The desert stretched endlessly before them, golden dunes shifting beneath the weight of the wind. Zaria rode at the front of the warband, her fingers tight around the reins of her black stallion. Behind her, twenty of Zambura's finest warriors followed, their spears gleaming under the morning sun.
The raid on the border village had left nothing but ashes in its wake. When they arrived, the air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood. Bodies lay scattered across the ground—men, women, even children. The sight twisted something deep inside Zaria's chest.
"Savages," one of the warriors spat, dismounting to inspect the scene.
Zaria slid off her horse, her leather boots sinking into the sand. "Who did this?" she demanded.
A scout stepped forward, kneeling beside a fallen villager. "Their wounds are clean," he said, examining a deep gash. "Blade work—precise, efficient. Not the work of ordinary bandits."
Zaria's eyes darkened. "Who, then?"
The scout pointed toward the horizon. "The Empire of Zolm."
A hush fell over the warriors. Zolm was one of the most powerful kingdoms in the region—wealthy, ruthless, and ever hungry for land.
"They're testing our defenses," one warrior muttered. "Seeing how far they can push before we strike back."
Zaria clenched her fists. This was no simple raid. It was a message.
She turned to her men. "Gather anything that can tell us more. We ride at dusk."
As the warriors spread out, Zaria knelt beside an old woman who had been caught in the attack. Her lifeless eyes stared at the sky, her hands still clutching a broken wooden staff. She had fought back.
Zaria whispered a silent prayer, then stood.
War was coming.
And she would be ready.
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