Ámmon was shoved toward a heavy wooden gate. The light poured through the cracks, blindingly bright. He stumbled out into the sand. He was in a sunken arena, a small, private coliseum built for the amusement of those with a taste for violence. Above him, in a box draped with velvet, sat Master Lucian, clapping his hands in delight. Around sixty, maybe seventy guests surrounded the pit, leaning over the railings, jeering, their faces twisted with anticipation.
Am I to fight a Grasslander? he thought, his grip tightening on the leather handle of the shield. Is this why he bought me? To be a toy in their games?
On the opposite side, another gate groaned open.
Ámmon's blood froze.
I am going to die, he thought. For the second time in a few days, the certainty of death settled over him. From the shadows, it wasn't a soldier who emerged. It was something far worse. Something alien. It was a mountain of muscle and fur, a creature from the deepest, darkest nightmares of the forest. It moved with a fluid, terrifying grace on four massive paws, each the size of a shield. Its fur was a matted tapestry of tawny gold and stripes of deep forest dark green. It was feline, but monstrously overgrown, larger than any camel, heavier than a warhorse. From its upper jaw, two curved teeth made of ivory protruded, extending past its chin, teeth designed not just to bite, but to impale.
Ámmon stepped back, the sand shifting under his bare feet. He had never seen a mammal this size. In the Desert, the monsters were chitin and scales. This was warm blood and raw power.
The beast locked eyes with him. It didn't roar. It didn't posture. It simply launched itself across the arena, Ámmon barely had time to raise his shield. The impact was like being struck by a falling boulder. The shield shattered instantly, the wood exploding into splinters. Ámmon was thrown backward, skidding through the sand, the air driven from his lungs. The crowd erupted in cheers, people exchanging glances of twisted joy, practically salivating at the anticipation of the coming carnage.
The beast charged again. Ámmon threw his spear, striking its hip as he dodged the lunge with a desperate roll, but before he could scramble up again, a shadow eclipsed the sun. The beast was on top of him. Its weight pinned him to the earth, crushing his chest. Hot, rancid breath washed over his face, smelling of old blood and rot. Ámmon looked up, staring directly into the maw of death. The creature raised a massive paw, claws extending like iron daggers, ready to tear his throat out.
Fear, absolute and primal, flooded Ámmon's sand-filled veins. But beneath the fear, there was a scream, a desperate, furious refusal to die. "NO!" his mind shrieked. "STOP!"
And the world snapped. It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation, but a violent tear in the fabric of his own mind. Suddenly, he wasn't just feeling fear, he felt... hunger. He felt confusion, and he felt the sting of a whip on a flank that wasn't his. The beast froze. Its muscles locked. It let out a low, confused whine, a sound that made the hair on Ámmon's arms stand up.
The jeering crowd fell silent. The guests leaned over the railing, their wine goblets forgotten. Master Lucian stood up, his smile vanishing. This wasn't part of the show. The savage was supposed to be torn apart. Why was the Saber-Stalker hesitating?
"Fight him!" Lucian shrieked, his voice cracking. "Tear him apart!"
The sound of Lucian's voice rippled through the beast, the hunger returning. Ámmon felt the creature's focus shifting back to kill. Ámmon looked up at the velvet box. At the fat man screaming for blood. A violent rage seized his senses. All the hatred he held for these people, for what they had done to his friends, to his camp, boiled inside him. Driven by indescribable fury, he frantically screamed in his head:. "THEM! GO AFTER THEM!".
It was as if the beast's own rage at being imprisoned by these people, in this horrid place, merged instantly with Ámmon's fury. The beast's head snapped up. It looked away from Ámmon and locked its eyes on the velvet box. With a roar that shook the very foundations of the arena, the creature leaped off him. It charged the wall, digging its massive claws into the stone, scaling the side of the pit with terrifying speed.
Panic erupted. The guests screamed, scrambling over each other to escape. Master Lucian turned to run, but he tripped over his own silk robes. The beast vaulted over the railing, landing amidst the nobility like a wolf among sheep. Ámmon didn't watch. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the spear from the sand. He sprinted toward the gate, which had been left unguarded in the chaos. He burst into the tunnel, his lungs burning. A guard turned the corner, spear lowered. He was young, his eyes wide with the commotion behind him. He saw Ámmon and hesitated for a fraction of a second. That second was all Ámmon needed. He didn't fence. He didn't duel. He threw his body weight forward, slamming into the guard before the spear could find its mark. He drove the spear blade into the gap between the guard's helmet and breastplate. Warm blood sprayed across Ámmon's hands.
He didn't stop. He pushed the dying man aside and kept running.
He reached the heavy iron door that led out of the arena, to the estate grounds. It was locked.
Ámmon slammed his shoulder against it, shouting in frustration. The sounds of slaughter from the arena were echoing down the tunnel.
Click. The lock tumblers turned from the other side. The door swung open. Standing there was the translator, the woman with the copper skin. She held a ring of keys in her hand, her chest heaving. She looked at Ámmon, at the blood on his tunic, at the wild fire in his eyes. There was no fear in her gaze, only a dawn of realization.
"Go," she whispered in the Desert tongue. She pointed toward the eastern wall, where the ivy was thickest. "The service gate is unlatched. Run, brother."
"Why?" Ámmon gasped, pausing for a heartbeat. She looked past him, toward the screams of the dying masters and just shrugged her shoulders.
Ámmon scaled the wall, the adrenaline masking the pain in his bruised ribs. He dropped down onto the muddy street outside, his feet slapping against the wet cobblestones. He ran until the estate was just a shadow behind him. Only then did he stop, he looked at his hands. They were trembling violently. It wasn't cold. It wasn't combat. He could still feel the echo of the beast in his mind. The ghost of its heartbeat syncing with his own. "What..." Ámmon whispered to the empty street, clutching his head. "What happened?"
He walked for hours, sticking to the shadows of the road and eventually almost at night time, the trees broke, revealing a small settlement nestled by the roadside. It was a humble village, a cluster of small, simple houses built from gray river stones and thatched with thick reeds. There were no guards here, no golden statues, no silk-robed nobles. Just the quiet slumber of peasants finishing their day's toil.
Ámmon crept toward the nearest cottage, a small structure on the edge of the woods. The windows were dark. No smoke curled from the chimney. He pressed his ear against the heavy wooden door. Silence. He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him to shut out the wind. The air inside was warm and smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, landing on a small pantry in the corner.
He tore into it like a starving hyena. He found a loaf of hard, dark bread and a wheel of pungent cheese. He ate standing up, his hands shaking, stuffing the food into his mouth. Then, he saw them. Against the wall stood three large wooden barrels. He pried the lid off the first one and gasped. Water. It was full to the brim. Clear, sweet-smelling water. In the Desert, a barrel this size would be guarded by spearmen. It would be the wealth of a chieftain, rationed by the cupful. Here, in this empty peasant's house, it just... sat there. Unprotected. Abundant. He dipped his cupped hands into the cool liquid, drinking greedily.
They live in a temple, he thought, looking around the modest room. They drown in life while we die of thirst. They have so much they don't even bother to lock it away. He sank to his knees, treating the pantry like a shrine, overwhelmed by the sheer, careless excess of this green world. Exhaustion finally claimed him. He curled up on a woven rug near the cold hearth, sleep was just dragging him under a heavy, dark blanket when the jingle of harness bells, the groan of heavy wooden wheels on stone, and low, tired voices snapped him awake, putting him instantly on edge, adrenaline banishing his fatigue. He crept to the small window and peered through the crack in the shutter. In the rapidly fading twilight, a caravan was pulling into the village square.
Several large, canvas-covered wagons pulled by sturdy oxen rolled to a halt. Men and women with torches shouted directions as they unhitched the beasts. There were too many travelers for him to quickly count in the shifting shadows, but it was a large, well-equipped group. His eyes widened in disbelief as he studied them. Among the figures bundling into cloaks against the damp evening air, he saw familiar silhouettes. They didn't wear the fitted tunics of the green-landers, but the loose, layered robes of the sands. He saw the distinct wrap of a tagelmust, a desert scarf, obscuring a man's face. His breath hitched.
Sand-born. Here? Mixing freely with these water-wasters?
But they weren't alone. Walking beside them, sharing water skins and laughter, were people Ámmon had never seen before. They shared a likeness with the desert folk, but their skin was a shade lighter, lacking that deep, sun-baked bronze of the deep dunes. They were noticeably shorter, with broader shoulders and more meat on their bones, they lacked the gaunt, stretched-thin look of those who survived purely on the unforgiving sands. Even more jarring were the three figures guiding the lead oxen. They wore the fitted tunics and heavy cloaks of the Grasslanders!. Working side-by-side with the people of the sands and these strange folk.
It made no sense. His mind, still echoing with the arena's noises and the beast's rage, couldn't process the scene. Were they prisoners? No, they all carried weapons and moved freely, setting up camp together.
He had to know. Wary caution warred with a desperate need for connection. He slipped out the cottage door, sticking to the deepest shadows. Villagers were already emerging from their homes to greet the travelers, offering barn space and hot food. It was a friendly exchange. Ámmon crept toward the edge of the torchlight. He spotted a young woman near a rear wagon, adjusting a strap on a pack animal. She wore the dusty indigo robes of the deep desert, and the way she moved, almost economical, graceful, was pure sand-born.
He took a steadying breath and stepped into the dim light, speaking low in his native tongue. "Sister of the sands?"
She jumped, her hand flying to a curved dagger at her belt with viper-like reflexes. When her eyes landed on him, on the ragged, blood-stained, mud-covered tunic, his gaunt, scratched face, and the wild eyes of a man who seemed to have been to hell and back, her stance hardened into a low, deadly focus tinged with fear. She drew the blade with a soft hiss of steel, fully prepared to strike this blood-soaked stranger. Ámmon immediately dropped to his knees, raising his empty, trembling hands with his palms facing outward. "Peace, sister," he rasped in the ancient, guttural dialect of the deep dunes, keeping his voice painfully soft. "I bring no steel. I only seek a moment's shade."
Hearing the pure, unmistakable accent of her homeland, she froze. Her muscles remained tense, but the tip of her dagger lowered just a fraction as his desperate, non-threatening posture broke through her fighting instincts.
"Who are you?" she replied in the same tongue, cautious but curious. "You look like a sandstorm spat you out." With a subtle gesture, she motioned for him to sit behind the heavy wooden wagon, shielded from the prying eyes of the guards and the more inquisitive merchants.
They exchanged greetings; her name was Elara. Hesitant at first, Ámmon admitted he was a runaway "property." He expected revulsion at his slave status, but she only nodded with an ancient sadness in her eyes. Desperate to understand the situation, Ámmon bombarded the young woman with questions until she finally relented and began to explain.
As the caravan settled for the night, they sat near a tree beside her family's wagon. From a cedar chest, she pulled out fresh garments: clean, unbleached cotton tunics that smelled faintly of myrrh, an absurd contrast to Ámmon's dust-caked, bloodstained rags. Elara kept her voice soft.
"Don't let anyone see that I gave you these."
Without hesitation, Ámmon stripped off his ruined clothes right then and there to put on the new garments, causing Elara to flush with embarrassment. Averting her eyes and pretending nothing had happened, she began to explain before he had even finished pulling the top half of the tunic over his head.
"We are merchant caravanners, Ámmon. We travel from the Great Desert to the far north. We pass through the port city of Pyles-Thálassa and end our tour here at Désa-Dipilih." She pointed toward the shorter, sturdier people unpacking a crate. "Those you keep staring at are the Savanna folk. They are from Pyles. Most of the savannas are empty, but there are a few towns still thriving, and the port city of Pyles is an important route, so it sustains itself through trade. We trade deep-desert glass, rare minerals, and, of course, salts for their hides, dried meats, tools and sometimes weapons to sell back at the port or in the desert capitals. And to navigate these lands safely, we hire local guides."
She nodded toward the three grasslanders chatting with a village elder.
Ámmon shook his head, confusion clouding his anger. "But... they are monsters. The grasslanders. They drown in life while we die of thirst. They deny us access to the rivers and kill our people when we cross the border. How can you trade with them? How can you travel with them?"
Elara looked toward the fire the villagers had started for the travelers, watching a local woman laugh as she handed a bowl of hot stew to one of the Savanna men.
"The highborn in the marble towers? Maybe! The nobles of the Désa High Council? For sure! They take what they want because they have forgotten what it is to need." She looked back at Ámmon, her eyes earnest in the firelight. "But these people here? The villages? They are just people, Ámmon. They work the soil, they fear the storms, and they love their children. They didn't choose where they were born, just as we didn't choose the sands.
Ámmon sat in silence, the distant crackle of the villagers' fire suddenly feeling deafening. He felt incredibly naive, shrinking under the weight of her words. It was as if the world he had known his entire life was nothing but a tiny, suffocating sandbox. Only now, stepping out of those dunes was he beginning to see the world as it truly was: vast, complex, and painted in complicated shades of gray rather than just the blinding white of the desert sun and the pitch black of his hatred.
Elara expression softened, the hard edge of the desert warrior giving way to something like pity. "You have nowhere to go?" she said gently, breaking the heavy silence.
"I need to go back to Désa," Ámmon said.
"The city guards might be hunting for a runaway captive. If you want, you can travel with us." She gestured toward the camp. "We could always use another sand-born who knows how to survive. And to get through the city gates, you can hide in one of the wagons."
Ámmon looked at the sturdy wagons, the strange mix of people laughing by the fire, and finally at Elara. "Won't you get in trouble for this?"
"Trouble? Me? Never," she said with a faint smile. She stood and led him to the side of her family's wagon, where a strange contraption hung suspended between the heavy wooden frame and a nearby oak tree. It was a long piece of thick, woven fabric, gathered at both ends and tied off with thick ropes.
"Your bed for the night," she said, patting the edge.
Ámmon stared at it in utter bewilderment. A floating bed? He cautiously pressed a hand into the fabric, watching it sway back and forth. It completely lacked the solid, grounding reliability of the desert floor.
With Elara's amused guidance, he awkwardly climbed in, his long limbs tangling as he nearly flipped over the other side when the fabric shifted wildly beneath his weight. He thought he was going to fall and almost cried out a few times, making Elara laugh hysterically, but as he finally settled into the center, the cloth gathered around him, cradling his bruised body like a thick, warm cocoon. The gentle, suspended rocking motion was completely foreign, yet strangely soothing, keeping him safely away from the cold, damp earth. Suspended between the ground and the stars, Ámmon finally closed his eyes. After many nights of fear and anguish, he felt comfortable, and finally let the darkness take him.