Chapter 12 — Beneath the Sand
The southern winds howled across the cracked red earth, carrying the scent of dust, heat, and something far heavier—rage.
Deep underground, where twisting tunnels formed a natural maze only one race could navigate with ease, a low growl vibrated through the dim cavern.
"Tell me you've found her. Tell me you found Sszira."
The voice belonged to Gor'Rath, chieftain of the lizardmen. His scales—normally a rugged blend of faded emerald and sand-brown—looked darker now, shadowed by fury and worry.
Before him, a young lizardkin scout knelt with his tail flat against the dirt.
"N-not yet Chieftain. Our warriors searched as far as the boundary. They found no trail. No tracks. She is… she just disappeared."
Gor'Rath's jaw tightened, fangs grinding.
Disappeared?
His daughter?
The cavern trembled faintly as his hands curled into the ground, the stone cracking like brittle eggshell beneath his claws.
"Useless!" he hissed. "You mean to tell me my daughter is missing and none of you have a single clue?"
The scout trembled harder. "Chieftain… the others have a suspicion."
"Speak," Gor'Rath growled, rage barely contained.
"There are whispers of a slave caravan. They were last seen heading toward the western ridge."
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Then—
A roar tore through the tunnels, shaking dust from the ceiling.
"They dare…" Gor'Rath spat the words like poison. "They dare touch what is mine."
He rose to his full height, towering—his shoulders scraping stone. The scar along his left eye pulsed darkly, the mark that earned him his title: Earth-Reaver.
The other warriors stiffened as the ground rippled like water and shifted with his rage.
"Prepare every warrior," Gor'Rath commanded. "If they have taken her… then every road they walk will burn."
"But Chieftain," the scout hesitated. "The western ridge is human territory… part of the Clinton viscounty. The viscount will—"
"Will what?" Gor'Rath snapped. "Send soldiers? Let them come. I will tear the mountains open if I must."
He inhaled long and slow, venomous.
"Until Sszira is returned…" His claws sank into the dirt. "…we show no mercy."
The warriors bowed.
And with that the war—reckless, desperate, or otherwise—had already begun.
⸻
Meanwhile…
Far to the north, where polished stone replaced red earth and chandeliers softened the world into warm gold, Azeroth jolted awake after another dream.
"Twice in a row… great," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.
When his pulse finally calmed down, he pushed himself up—only to misjudge his strength and cause the material to depress around his grip for a moment.
"Shit" He muttered, remembering the fact that he still has to attend a birthday party today…
His shoulders slumped.
"I'm doomed, aren't I?"
He wasn't doomed.
Just painfully unprepared.
⸻
The grand hall of the falls' Estate shimmered under the glow of hundreds of enchanted lanterns. Gold filigree danced along arching pillars, and the air was warm with laughter, clinking glasses, and the mellow notes of a small orchestral ensemble tucked in the corner.
Servants moved like a well-rehearsed tide—silver trays balanced effortlessly as they offered sparkling wine, fruity cocktails, and delicacies too pretty to eat.
Nobles clustered in animated pockets of conversation, dresses swishing, jewelry catching the light as they exchanged pleasantries, gossip, and thinly veiled bragging between themselves.
It was the kind of atmosphere where everyone pretended to be relaxed, but in the dark of their thoughts, every glance was an evaluation, and every smile hid layers of calculation.
Birthdays in noble circles were never just birthdays it seems.
⸻
A short while later…
The music softened as the double doors at the far end of the hall were pulled open by two uniformed attendants.
A herald stepped forward, voice booming:
"Presenting the Clinton Family—Lord Leon Clinton, Lady Serena Clinton, and Young Master Azeroth Clinton."
Heads turned at once. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Even the servants slowed, instinctively drifting out of the way.
The Clintons entered with an air of quiet authority.
Leon Clinton, broad-shouldered and imposing despite his tailored formal coat, scanned the room with the easy awareness of a man who owed no one an apology.
Beside him was Serena who radiated composed grace, her presence softening the edges of his as she walked in with her arm around his.
Behind them followed Azeroth, who was doing his best not to look as lost as he felt.
This was his first time attending a noble gathering after all.
Just then—
The crowd moved.
A wave of nobles surged toward them with polished smiles and eager greetings, each one vying to be noticed first.
"Lord Leon, an honor as always—"
"Lady Serena, the hall looks brighter just by your presence—"
"Young Master Azeroth, we have heard a lot about you—quite the promising future ahead!"
Dozens of voices layered over one another, each person trying to be heard first, to be noticed first.
The reason was suffocatingly obvious—
With their reputation as the strongest viscounty in this region, rumored to rival the count himself everyone wanted a piece of the moment.
Azeroth quietly exhaled through his nose.
Here we go…
As his parents handled the small crowd of nobles with practiced ease, something else tugged at his senses.
A scent.
Warm… sweet… intoxicating.
A servant passed by with a tray stacked with small pastries—fluffy, glazed, and absolutely unfair.
Azeroth's eyes lit up immediately.
Like a dog catching the scent of grilled meat, he sniffed the air once—
And then—
Azeroth's gaze locked onto the dessert tray like a starving predator spotting prey.
He didn't even realize he'd drifted away from his parents and the noise of the crowd. His feet just… moved. Some instincts were stronger than dignity.
The servant paused just long enough for Azeroth to reach, and that was all he needed.
He grabbed a small glazed pastry and bit—
Heaven.
Soft. Warm. Sweet enough to make his toes curl.
Instant addiction.
He grabbed another.
And another.
By the fourth, the servant was giving him the polite, terrified smile of a man unsure whether he should intervene or salute.
Azeroth didn't notice. He was too busy surviving this morally critical moment.
Just then a soft voice sounded to his right:
"Um… are they really that good?"
Azeroth froze mid-chew.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head.
A girl stood beside him, maybe a year or two older. Her dress was a pastel-blue cascade of layered petals, delicate lace tracing the sleeves, and tiny gemstone flowers pinned into her hair. She looked like someone had sculpted "noble elegance" into a child.
Her eyes—warm hazel—watched him with open curiosity, not judgment.
Azeroth swallowed (a bit too loudly).
"…yes," he answered honestly, holding up his half-bitten pastry like evidence. "Extremely."
She blinked once.
Then giggled—light, melodic, definitely practiced but genuinely amused.
"That explains why you've had four."
Azeroth choked slightly. "You were counting?"
"Couldn't help it," she shrugged, twisting the hem of her dress. "You looked… very motivated."
He awkwardly wiped his fingers with a napkin the servant mercifully offered.
"I, uh… didn't eat breakfast."
"A tactical mistake before a noble gathering," she said with surprising seriousness. "Food is the only thing that makes these events survivable."
He blinked.
Was this… wisdom?
Azeroth had no idea how to respond to that, so he just nodded.
She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret.
"You're Azeroth Clinton, right?"
He stiffened a little. "…yeah."
Her smile widened. "I'm Lyra Fall," she said. "It's my sister's birthday."
Azeroth blinked. "Oh…"