The pre-dawn wrapped the desert like a mantle of black velvet sprinkled with stars that were just beginning to fade.
The cold wind swept across the endless dunes, carrying the dry whisper of sand grinding against stone. Atop an ancient quarry formed around a small oasis—a raised rocky plateau that rose like an island in the sea of sand—rested an elven detachment of twenty warriors.
There were no campfires. No glow. Only absolute silence, broken solely by the occasional rustle of a cloak and the howl of the wind.
The elves wore light, functional armor: plates of shyrdl—a rare gold from the elven oases, called the keratin of the Gods—interwoven with flexible black leather, engraved with subtle runes traced in gold that emitted an almost imperceptible glow, like stars trapped within the metalwork.
Their helmets were elegant, protecting only the sides and adorned with fine plumes of dune-falcons. They sat in a perfect circle, legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating in a state of elven sleep.
The cold that would bite the skin of any mortal was, to them, merely a familiar caress; their bodies did not shiver.
Below, at the steep base of the quarry, the three transport creatures—the Lunastriders—winged wyverns with sandy scales, capable not only of flight but also of folding their large membranous wings to glide across the sand without leaving tracks or disturbing the dunes, like liquid ghosts—drank from the oasis water, which was vital to them.
The two generals, Thswoner and Garhlieash, stood just far enough apart that their low voices would not disturb the others, exchanging practical, almost whispered words.
"Are you anxious?" Garhlieash asked. He was seated, idly swinging his golden-edged scimitar. His short blond hair swayed faintly, in contrast to Thswoner's long black strands.
"I will kill him. That was the promise I made to him," Thswoner replied. His elven eyes—like those of the others—could see the true colors of the celestial stars. He gripped the handle of his black khopesh and raised the weapon to chest height. "Which means I can hardly wait to fulfill it."
The gust of wind struck hard, carrying with it the scent of an uncertain fate.