The sun fell mercilessly over the Deserto Infuocato, where the air shimmered like molten steel, and every breath of wind brought with it scorching sand that clung to skin and lips. There, Luna Caelestis' army advanced.
At the vanguard marched the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse. Behind them came ordinary sailors carrying muskets, familiar with the harshness of war and accustomed to obeying short, firm orders. Finally, dragging themselves under the scorching sun, came around two thousand freed slaves, now improvised soldiers. Their eyes burned with a different flame – not of training, but of hope and vengeance. They wore rags, many barefoot, brandishing muskets recovered from Torre del Vento, some bearing rust from disuse.
It was an irregular mass, but driven by a fierce faith in Luna, who had given them something more precious than bread or water: dignity.
Among these columns followed a few pieces of field artillery, light cannons drawn by exhausted horses and dusty soldiers, the wheels creaking over every stone they passed. They were few, but enough to open breaches wherever resistance dared to form.
The heat weighed upon Victória's shoulders like a mantle of iron. Each step was a struggle, her boots sinking into the blistering sand that burned even through the worn leather. The horizon was but a shimmering veil, indistinct, as if the world itself were melting under the sun. Her dry lips parted, and she spoke more to the wind and herself than to those marching beside her:
– I wouldn't be surprised if this desert intended to devour us alive.
The words were lost in the aridity, but Matteo Perladoro, walking a short distance away, heard them. He laughed, not with scorn, but with that weary humour of one who has already learned to laugh at pain to avoid succumbing to it. His laughter sounded brief, like water trickling over dry stones, and immediately faded.
– The desert is not cruel, Victória – he said, his voice hoarse from the dust. – The desert is merely the desert. It has no intentions, no hunger, no malice. It simply exists, vast, indifferent. What is cruel… – his eyes narrowed, staring at the hazy line of the horizon, as if seeking something beyond the sand – … what is cruel is what we carry within ourselves.
Victória lifted her face, sweat running down her temple and vanishing in the corners of her dry mouth. Matteo's words beat against her chest like the hollow sound of a distant drum. She drew closer to him, her pace slower, walking beside him, almost brushing his shoulder.
– I do not fully understand you – she said, her voice low but firm. – For you, the desert is just sand and sun?
Matteo turned his gaze to her, still with the shadow of a smile on his heat-burnt lips, but said nothing. He waited.
– This place is testing us – continued Victória. – It is not indifferent, it is not empty. It forces us to look within, to confront thirst, hunger, fatigue, the thoughts that haunt us when the body can bear no more. It is as if the desert strips away our masks, one by one, until we are naked, with nothing to hide behind – she drew a deep breath, but the scorching air only burned her lungs. – To me, the desert is challenging us, Matteo. It is showing us who we truly are.
Matteo let out a sigh. For a moment, he walked in silence. Then, he turned to Victória, and his tone lost the lightness it had held before.
– Perhaps you are right – he murmured. – Perhaps the desert does challenge us, as you say. But I think the challenge is not surviving the sun or the thirst. The desert does not care for us, it is too vast for that.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the dust clinging to sweat, and continued:
– Perhaps what it wants to teach us is something else… that we need no more land, no more possessions, no more glories to be someone. The desert takes all that from us, Victória. It steals the illusion that we have power over the world. What remains, when it strips us of everything, is only what we carry in our spirit.
His voice sounded serious, like a whispered prayer, lost amid the creak of artillery wheels and the shuffle of thousands of feet. Victória walked in silence for a few seconds, ruminating on his words as if they were heavy jewels kept inside her chest. The sun burned her nape, sweat stung her eyes, but nothing disturbed her as much as the weight of that reflection. She turned her head to him, studying his face marked by dust and fatigue, and let slip a question with the raw honesty that only the desert seemed to allow:
– And what do you carry in your spirit, Matteo?
He did not answer immediately. His eyes lost themselves in the horizon, as if searching for the answer somewhere beyond the dunes, or as if afraid to speak it too soon.
– I have a dream – a shadow of a smile touched his lips, brief, almost melancholic. – But it is a dream I am in no rush to realise. I do not chase it as a hungry man chases bread. I leave it there, in the corner of my mind, and what happens, happens.
His words hung in the hot air, lighter than the dust stirred by the host's feet, yet with a weight she felt sink into her heart. Matteo turned to her and returned the question:
– And you? What dreams do you carry with you?
Victória let the silence stretch between them, long and heavy as the march itself. The heat seemed to bend her spine, but the heaviest burden came from within, from memories that assailed her without mercy. She thought of her father, far away, in the Baia delle Perle, always speaking of duties and alliances, of advantageous marriages that felt more like chains than promises of a future. She thought of that grim destiny, of being given to a husband who could bore even boredom itself, living within suffocating walls, condemned to silence.
But she also remembered the years spent at sea, the cold nights on deck, the salt on her lips, the feeling of freedom that only the vastness of the ocean had offered her. And, above all, she thought of what she had lived aboard the Caelestis, the weeks that had transformed her life – weeks of blood, of steel, of choices made in haste, and of fears buried with each dawn.
Suddenly, that vision she could not shake came to mind. The dream. Or was it more than a dream? That half-woman, half-fish, at the bottom of the sea. A vague, haunting memory, beating against her heart whenever she closed her eyes.
It took her a moment to realise Matteo was still looking at her, waiting. Finally, she lifted her chin and answered, her voice low, but firm:
– I have carried many burdens until now… and I know there are more to come. Perhaps the desert is exactly that: a good opportunity to think about what I must do.
The silence between them stretched on. Victória licked her dry lips, hesitating for a moment, and then let slip a question, almost as a challenge:
– So… what is your dream? Does it have to do with your mother's plans?
– My mother… always had plans – he said, sighing deeply, as if he had been waiting for that question his entire life. He was visibly marked by a fatigue that did not seem to come solely from the march. – For me, for our family. Everything in the name of protecting me, or of helping me rise in life – he said, staring at the horizon that seemed never to arrive. – I grew up surrounded by everything I could desire: food, clothes, education, promises of wealth. But I was never given what I truly wanted: choice. Every step I took was watched, every decision I made was made by her. I could not breathe without feeling the shadow of her schemes over me.
He fell silent for a moment, and the dry wind lifted his dishevelled hair, as if the desert itself wanted to hear the rest.
– These last few days, however… – Matteo smiled, but it was a broken smile, half bitter, half incredulous – these days have been different. Liberating. For the first time, I am not trapped in intrigues, nor power plays, nor webs I never chose. Here, in this march, in this dust and this heat, I am living a true life. No masks. No chains.
Victória looked at Matteo, her gaze heavy with curiosity and caution, and broke the thoughts that hovered over them like the scorching sand beneath their feet:
– And friends? Have you ever had real friends?
Matteo furrowed his brow slightly, taking a moment to respond, as if diving into memories he would rather forget. His hand automatically ran along his chin, and his eyes lost themselves in Victória's, which were as burning as the desert itself.
– I had many friends – he said, finally, his voice low, laden with a weight that did not come solely from the heat. – But real friends… – he hesitated, swallowing the words as if they were heavy stones – no. Never. All the people I knew were close to me because of my mother, or to obtain favours, positions, political advancement. There were always intentions behind every smile, every kind word.
A gust of wind lifted dust around them, and Matteo leaned slightly, looking at Victória with a hint of hope in his eyes:
– But that does not matter anymore – his tone became lighter, almost firm. – Now, I am surrounded by people I consider honest, who do not live in the shadow of schemes or intrigues. People with whom I can be myself, without having to be Matteo Perladoro, heir of Perlaria, and that… that is more than I have ever had.
Matteo's words calmed, for a moment, Victória's tumultuous thoughts. She looked at him, his face marked by the sun, and said, with an almost raw sincerity:
– If you want… I can be your friend – she paused, as if carefully choosing each word. – I have also never had a true friend, except for the sea. But here… – she lifted her eyes to the vast expanse of dunes stretching before them, undulating like petrified waves – here, the only sea we have is this sand.
The words fell between them as if the desert itself had absorbed them. Matteo averted his gaze, momentarily confused, and then felt a blush rise to his cheeks. It was a warmth different from the sun, more intimate, yet unexpected.
– So… – he said, his voice slightly trembling, but with a smile spreading across his lips – I accept. I gladly accept.