rising in vast mounds to the south, Centra is… more likely a sitting duck, waiting for its demise."
"Then why do they tarry?" the Fifth Elder interjected, voice steady, brimming with confidence. "The proposal was to join forces, to stand together against the forthcoming horde of Crazins. Why hesitate?"
Nash's eyes darkened slightly. "According to the reports we gathered from the spies sent into the rundown city… there is tension in the air. Whispers of a rebellion group attempting to assassinate their leaders grow louder every day."
The faces of the elders darkened further.
"Why would that be?" one of them finally asked, voice tight with unease.
Nash leaned back slowly in his chair, letting the weight of the silence press down before he spoke.
"According to our intelligence," he began, "the city's leaders have been hoarding necessities food, water, everything sending most to their personal estates before it reaches the people. Those left with the short end of the stick starve in the streets.
"Reports of killings over basic provisions grow daily. Bodies are found in alleys, abandoned on the streets. Women and children are forced into selling themselves at night for scraps, barely enough to survive."
The room fell colder. Every word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as the council absorbed the true weight of the city's decay
What are the personnel from the Orravian Empire doing about this?" Khalir demanded, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence.
"Absolutely nothing, Khalir," Nash replied, calm, his tone cold as stone. "They've chosen not to intervene, seeing the chaos as advantageous. Men sell themselves their loyalties, their bodies just for a chance to be retrained into the Empire's military, or even to survive as nothing more than expendable test subjects for the sorcerers.
"Children and women are sold openly, shipped off as slaves for the wealthy elites in the capital. The Empire watches it all, hands clean, profits growing with every life crushed underfoot."
A heavy silence fell over the council chamber. The words lingered like smoke, thick and suffocating, leaving no comfort, no hope.
"Khalir," the Second Elder spoke at last, his voice trembling, arms quivering beneath his long blue robes. "Since our fate has been decided… and we are to face the horde alone… what exactly do we do now?"
Murmurs rippled through the elders. Each too afraid to raise their voice, knowing that no word spoken here could change the inevitable.
Khalir exhaled a heavy sigh. Then, with a slow wave of his hand toward the back of the chamber, a figure emerged from the shadows of the pit.
The man wore the same armor as the guards at the entrance. Without a word, he approached the table and unfurled a large, weathered map across it the fabric creased and torn, edges burned. His movements were practiced, mechanical. Once the map lay flat, he bowed slightly and stepped back, vanishing again into the darkness.
Khalir leaned forward, his tired eyes scanning the expanse drawn across the parchment the last surviving continent.
After centuries of war against the Crazins, the Four Horsemen, and their unseen ruler, humanity once spread across four continents had been reduced to a single landmass.
Half of it swallowed by wastelands and death.
Both the elders and Nash watched in silence half hoping for a response, half afraid of what it might be.
A silence so thick it pressed against their chests; each could hear the breath and heartbeat of the other.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
Khalir slowly raised his head. Across the table, Nash sat stiff-backed, body tense, eyes fixed on his uncle.
"Nash," Khalir said, his voice low and hard, "what's the estimated number of Crazins in a horde?"
Nash hesitated for a heartbeat. "A small horde averages around two hundred. The larger ones... over a thousand."
"A thousand?" the First Elder repeated, disbelief cracking through his composure.
"Yes, First," Nash replied quietly. "A thousand."
Everyone at the table knew what even a single Crazin could do. The thought of a thousand of them moving as one it was enough to make the air feel thinner.
Khalir's expression darkened. "And the size of the current horde?"
Nash swallowed. "According to our intel... it's roughly double that. Twice the size of a high horde."
"Double?!" the First Elder's voice rose, trembling between anger and fear. "What do you mean double?! We could barely handle one high horde! How in the abyss do we plan to handle this KHALIR?!
The elders shot to their feet, their composure breaking under the strain of fear and disbelief.
"What are we to do, Khalir?!" one of them bellowed a plump, bald man draped in heavy yellow robes that shimmered under the lamplight.
"Sit down," Khalir said.
His voice was quiet but cold enough to cut through their shouting. His gaze swept slowly across the seven elders until the room fell silent again.
He turned toward Nash. "What's the current number of front-line warriors?"
"About seventy, Khalir," Nash replied, lowering his eyes.
"Seventy…" Khalir muttered, his stare dropping to the war map spread before him. "Those numbers are far too low."
He exhaled through his nose, then asked, "What about the lower regaid? Can they step up?"
Nash hesitated. "I highly doubt it. I passed through the training grounds on my way here didn't see a single one worth noticing."
The words hung in the air like ash. The flickering light from the oil lamps cast long shadows across their faces men who had already seen too many battles, now realizing they might not survive the next.
"If I may."
The First Elder rose unsteadily to his feet. His legs trembled with age, but his voice held iron.
"Why don't we pick the useless ones and throw them into the front line?" he suggested plainly.
A stunned silence snapped into outrage.
"What are you saying, old man? Do you think this is a joke?" the Second Elder spat, rising to his feet like a struck boar. Others followed, voices hot with anger and contempt.
"Silence!" Khalir barked, and the sound cut through them like a blade. His eyes flashed, cold and terrible the sort of anger that left no doubt it could be lethal. The elders fell quiet at once.
"If you have nothing constructive to say," Khalir continued, voice low and lethal, "I would appreciate you keeping your mouths shut while the rest of us try to see the next sunrise."
He turned to the First Elder. "Speak."
The old man bowed, then let the quiet fill the tent before he spoke. "We cannot afford to feed those who will become food for the Crazins. Not now especially with Anone and Valenor slipping into Hage. Whatever they wake there could swallow us whole. We must reserve our strength and our future. Supplies are running thin; we cannot afford to feed the useless. I propose we send them to the Crazins let them blunt the edge, kill some, maim more and leave our real warriors to finish what remains."
The words hung in the air, harsh and precise. No eloquence. No comfort. Just a bitter, practical calculus born from hunger, fear, and the long history of survival.
The Khalir's gaze drifted from the First Elder to the rest, his expression unreadable.
"Does anyone have something to say against what the First just proposed?"
Silence.
Heads bowed, eyes fixed on the floor as though the answers to their fear were buried beneath the stone lost to time.
Khalir turned toward Nash.
"And you, Nash, what do you thi—"
A thunderous roar split the air, drowning his words.
The ground convulsed, shaking the great chamber as dust rained from the ceiling. The First Elder toppled, his frail body twisting as his knee cracked beneath him.
Screams echoed from outside raw, terrified, and close.
Then came another sound deeper, heavier something vast dragging itself across the world.
The blue flames flickered violently.
And for the first time in years, even Khalir's face went pale
Without hesitation, Nash bolted for the stairs. His boots barely touched the steps each movement lighter, faster, desperate. He ascended the ladder and burst through the flap of the tent, greeted by chaos. The light of the dual suns left him blinded as he squinted trying to adjust to the rays.
The light of the remaining sun blinded him at first; he squinted, his vision swimming. The ground cracked beneath his feet, the sound sharp and alive. Fissures spread in all directions, splitting through the encampment like veins of molten fury.
Screams pierced the air screams of pain, confusion, despair. People ran in all directions as shadows twisted in the fading light. From above, a deep, thunderous wail rippled through the clouds something vast moving within the storm that was not there moments ago.
The Khalir and three elders stumbled out of the collapsing tent, their robes whipping in the violent wind. Behind them, the earth groaned once more and then split open.
A deafening crack tore through the land.
The great tent, symbol of their council's authority, sank halfway into the ground as the earth swallowed it whole. The blue firestones that had lit the chamber burst, scattering like dying stars.
Then came the light.
For a brief moment, the world outside shone so bright it burned through the canvas and then, just as suddenly, dimmed. One of the twin suns above the horizon flickered… and died.
In the distance, Nash spotted movement through the haze three figures sprinting toward them, cutting through the chaos like fragments of a memory refusing to die.
A plump girl ran on the left, breath ragged and face pale, her every step fueled not by strength but by terror. To her right, a tall young woman kept pace, her beauty defying the ruin that surrounded them hair whipping in the wind, eyes sharp, fierce, alive.
And in the center
Nash's heart lurched.
It was his sister.
Her steps faltered, her feet soaked in blood, leaving trails behind every step. Her face twisted in pain, but she didn't stop she couldn't. Every instinct screamed at Nash to move.
He didn't think. He just ran.
Behind him, the Khalir and the surviving elders stood frozen at the edge of the ruined council tent. Their gazes locked on the blackened pit that had devoured their chamber its depths pulsing with an unnatural glow, a breath of something ancient stirring within.
The Khalir's face hardened.
"Wait here First!" he barked, his voice carrying over the thunder and screams. "I'll send guards to pull you out immediately"
The ground trembled again, cutting him off. A deep rumble swelled beneath them, like a heartbeat in the soil itself. Dust rained from the sky as the cracks widened, swallowing tents, carts, and men whole.
But Nash heard none of it.
All he could see were the three girls running toward him and the monstrous shadow stretching across the plain behind them.
NAIRA'S POV
Naira sat quietly beneath the cool shade of the ivory tree. Its pale trunk was famed for the soft, pleasant scent it released during this time of year a fragrance that drifted wherever the wind carried it, gentle and clean.
Just a few feet away, three children played in the dirt, their laughter mingling with the rustling leaves. They were armed with nothing but sticks and boundless imagination. One of them, a boy of about eight, swung his stick like a blade reenacting every child's favorite fantasy: slaying a Horseman.
She smiled faintly as the boy lunged again, this time at his smaller friend, who blocked the strike with a makeshift shield a cracked piece of wood strapped to his forearm with twine. The third, a quiet girl, sat nearby in mock distress, playing the part of a captured maiden waiting to be saved.
The boy with the "sword" muttered something under his breath likely a heroic line he'd picked up from an old tale before striking once more. His opponent dodged just in time, stumbling into a small pile of leaves. For a heartbeat, the air echoed with laughter.
The two boys looked at each other and then at the girl, their eyes gleaming with shared mischief
She couldn't help but drift into memory fragments of a childhood that now felt like a dream half-forgotten. There wasn't much she could recall, but one thing lingered vividly: a time when her brother adored her beyond words. She had once made him promise never to leave her a promise he kept fulfilling every time he stepped out beyond the walls to face those spawns of hell.
Each time he returned, his body battered and blood-soaked, he would still come to her. Every night, without fail, he'd sit beside her bed, asking how she was, listening with a faint smile yet never speaking of himself or the horrors he'd endured.
But Naira wasn't a child anymore. She had eyes and she saw the truth. Their little town was dying. The people did their best to provide what they could, but the desert always took more than it gave. Water was scarce, food even scarcer, and hope... rarer still.
And though she longed to help to do something she knew she was powerless.
The warm wind of the afternoon brushed gently against her pale skin a stark contrast to the sun-tanned hues of her people.
A voice broke through her drifting thoughts.
"Your Highness."
She turned slightly, recognizing the deep, steady tone of her personal guard her brother's most trusted man.
"What is it, Aken?" she asked, her voice soft and composed.
"Nothing urgent, Your Highness," he replied, bowing his head. "The cook asked me to inform you that the meal for your brother and the elders is ready. It will be delivered once we receive the signal marking the end of their meeting."
"Thank you, Aken," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. "Let's head there now."
She glanced once more at the children playing beneath the ivory tree before stepping out into the blistering heat of the dual suns. Her skin prickled and itched under their merciless gaze, but she endured it, walking with the calm grace and quiet dignity befitting royalty though that title had long since lost its meaning here. Even so, her people still clung to it, to her, as a symbol of hope in a world that had forgotten such things.
Walking through their humble town was one of her few daily joys. The sting of the sun faded as she watched her people work blacksmiths hammering in the shade of clay huts, women carrying water skins across the sand, children laughing despite the hunger that lingered in every home. Each person played a part, a fragile thread holding their world together.
In the distance rose a massive tent not as grand as the meeting hall but far more secure. Guards stood watch at every corner, two more by the entrance. Within that tent lay the town's most precious resources: barrels of drinkable water, preserved vegetables, and sacks of grains the lifeblood of their survival.
Resources were scarce here painfully so. Every drop of clean water was worth its weight in blood. It wasn't a right it was a privilege, auctioned off to the desperate bypassing traders whose smiles cut deeper than any blade.
A single barrel of water cost as much as a full-grown antilon four thousand shing. Enough to feed a family of six for seven turns. Far beyond what most could ever dream of earning.
But fortune, twisted and cruel as always, left humanity a single mercy the Crazins.
The monsters were nightmares made flesh, the bane of every wanderer who dared stray too far into the dunes. Yet, their corpses were treasures. Each fang could fetch a hundred shing, sometimes more depending on its size and clarity. A single Crazin carried four, sometimes six of those precious teeth. Their hides, thick and dark as obsidian, could be reforged into armor strong enough to withstand the charge of an antilon.
Each dawn of the Rising Sun marked a sacred ritual. Families gathered beneath the burning sky, waiting to receive their portions rewards measured not by need, but by worth. Those who had toiled under the cruel desert sun, who tamed beasts or guarded the walls through sleepless nights, stood with pride. Their hands were rough, their eyes steady.
But others the idle, the weak, the ones who had offered nothing but excuses waited at the back of the line. Their share would barely fill a bowl.
Still, the greatest honor belonged to the fallen. Families who had given sons, fathers, or brothers to the battlefield were treated as heroes. Even in death, their names carried weight; their sacrifice fed those left behind.
It was never easy to send a son to war to watch him march into the endless dunes, not knowing if he'd ever stand beneath the next Rising Sun.
As she drew near, she spotted her two maids her closest friends stepping out of the tent, arms burdened with racks of plates. The scent of roasted grain and spiced meat drifted through the opening flap, teasing her senses. Beneath that crimson canopy, life still clung to warmth fragile, precious, and fleeting.
Then it started.
As if the heavens themselves could no longer bear the weight of the twin suns, the sky screamed. A soundless roar that tore through the clouds and made the air shudder. The ground answered in kind trembling, cracking, breaking.
Fissures spread like wildfire, carving through the sand beneath our feet. The earth shifted and groaned, a beast awakening from slumber, restless and enraged.
It all happened in a blink too fast to understand, too real to deny.
Panic clawed its way up my chest. I stumbled, reaching for Aken, my fingers digging into his arm as the world around us fractured. The desert we had known all our lives was tearing itself apart.
The ground beneath the tent convulsed before splitting apart, tearing open like the mouth of a starving child desperate for its mother's breast.
In one cruel gulp, it devoured the tent our tent and everything we had built inside it.
Screams tore through the air. The world was chaos sand flying, fabric ripping, voices blending into one endless wail. Through the haze, I could hear my maids calling my name, their footsteps frantic as they leapt over the cracks that split the ground like veins of madness.
Beside me, Aken shouted no, roared his voice raw and shaking with desperation. "Run! Your Highness, run!"
But I couldn't.
Just like that night… I couldn't move.
My feet were frozen, the trembling sand shifting beneath them like a living thing. Every instinct screamed to flee, yet my body refused. The world was falling apart, and I could do nothing but watch.
Both maids ran toward me as though they had seen the terror in my eyes before I even spoke.
Ali short and plump moved faster than her legs should've allowed, her face twisted in fear.
Nal, on the other hand, looked almost majestic even amidst the chaos, her hair whipping wildly as she reached me and locked her arm through mine, pulling me backward.
"RUN, NAIRA!" they roared together, voices cracking with desperation.
Why?
Why didn't they just run?
Why did they stop for me?
My thoughts scattered like sand in the wind, unable to form anything coherent. I turned toward Aken far off in the distance now his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted toward safety.
Betrayal burned in my chest, sharp and sudden.
The man my brother trusted above all… had left me behind.
Watching them drag me forward, I realized something. They looked up to me the same way I had always looked up to my brother.
Sweat dripped down their faces, staining their eccentric dresses, and I felt it that same feeling I had felt as Lumire had carried me in his arms, sprinting faster than his weak legs could bear. He had held me like I was more precious than his own life.
That warmth. That love.
It surged through me, igniting strength in my chest. I straightened, picked up my own weight, and ran. My feet bled, scraped raw against the unforgiving ground, but I didn't care. I couldn't.
Ahead, my two maids my friends were running toward a group of men standing frozen in awe, staring down at the gaping maw the earth had torn open at the center of it all.
The world was breaking apart around us… and yet, somehow, I ran.
Among the men, my brother stood tall, but worry etched deep into his eyes.
Then I heard it again a roar, louder, sharper than before, tearing through the air like the world itself was splitting apart. The last of the twin suns dimmed, vanishing into a thick, gray mist that swallowed the land, draining all color and light.
Screams erupted from every direction, raw and desperate. People ran blindly, stumbling over cracked earth, their shouts lost in the cacophony of chaos. The ground trembled beneath their feet, splitting open in rough lines, sending dust, rocks, and debris flying. Horses screamed, buildings groaned, and somewhere in the distance, a fire hissed and roared, devouring everything in its path.
My brother sprinted toward me, shouting words that dissolved into the choking mist. The world around us blurred, a swirling nightmare of panic and destruction.
Then, without warning, a blinding column of light burst through the gray, piercing the mist like a spear. It swallowed the screams, the fires, the crumbling planet and in an instant, it engulfed us.
TIME: UNKNOWN