The night air in Sarith carried a rare mercy. A cool breeze slipped between the mud-brick homes and whispered across sun-baked skin, offering a brief, precious relief after the day's brutal tyranny. The people of this arid province had never grown used to the sun's merciless reign; they had only learned, year after year, how to survive it.
Rain was the province's most precious dream. When it came—once in a blue moon or even less—the entire town would spill into the streets. Men, women, and children danced beneath the sky like mad devotees, laughing until their throats burned. Little ones tilted their faces upward, mouths open wide, drinking the sweet water straight from the heavens. Even the horses and camels stood still, eyes half-closed in quiet gratitude.
But such blessings were cruelly infrequent.
The last rain had kissed the land ten moons ago, and even then it had been nothing more than a fleeting sigh—barely enough to dampen the dust before vanishing like a lover's empty promise.
Yasmine knelt by the low fire in the courtyard, her small hands steady as she picked up a dry twig. She held its tip to the flames until it caught, then carried the burning stick carefully to the clay lantern beside her. A soft, golden glow bloomed to life, gently pushing back the surrounding darkness.
"Ye Ye!" she called gently, her voice echoing down the narrow corridor.
Her grandmother, Devi whom Yasmine had called Ye Ye since she could first speak was one hundred and three years old. Age had bent her spine and silvered her hair, but it had never dimmed the quiet depth in her eyes. She carried the wisdom of a full century the way others carried water jars: with steady grace and unshakeable strength.
Yasmine's mother had died while bringing her into the world. Her father, a strong and quiet man, had been taken by the Empire's army not long after. Though she had only been seven when he left, the ache of his absence had never truly left her chest. In the end, it had been just her and Ye Ye against the world.
And that was enough.
Yasmine loved her grandmother with a ferocity that sometimes frightened her. It was the kind of love that could burn cities, topple empires, or reduce the world to ash if anyone ever tried to take Ye Ye away from her. In a life that had already stolen her mother and father, Devi was her entire world.
A bright smile broke across Yasmine's face the moment she saw her. The old woman sat alone in the moonlit courtyard, her frail form bathed in soft starlight, eyes lifted peacefully toward the heavens.
"Ye Ye!" she called softly, hurrying over. "Why are you sitting here alone in the dark? I was worried."
She placed the lantern gently on the ground beside her grandmother. Warm golden light spilled across the stone tiles, chasing away the shadows and illuminating Devi's face with tender clarity.
"I'm just sitting here, my daughter," Devi replied, her voice soft and warm like aged honey. A gentle smile touched her lips as she turned her gaze to Yasmine.
Even at one hundred and three, Devi was strikingly beautiful. Time had been strangely merciful; her face still held the graceful lines of a woman in her seventies rather than a full century. One could easily picture the hearts she must have stirred in her youth—the way heads turned and breaths caught whenever she passed through the market or the temple grounds.
Yasmine had inherited that same rare beauty.
Her skin glowed with the warm, sun-kissed tone of the desert people. But it was her eyes that truly set her apart—a mesmerizing anomaly. Each iris was divided:. One half a soft, earthy brown, the other a vivid, almost luminous green. Long, silky black waves framed her face, falling past her shoulders, while her full lips carried the deep crimson of ripened pomegranates. Just above her left brow rested a small, perfectly round red mole, a delicate mark that only heightened her striking presence.
She looked almost unreal, as though sculpted by the gods themselves.
Yasmine hesitated, then leaned forward, her voice dropping with quiet curiosity.
"Yeye… there's something I've been wanting to ask, but I don't know who else would tell me the truth."
Devi looked up from her tea, eyes warm with interest. "What is it, my daughter?"
"Does the name Theron Van Sarith mean anything to you?"
The moment the name left Yasmine's lips, the warmth drained from Devi's face. Her expression hardened into something cold and severe.
Devi's gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding.
"And where," she asked, her voice dangerously quiet, "did you hear that name?"
Yasmine scratched the back of her head, her low bun loosening further in the night breeze. "I… I read it in a book."
"Lies!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Devi's eyes blazed with intensity. She lunged forward and seized Yasmine's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, yanking her granddaughter close until their faces were mere inches apart. Her voice dropped to a harsh, urgent whisper.
"There is not a single book in this world that speaks of Theron Van Sarith."
Yasmine swallowed hard, heart hammering in her chest.
"Would you like to know what happened to the last man who tried to write a myth about him?" Devi asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
Yasmine slowly shook her head. "No."
"Good," Devi said, a cold smile touching her lips. "I'll tell you anyway."
Her gaze drifted into the darkness beyond the balcony, as though the memory itself still haunted the shadows.
"They tied him to a camel and dragged him across the desert for nearly a thousand miles to the Empire. Every day he was given only two handfuls of water and two dates to eat. Nothing more. Whenever he slowed the beast, they whipped him until his back bled."
Yasmine felt a chill snake down her spine.
"By the time he reached the capital, he was no longer a man—just a broken skeleton wrapped in sunburnt skin. His eyes were blood-red from sand and sun, his teeth blackened and rotting."
Devi's voice dropped even lower, cold and merciless.
"The Emperors ordered him laid flat on the ground in the public square. Then, one by one, they rode their horses over his body… trampling him until his final scream died in his throat."
She paused, letting the horror settle deep.
"And when it was over, they dragged what was left of him back into the desert and left him there for the vultures to feast on."
Devi's eyes snapped back to Yasmine, sharp and unyielding.
"A warning," she whispered. "To anyone foolish enough to speak the name or tell the tales of Theron Van Sarith."
Yasmine blinked, trying to process the horror she had just heard.
"That's… a lot."
"Stop acting unbothered," Devi snapped sharply. "What I just told you is real. Every word."
"I know you wouldn't lie to me, Grandmother," Yasmine replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
She hesitated, fingers twisting in her lap, then admitted, "I didn't actually read it in a book."
Devi's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"I overheard a group of men talking about him earlier today."
"And what exactly were they saying?" Devi demanded.
Yasmine glanced toward the dark horizon, where the night wind whispered through the palms.
"They said a powerful whirlwind has been tearing through the southern villages… destroying everything in its path."
She paused, swallowing hard.
"And they claimed the Emperors can no longer control the dunes."
Her voice dropped to a hushed tone.
"Because the one sitting on the throne… is not the true Sand Bearer."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Everyone knew the old stories.
They knew the desert had once chosen its own ruler.
They knew that the ruler had been murdered in cold blood.
And they knew the violent storms now raging across the land were not natural.
But no one dared speak of it aloud.
In Sarith, speaking the truth was the quickest way to disappear.
But Yasmine was different.
She did not fear the desert.
She moved through it like breath through lungs.
They called her the Dune Runner—the best there ever was. She led caravans through sandstorms that swallowed entire armies, across shifting paths no map had ever survived. People whispered that she understood the sand.
They were wrong.
Understanding implied distance.
To Yasmine, the desert felt intimately familiar, like an old, restless lover.
She had seen too much to swallow the Empire's lies.
Too many bodies swallowed by the dunes and too many caravans vanishing without a trace. As well as lots of children left orphaned, screaming into the wind.
All because the one ruler the desert had chosen—Theron Van Sarith, had been murdered before he could truly rise.
Since that day, the land had refused to rest.
And in the heart of that endless chaos, Yasmine had built something.
Not quite an army.
But close enough.
Roughly thirty thousand men and women had answered when Yasmine called.
People she had dragged back from the edge of death.
People who had nothing left to lose.
They followed the storms wherever they struck hardest, pulling the living from the suffocating sand, burying the dead with quiet dignity, and gathering the broken survivors. Children. Mothers. The forgotten.
In the shadows where the Empire refused to look, they built hidden shelters from whatever the desert allowed them to keep.
For years, that had been her life. Saving what the desert had not yet claimed.
It had begun when she was only five.
Back then she hadn't understood it. She only knew that when anger flared inside her, the wind answered. Rising sharp and restless, sand twisting into furious spirals. And when she calmed, the storm would ease… not always, but enough for her to notice. Enough to hide.
"Yeye, it's time to sleep," Yasmine said softly, her voice gentler than the tempests she walked through. "The night is falling."
She slipped an arm around her grandmother and guided her carefully into the small hut. The torch flame danced against the clay walls as she helped the old woman lie down on the simple mat.
Yasmine settled beside her soon after. The warm night air pressed close, thick and heavy.
But sleep refused to come.
She stared at the low ceiling, listening to the unnatural stillness outside.
Her fingers tightened against the thin blanket.
Something is coming.
The thought settled heavy in her chest, like the charged air right before a storm breaks.
Slowly, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the waiting darkness.
*****
At the heart of Sarith, where the Empire's iron grip was strongest, the Grand Meeting Hall thrummed with low, careful conversation. High-ranking officials sat along a long, polished stone table, their voices hushed and deliberate.
Morning light poured through the tall arched windows, bathing the room in pale gold. Ten seats faced ten others in perfect, symmetrical alignment. Before each official rested a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a small plate of dates, both untouched.
At the head of the table stood a grand throne, ornate and imposing.
It was empty.
It was always empty.
Zayn, a sharp-eyed woman in her late forties, straightened in her seat. The room fell into expectant silence as she began to speak.
"What I saw in my vision…" Her voice was
steady, yet heavy with dread. "…is that the crown must be found."
The murmurs died instantly.
"For the sands to know peace again," she continued, her gaze sweeping slowly across every face, "the destruction we have witnessed will only grow worse."
She let the weight of her words settle before continuing, her tone dropping to something quieter and far more dangerous.
"Let me be clear."
The air in the hall seemed to thicken.
"The storms will not ease. They will grow more violent. More relentless. Until nothing we have built… remains."
Silence pressed in.
"If we ignore this," she added, "we risk losing everything. Our cities, our people… even our history, buried and forgotten beneath the sand."
Zayn reached for her cup, lifting it with steady hands. She blew gently across the surface before taking a slow sip, as if her words had not just unsettled the entire room.
A sharp scoff broke the silence.
"Can you ever stop with the fearmongering, Zayn?"
Ezra leaned back in his chair, irritation clear in his voice.
"These visions of yours…" he continued, shaking his head. "They never seem to come with solutions, do they?"
"Tsk… tsk… tsk, Ezra."
Zayn leaned back slightly, her gaze cold.
"I almost hope the next storm finds you first," she said. "You've done more than enough talking for one morning."
A few officials shifted uncomfortably.
"I'm the one who sees," she continued, gesturing lazily toward the rest of the table. "The rest of you…" Her fingers flicked outward, dismissive, "…should be thinking of solutions."
Ezra rolled his eyes.
"I said—"
Zayn's palm struck the table with a sharp crack.
Cups rattled. A few dates scattered across the polished surface.
She rose slowly, her presence suddenly filling the room.
"The crown must be found."
Her voice cut through the hall, firm.
"Do whatever you will with that information."
Her tone dropped again, quieter now but no less dangerous.
A murmur rippled through the officials.
"This woman is fucking crazy," one of the officials muttered under his breath.
"That's enough."
The voice was calm, yet it cut through the room like steel.
All eyes turned.
Bailord.