The desert stretched forever, a vast expanse of ochre dunes and fractured stone beneath a fading sky. The sun sank low, while the wind howled between the dunes like a wounded beast. Carrying with it whispers of long-buried cities and bones of empires past
Eryndor trudged forward, boots grinding against sand and gravel, his torn cloak snapping sharply behind him. Sweat traced slow lines down his temples, vanishing into dust-streaked skin. Beneath the grime, golden lines of scripture occasionally shimmering faintly beneath his clothes before fading again like a trick of the light.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and exhaled. His cloak was frayed beyond repair, the hem stiff with sand. His boots had cracked soles, each step sending a dull ache up his legs.
Beside him, Lirien moved like a pale flame, her pale armour was dulled by dust, her braid loosened by wind and exhaustion, her usual grace dulled but not dimmed. The desert heat gnawed at her patience, and the sharp and immaculate composure she usually wore had wilt into sharp annoyance.
"Remind me," she said at last, voice tight.
"Where exactly are we going?"
Eryndor didn't look back. A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth.
"East," he replied easily. "Because last time I checked, we have to go toward the land of the Dwarves. That, is exactly where we're heading to."
She stopped walking and shot him a glare.
He shrugged. "That's the most honest answer you'll get." His tone was light, yet teasing enough to make Lirien's jaw tighten.
"You should at least know the precise location," she snapped, brushing dust from her cheek.
"Oh, I do," he said lightly. Then, under his breath—too quietly for her to hear—No, these damn words do.
He squinted toward the distant horizon, where red mountains shimmered faintly beneath the dusk like buried embers. A short, humorless laugh escaped him.
"Straight into trouble," he said. "I'm very consistent about that."
It had been several days since they left the ruins of the Obsidian Library of Tarekha. At first, the plan had been simple, return to Mataram Prana, seek answers about the legacy from someone Eryndor knew and trusted—or once had.
But the dreams had returned. Now more persistent and insistent calling him eastward. Toward Prashavat Loka—the land of Dwarves, the mountains of sacred flame and forgotten relics. He had ignored it at first. Then tried to drown it out.
But night after night, it began to haunt him.
So in the end they had taken a detour, climbing toward the Sky Bastion region instead. However lacking a clear direction, they wandered aimlessly for few days.
"If we live through this," Lirien muttered, "I'm never trusting your sense of direction again."
"Direction?" Eryndor said, shading his eyes.
"I prefer to call it adventurous improvisation."
She gave him a look that promised violence.
A few days later the sand thinned as they climbed the Aruhn Spine, a border range of dark stone rising like crooked teeth against the sky. The air cooled, but the wind sharpened, whistling through cracks in the rock. Far beyond, the mountain range of Prashavat Loka rose against the horizon, glowing faintly as if lit from within.
For a long while, they walked in silence—save for Eryndor's quiet humming, a soft, wandering tune without words, which irked Lirien further.
Her jaw tightened.
"Well," Eryndor said eventually, kicking a pebble off the path, "that was a healthy morning exercise."
She didn't answer.
"Not much conversation today," he added. "Very disciplined of you."
"All I'll say," she replied flatly, "is that your humor has an impressive survival instinct."
Eryndor just smiled at that. Crooked smile that said I can take that.
Then the air shifted.
The wind died.
The stones fell silent.
Eryndor stopped.
His hand curled into a fist, and every trace of playfulness vanished from his face.
"We're not alone," he said quietly.
Footsteps echoed against stone.
Then came glint of steel.
Figures emerged from the heat-haze ahead—one, then two, then more. Cloaked. Masked. Their movements were unnervingly synchronized, as if guided by a single will rather than many bodies.
"Oh," Eryndor said with a dry chuckle.
"Good. A welcoming party. I am touched"
"Sincerely," he added.
"Robbers?" Lirien whispered, fingers tightening on her weapon.
"But they awfully reek of blood." She remarked.
"In that case," Eryndor said.
"Most likely not robbers then." He smirked wickedly.
One of them stepped forward—taller than the rest. Light glanced off the edge of his blade like a trapped sunrise.
"You took something you should not have," the man said.
His voice was metallic, distorted, as though filtered through ritual.
"You will come with us."
Mana stirred around him, faint but heavy, pressing outward.
Eryndor felt it immediately.
At least Mortal Lord, he thought.
He glanced at Lirien. She was staring at them, expression unreadable.
He turned back to the man and smiled.
"Inquisitor," he said slowly.
The word hung in the air like a drawn blade.
"You really came chasing me."
He tilted his head, tapping his own cheek.
"I'd recommend wearing your usual mask next time. Much more intimidating."
The man remained calm as his body and gesture did not move in slighlest yet a flashed of surprise crossed the man's face yet as quicly it had gone.
"Oh, wonderful," Eryndor sighed.
"I was starting to miss the company of religious fanatics." He mocked them. Taunting them yet silence answered him. Cold. Absolute.
"I do not understand your words," the man said.
"And I do not care."
"You have taken what supposed to be ours."
"What you carry what was never meant for mortal hands."
Eryndor glanced sideways at Lirien.
"He talks like he swallowed a hymn book."
"Focus," she snapped.
"Right, right." He turned back.
"So let me guess. Quiet surrender, or loud death?"
"If you persist on mockery," the leader said, voice dropping.
"It's a coping mechanism," Eryndor replied with a sneer.
The man did not answer, he moved fast, too fast.
The blade lunged for Eryndor's shoulder, aimed to cripple rather than kill. Mana surged, compressing the air itself.
Eryndor exhaled.
The world slowed.
Not completely—not like before. The pressure of a Mortal Lord resisted his gift, grinding against his senses like stone against bone. But it was enough.
He twisted aside. The blade missed him by a breath.
Eryndor slammed his shoulder into the man's chest.
The impact sent the Inquisitor staggering back, boots scraping stone. Surprise flashed behind the mask.
Eryndor didn't wait.
He stepped in, fist arcing toward the man's arm—
Steel screamed.
Another attacker struck from the side.
Eryndor pivoted at the last instant, his fist colliding with the incoming blade. Sparks erupted as mana met mana, the sound ringing sharply across the Spine.