…
…
Somewhere, far below the skin of the earth, a pulse shuddered - and then a gasp tore through the dark. Everything rose like a nightmarish wake, the screaming, the thunder, the monstrous bellowing of titanic shadows. Yet the loudest banging was the man's heart as it knocked against his ribcage with every beat.
Rain poured like molten glass, each drop striking the ground with a violent hiss, heat radiating from the scorched mud.
From afar an explosion rose as if hell ripped apart the surface, heat and flame poured in and his whole body shook, the dust flooded in from his right and wind blew, removing his daze.
The air quivered when he moved. Water slid off his face in trembling lines. He could hear it - the pull and drag of each drop leaving him, running down into the dirt to join the rest. What grabbed his attention however was something else, when lightning came his reflection illuminated in the puddle beneath him as he raised himself up.
"Golden eyes…" Echoed in his head, why did his eyes glow gold?
Then his gaze shifted, threads, golden and alive, they waved as if submerged. Burrowing from his chest they forged a path through the mire, through the blood, ash and fire that surrounded him - and from those threads he felt a familiar warmth, "Amara…" Escaped from his faint voice.
Then the ground ruptured.
The landscape shattered and rose in plateaus, and the beast roared as its joints crackled from even the tiniest movements. Its roar was so deep that the rhythm of the world seemed to displace as he heard nothing but terror.
He ran - straight into danger, "Amara!"
He avoided the splintered ground and the mangled bodies, he only had one destination as he ran past all the cries for help and he saw her - tears almost instantly welled up in his eyes.
"Ama-!" A shadow blazed past their distant silhouettes. They were gone.
The rain drummed, dull and dire, drowning the dying.
50 years later.
"For goodness' sake. You've been laying there for an hour, lad!"
A busy old man barked at the resting mercenary, slumped against the counter with a couple of wooden jugs beside him.
He grumbled as his back straightened, joints cracking when he stretched. "Sorry, Heltor. I'll get a move on now." His eyes were tired as he stood, reaching into a small pocket stitched onto the belt across his chestplate. He slid a couple of coins onto the counter, each stamped with the figure of a maiden.
Turning around, he opened the door slowly. Sunlight stabbed at his eyes and he winced, pausing a moment on the threshold before stepping out.
It was a small settlement, a couple of houses at most near the edge of a desert by the cliffs leading somewhere higher. He set out, towards the center of the desert that lay before him.
Crossing the harsh expanse of the desert, the world eventually dropped away. Sand gave out to stone, and ahead the ground fell into a vast wound. From the edge he observed the crater - wide and sprawling, like a miniature world sunk into the earth, a jungle taking shape the deeper it went.
"Dune Cradle," he whispered to himself, then turned to follow the rim. He needed a way in.
…
Soon, smaller craters came into view - shallow bowls stepping down in a spiral. This was the only way to venture deeper into the Cradle: a chain of plateaus linking the rim to the floor.
Sliding down the steep gradient, one hand braced on the rock and the other gripping his sword for balance, he picked his way along the descent. Halfway down, the remains of a campsite caught his attention.
A quick look was enough. The ash circle, the scattered footprints, the pattern of where bedrolls had been. "Four… maybe six," he murmured. "He must've been here." From the dryness of the coals and the state of the ground, he judged they'd camped here a couple of days ago. He adjusted his path and continued down with a little more haste.
Each drop in elevation felt warmer, the air thicker - a comfort for Restrana such as himself. Near the bottom he took one last long slide, bursting through a brush of leaves and branches. He landed with a heavy thump. Broken foliage lay around him in a similar state; others had forced their way through here not long before. He took a moment to steady his breathing and scan the area.
Careful glances soon picked out a path, a rough line of carved and hacked-off foliage. "Careless…" he muttered. These people were not used to the Cradle. Most of the Sunder Plains was open, danger had nowhere to hide. Here, the rules changed. Animals could climb as easily as they ran, using trunks and vines to stalk from above. Noise drew eyes. A traveller used to deserts wouldn't realise how this place hunted.
Following the prepared path, he eventually emerged into a more open space. The treeline thinned into a patch of savannah, and not far off a river wound through it, where a herd of gazelles drank in uneasy peace.
Just as his gaze settled on them, they scattered, hooves splashing and pounding away. He turned in the direction opposite their flight and saw the trees there shuddering, branches rattling and slamming as if something heavy forced its way through.
With little hesitation, his pace quickened into a jog, then into a full sprint.
He burst through the fields just as a young man, barely an adult, stumbled out of the treeline, eyes wide and breath ragged.
In one motion the mercenary's hand went to his hilt. Steel hissed free. He dropped his weight, knees bending, and slid across the grass on the heels of his boots. His left arm hooked around the boy's waist, pulling him in, and his back slammed into the trunk of a tree. A blur of a shadow crashed through the space the boy had been in an instant before, the impact shaking leaves loose above them.
"Wait." His voice was low, sharp. The command pinned the boy in place better than his arm had. He let him go and pushed himself off the tree.
He rose steadily, adjusting the grip on his longsword. Both hands settled on the lower part of the handle, the blade angled down from his waist, pointing toward the ground. Each step he took forward was slow, measured.
The creature that had leapt for them stood in front, now at the field, tail raised aggressively. The blightwolf was at least two meters tall at the shoulder, its body long and lean, muscles tensing beneath bare, greyed skin. It resembled a rat more than a wolf, elongated snout slick with saliva, teeth bared and dripping. Despite its twisted shape, it carried itself with the balance and poise of a proud predator.
They moved at the same time.
The blightwolf lunged, its front paw scything downward, claws already wet with someone else's blood, aiming straight for his throat. He planted his forward foot, lifting his arms just enough to bring the base of his blade in line with the strike. Metal met flesh with a heavy smack as he knocked the claw aside, the force running up his arms and into his shoulders.
A small twist of his wrist rotated the blade, edge now tracking the line of the beast's exposed neck. Heat flooded his back and shoulders, radiating down into his arms. A brief, focused breath empowering every fiber of his body. His second foot set behind him, anchoring his weight.
The slash came down.
Steel bit through the tight skin of the jugular and kept going, carving a diagonal path across the throat and shoulder. For a moment there was resistance, then it gave all at once; muscle, tendon and sinew parted under the weight and heat of the blow. Blood erupted in a thick, dark fan, staining the grass forward.
The blightwolf staggered, front legs buckling as its severed shoulder dislodged from its torso. It gurgled once, a wet, broken sound, and then collapsed onto its side, body twitching before going still.
The man held his stance for a heartbeat longer, breath steady, eyes scanning the treeline. He turned, checking each shadow between the trunks. No movement. No more blightwolves.
Only then did he lower his sword, sheathing it.
Turning around, he looked at the frightened kid before kneeling on one knee next to him, "Young one, you are safe." The frightened boy looked at him, "Please… Help my friends." He pleaded with tears escaping his strained eyes.
He turned back to the boy. The young Restrani was shaking, eyes fixed on the corpse. He knelt down on one knee so they were closer to level.
"Young one," he said, voice softer now. "You are safe."
The boy's lips trembled. "Please… help my friends." Tears escaped despite his attempt to hold them back.
"Are you Gauri?" The man asked first.
The answer came as a quivering nod.
The man's gaze dropped briefly to his shoes, ruined and falling apart, cut open in places from running who knew how far through the Cradle. That settled his next decision. Lifting Gauri with ease, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. The boy clung to his shoulder without being asked.
…
A couple of hours later, the trail ended.
They found them in a small clearing: four bodies, all Restrana, all still. Flies hadn't yet found them, but the smell had started - the heavy, metallic tang of fresh death. Drag marks led away from the scene, furrows of churned soil and blood that simply stopped at the roots of the trees, as if something had pulled a fifth body into the dark and never brought it back.
He knelt beside the nearest body, observing each injury. "Blightwolves slash or bite their prey," he thought, fingers pushing over the wounds. "But three of these bodies died from an impact." Ribs caved in. Skulls cracked not by teeth, but by blunt force.
A weight tightened in his chest. "I haven't seen such extreme blunt injuries before…"
He rose and turned toward Gauri, who had dropped to his knees by one of the dead, shoulders shaking. It seemed like a younger lady, a guard of his. The man watched him for a moment, then said, simply and quietly, "I'm sorry."
The boy understood. His body curled in on itself, a broken sound escaping him as he whimpered.
The man looked once more at the cleared space, the broken bodies, the silent trees. Then he turned away. "We're leaving," he said. "Now."
…
Night.
They had climbed up the far side of the Cradle before the sun fell, leaving the heavy air of the jungle for open desert once more. Now, wind hummed around their small camp. A modest fire crackled between them, its light spreading a trembling orange.
Gauri laid wrapped in a blanket near the flames, eyes open with sleep refusing to come. The mercenary sat opposite him, his sword planted upside down in the sand, both hands resting on the pommel, his chin on his knuckles.
"How far is Aridra…" Gauri finally asked, pushing himself up to sit.
"Seven hours." He answered without hesitation. He paused, then added, "You have composed yourself quickly. Your father would be proud." His gaze stayed on the fire.
"It is fine," Gauri said, though his voice was thin. "Such is expected from a Restrani." He hesitated, then looked over the flames. "What is your name, sir? I have seen you in our mansion often before."
The man did not answer immediately. The wind tugged at the edges of his cloak. "I do not know my name," he said at last.
Gauri stared. "Is it really true then? A lone wanderer who lives nameless…"
"You've heard what people say about me," The man replied, expression unchanged. "Yet you still ask."
Gauri frowned, more confused than before. "Well of course. A name in this world is as mysterious as the flame within us. We all felt the weight of our names even at birth." He looked down at his hands, remembering. "I remember feeling the warmth of my mother thinking and whispering names while I was in the womb. It was one of the strangest feelings I've ever felt."
The man's fingers tightened slightly around the sword's pommel. "I've never felt this thing you speak of…" he said. "I don't know why the world took my name."
The fire filled the silence between them for a while, its crackle the only sound besides the distant hiss of sand shifting in the wind.
"Thank you," Gauri said suddenly. "You saved me from my foolishness." Gauri looked at him with earnest gratitude. "If it wasn't for you, I would not have been able to receive my father's flame and ease his burden."
"Aarav has always been a patron of mine," The man replied. "He is a powerful pillar of the remaining Restrana. I will always help a friend." He still hadn't looked directly at the boy. "Thank you nonetheless," Gauri insisted, a bit of strength returning to his voice. "I will owe you a great debt when I learn to help my father with Aridra… Might I ask where you have been? I haven't seen you in many years on our land."
"I've been helping establish connections and trade routes at Underbog for Aarav," He answered. "The Sunder Plains are harsh, and Underbog is still developing. There is little authority, and less governance." He finally glanced over the fire at Gauri. "I am returning to Aridra after four years. It was difficult to recognise you as well. You were much smaller back then."
"I could tell you about the changes to Aridra if you want," Gauri said, some of his earlier enthusiasm surfacing. "I've been doing my cultural studies lately, and learning recent history-"
"I'm older than the city, kid," The man cut in. "Go to sleep."
The boy's shoulders sank a little, but he stopped, lying back down while his eyes stayed fixed on the flames, trying to find a way to quiet his thoughts.
A moment passed.
"My friends call me Gold," the man added.
Gauri blinked and turned his head slightly, looking at him across the fire. He didn't say it aloud, but the thought came easily. "Because your eyes are golden…?"