The desert was quiet and cold.
The heat that had scorched the sands all day had slipped away, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost sacred. The wind whispered across the dunes, gentle now, carrying the faint scent of smoke and spice.
I sat on a flat boulder jutting from a hilly ridge. Below me, the village glowed faintly, small dots of fire and lamplight flickering like fallen stars. People huddled around campfires, laughing, singing, sharing food beneath the night sky.
I stayed apart. I was a stranger after all. They had no obligation to trust me.
The sky above was endless. The stars were so bright they almost hurt to look at, as if someone had pierced a dark tapestry and let heaven's light seep through.
I looked down at my hands. The new clothes the villagers had given me were simple and comfortable, the color of sand. Better suited to this world than armor. I had not realized how heavy that steel had been until I set it aside.
A flicker of blue light shimmered around my palm.
The journal materialized.
The same leather-bound, cracked volume I had found in the cavern.
I opened it and scanned the lines.
After Sassafras granted me the ability to understand the standard tongue of the surface, I thought I would finally be able to read this. But I could not. The words were jagged, present, but senseless.
"Or maybe," I muttered, "she forgot to give me the part that reads."
I sighed, closed the book, and set it beside me on the stone.
Footsteps approached, light ones crunching through sand.
"Sir Alaric."
Adam's voice. Bright and uncertain, always caught between respect and fear.
He appeared carrying a plate piled high with skewers of charred meat. I moved the journal aside so he could sit. He settled down, carefully balancing the plate between us.
"We forgot to give you any food," he said. "Sorry. So I got some Karab."
"Karab?" I pointed at the skewers.
He nodded. "Dried meat, grilled with spice and tree sap. It is what we eat when the cold hits."
I picked one up and bit into it.
The flavor hit hard. Smoky, rich, faintly sweet. The outside crisp and the inside soft, tender, soaked in spices that burned pleasantly on my tongue. Rough food, made by rough hands, and perfect for this world.
I chewed slowly, savoring it.
Only then did it strike me that this was the first solid food I had eaten in… I did not know how long.
Centuries, perhaps. Maybe more.
Warmth spread through my chest like a memory I had forgotten I missed.
I smiled.
Adam noticed and grinned back, grease shining on his chin. I glanced from him to the journal beside us.
"Can you read?" I asked.
He froze mid-bite. "Huh?"
"Can you read."
"Oh. Yeah," he said quickly. "A little."
I handed him the journal.
"I do not know this language. Do you?"
He flipped through it, brow furrowed.
"This is not the Standard Tongue. But it looks kind of similar. I can make out a few marks. Maybe the Elder could read it."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A walking stick struck the ground behind us.
"I can read what, exactly?" came the familiar gravelly voice.
Adam leapt up at once. "Elder."
"At ease, brat," the Elder muttered, waving a gnarled hand. They shuffled closer, two guards behind them as always. Firelight caught the patterns etched into the stone tablets sewn into their heavy robes.
Flustered, Adam offered a skewer.
The Elder took it, sniffed once, then bit off a chunk.
"Chewy," they said with approval.
Their gaze shifted to the journal. Adam passed it over at once.
The Elder flipped through the pages with surprising speed, muttering under their breath. They stopped at a line and squinted.
"This is High Drogan."
Adam frowned. "What is that?"
The Elder tapped the journal with their stick. "Most folk speak the Common Tongue. But the nobles, the mighty Drogan Empire, wanted something grander. So they made their own. Fancier words for the same nonsense."
"I found it beside a knight's corpse," I said.
Adam stared in shock. The Elder did not blink.
"Figures. They teach it to their knights. Old habits die slow."
They snapped the journal shut. "You want to understand it."
I nodded.
The Elder sighed. "Of course you do. Leave it with me for a day or two. The fool who wrote this had the nerve to use cursive."
They muttered something about pretentious handwriting.
I looked back at the sky. The stars burned cold and brilliant, scattered like salt over black glass.
"The stars are important to us," the Elder said.
"Why," I asked.
"Our ancestors, the Kha'ren, followed them," Adam answered before the Elder. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight. "They were nomads. The stars showed them where to go. Where to live. Where not to die."
The Elder nodded. "And when storms swallowed the land, it was Ormazir who lit their path again. Our god of sky and flame. He watches through the stars even now."
Their voice grew quiet.
"Whenever the stars fall in great showers, it means change is coming."
"When was the last time that happened," I asked.
"Four hundred years ago," the Elder said. "And the world was never the same after."
My gaze drifted to a dark shadow carved into the land. A vast gorge slicing through the dunes. The wind hummed faintly in its direction.
"What is that canyon called."
Adam followed my eyes. "The Canyon of Dreams."
Thud.
Pain bloomed on the top of my head.
The Elder had struck me with their walking stick.
"Do not ever go there," they said. The tone was not sharp. It was frightened. Something deep and old trembled beneath it.
I did not ask again.
Sensing the tension, Adam jumped up. "Let us go to the village. They are dividing the main dishes."
He took my arm and half pulled me to my feet.
As we descended the ridge, I glanced back. The Elder remained where they were, standing alone against the wind, their silhouette bent yet unmoving, staring toward the dark dunes.
The village below was alive with sound and light.
Drums echoed. Voices rose. Fire danced.
Children chased each other between the tents while elders clapped in rhythm. The scent of spice and fruit filled the air. Tables overflowed with roasted roots, flatbreads glazed with honey, bowls of red stew, and skewers sizzling on open flames.
Someone handed me a clay cup filled with a dark red drink. It smelled sweet, sharp, alive.
I tasted it and smiled. Rich. Thick. Notes of berries and smoke.
I summoned my canteen and let a few drops of mana water fall into the drink. I swirled it.
The next sip bloomed. The flavor opened, vivid and electric, as if the drink had woken up.
Adam leaned closer and sniffed. "What did you do."
"Try it."
He hesitated, then took a sip. His eyes widened. Before I could warn him, he finished the cup.
"That was amazing."
I laughed softly.
The villagers danced and sang under the night sky. Flames painted their faces gold. Children chased sparks. Lovers leaned close. Music rose, wild and human.
The wind brushed my skin, carrying laughter and spice.
For the first time in centuries, the world felt alive again.
I leaned back, watching the firelight ripple across the dunes. A faint smile crept onto my lips.
"I could get used to this."
Dawn came gently.
Golden light spilled over the dunes, touching the sand until the world shimmered. The village stirred with soft whispers, a few coughs, the crackle of rekindled fires.
I had barely slept, but for the first time in centuries, I had not needed to. The air felt alive. Each breath carried something warm. Something human.
Adam was still asleep when I stepped outside, wrapped in his blanket like a silkworm. I did not wake him.
The desert looked softer in the morning light. The cold edge of night had melted away, leaving the dunes glowing like embers beneath the rising sun. Life returned slowly. The thud of clay lids, the murmurs of women preparing bread, the laughter of children weaving between tents.
I stood a while, watching smoke rise from cooking pits. The smell of baking flatbread and roasting seeds drifted through the air, mingling with the dry sweetness of sand. It was the scent of survival, the scent of a world that had refused to die.
"Sir Alaric."
Adam stumbled out of the tent, hair wild, blanket hanging from him. He looked like a half awake ghost.
"You look terrible," I said.
He yawned wide enough to strain his jaw. Then he grinned. "They are serving morning stew. You should eat before it is gone."
He led me to the village square. People gathered around clay pots set over low fires. Steam curled up in pale ribbons. Someone handed me a wooden bowl filled with thick reddish broth.
I tasted it.
Simple. Beans, crushed roots, a faint unnamed spice. But warm. Grounding. Anchoring.
Adam watched closely. "You like it."
"I think I could eat for another hour."
He laughed. "That is how they trap you. Eat too much and suddenly you owe a month of work."
"Does that apply to guests."
"To everyone."
I smiled faintly and ate in silence while the sun climbed the dunes.
Across the square, the Elder sat near the central fire, two guards beside them. They polished a strange instrument carved from bone and stone.
"Elder," I said as I approached.
They squinted up. "Ah, the wanderer returns. Slept well."
"Enough. If I am to stay here a few days, I should make myself useful."
The Elder gave me a long, amused look. "You. A knight who glows like lightning and eats enough for two grown men."
"I am not made of lightning."
"Shame. Could have used that for the well pumps."
I raised my hand. Sparks of blue crackled between my fingers.
"But I can make myself useful."
The Elder's tone softened. "If you insist, the village always needs hands. The traders leave at midday for the northern dunes. They could use someone who does not faint in the heat."
"I can help."
"Good. Better to walk among the living than sit and polish ghosts."
I could not tell if that was advice or an insult.
By midday, I helped the traders load their caravan, wooden sleds pulled by four legged beasts with wide sand-hooves. Muscular creatures with droopy noses, as large as the sleds they hauled.
Dunelopes. One of them tried to chew my sleeve.
"Friendly," I said.
"Hungry," a trader replied. "They eat anything that does not bite back."
The work was simple, but grounding.
After drifting so long between death and sleep, even small purpose felt like air in the lungs.
By evening, the traders were gone. The village quieted.
The Elder sat by the well, the journal beside them. They gestured for me to sit. I remained standing.
"You look different without that ghostlight in your eyes," they said.
"I feel different."
"Good. Means you are remembering what it is like to live with people instead of above them."
Their gaze drifted toward the horizon. "Tell me, Alaric. Why did you come back."
I looked at the sky, now softening into red.
"I did not choose to. I just woke up."
"Then maybe the world chose you. It has a cruel sense of humor."
They handed me the journal. New notes filled the margins. Extra slips of paper had been tucked in.
"They do not say much. Some dead man rambling about chaos. Probably wanted someone to remember him."
"Then I will remember him."
"Suit yourself. Curiosity is not a crime yet."
A pause. "And there is something in there. Something worth reading."
I flipped through the pages. "May I ask something."
"Can I stop you."
"Two things."
The Elder sighed. "Go on."
"When I was moving through the desert, I faintly saw an inhuman figure. It looked at me."
The Elder stared toward the dunes.
"There are cryptics in the sands. Spirits that follow travelers. They bring omens, good or ill."
I nodded. It made enough sense.
"And the second thing."
"Adam and the others were nervous when I arrived. Even after they saw I was not a threat. Why."
The Elder leaned back and picked a seed from their teeth.
"Knights do not visit us often. And when they do, it is never for anything good."
"Explain."
"The nearest city is Redgate. The Drogan knights there like to remind us that we owe them taxes, even though we are not under their flag. They ride in, take what they want, and leave corpses when someone refuses."
My hand clenched. "How often."
"Often enough that no one flinches anymore."
I stared at the sand. For a moment I saw it stained red. Steel cutting through dust. Armor glinting. Not honor. Not duty. Only fear dressed in silver.
The Elder watched my silence.
"They have forgotten what a knight was meant to be," I said quietly.
"The world forgets easily. You had better get used to reminding it."
They stood and stretched until their back cracked.
"Eat something before you fall over again. You are not scaring anyone looking that polite."
"I do not want to scare anyone."
The Elder looked toward the horizon again, searching for something I could not see.
"What are you looking at," I asked.
They jabbed my side with their staff.
"Just a bad feeling."
They walked away.
I looked out at the desert.