I have witnessed many gales in my years, yet none so vengeful as this. It is night, but darkness endures as though midday had never dawned. Shapes beyond the swaying canvas of my wagon remain little more than half-seen phantoms—a raging torrent of sand, wind, and rain, all whipped into one howling fury. Streaks of purple lightning flash across the sky, etching our ragged caravan into stark relief.

  We press on beneath a weight that gnaws at body and soul alike. The Blemmyes lead us, those gentle giants who drew us from the border two nights past. How strange that once I feared them; now I behold them guiding our beasts with steady murmurs and deft hands, calm despite the gale.

  I sit upon a sack of grain inside the covered wagon, ankles throbbing with fatigue. At my side crouches a jittery dockworker, shaken by cold or dread, I do not know. Rain seeps through the seams of the canvas, trailing down my cloak in thin streams. I force myself not to dwell on crates abandoned, contracts broken, goods destroyed. The Town Council’s levies shall not wait, I think bitterly, but that is worry for another dawn, if dawn comes at all.

  The dockworker glances at me, eyes flickering with both desperation and vexation. “Did we salvage anything?” he demands, raising his voice above the wind’s roar. “All I see is storm and ruin. How much did we lose?”

  I recall the thunder and the scramble to save whatever we could. My teeth clench. “Anything?” I echo, voice laced with bitterness. “We? Who else? We are but goods upon this cursed tide —flotsam all. But for the Blemmyes, we’d be rotting corpses washed away in the deluge. You wish to know who saved us? Pray speak to them.”

  He falls silent. Outside, I spy a vast silhouette—one of the Blemmyes, its chest-face turned outward against the darkness. A flash of lightning reveals the giant stroking the mane of a skittish stallion, coaxing it from blind terror. Our wagon jolts again, wheels grinding over half-buried stones. It seems a miracle we have not toppled.

  Behind me, crates clatter in disarray: salted meats, linens, trifling medicinals. I am uncertain whether my trunk of trade goods survived—perhaps it lies mired in mud miles behind us. I tug aside the canvas flap, only for the wind to hurl grit in my eyes. Cursing under my breath, I blink away the sting.

  “God above!” the dockworker mutters, shrinking into his sodden cloak. “This is sheer madness.”

  I cannot dispute him. “What choice remains to us, sir? The border was no haven—naught but broken wagons littering the track. The west might as well be sealed beneath dread itself.” My words taste of despair.

  One of the Blemmyes—my lord Blemmye, I should style him for his heroic deed—calls from just ahead. “We press on to the east,” he intones, voice deep as thunder. “The storm weakens beyond. Keep faith, and soon we shall find higher ground.”

  My wagon companion and I exchange a grim look. We have scant reason to trust such optimism, but at this point, we owe the giants everything. I grip the wagon’s edge, ignoring the ache in my fingers. Another peal of thunder rumbles in the distance, and for a heartbeat I fancy the wind less fierce.

  The dockworker catches my sleeve. “Your name, sir—I never took it.”

  My mind wanders through memories of lost cargo and mounting debt. “Allemand,” I say at last, thinking of my father’s ledger and the Royal Charter I once prized. “Dealer in fine goods—or so I was, in gentler days.”

  He nods tautly. “Mikel. Dockworker, as said, from Houtsen. I fear I have no lofty station to show.” He shivers. “But well met, I suppose.”

  Amid the swirling gloom, I sense how precarious life has become. We are tossed together—merchants, dockworkers, Blemmyes—bound by necessity in a land turned hostile. The caravan lurches again, guided by those calm giants unafraid to walk where we shrink. A faint glow brews upon the horizon—perhaps a break in the clouds, or some ephemeral trick of lightning. Regardless, I cling to it as one final shard of hope.

  Not far ahead, I spy a broad-shouldered Blemmye swivel his body, as though listening to silent pleas. Seizing courage, I call out, “Master Blemmye! To what end do we travel? Whither lies our refuge?”

  He regards me with that solemn, chest-bound gaze. Rain pours from his cloak, droplets drumming against the sodden earth. “Zeltzerheim, my friend,” he rumbles, each syllable as solid as wrought iron. “The Border Bastion. They must be made to understand.”

  Another wave of thunder booms, shaking our wagon’s boards. I feel Mikel clutch my arm anew.

  A cold dread courses through me at the notion of others upon these forsaken roads. Yet the Blemmyes press on, forging a path we have no choice but to tread. Zeltzerheim… I recall I had letters for that very place. A commander who demanded new locks for his rifles, a collector embroiled in a bidding war over arcane wonders. My satchel remains at my side, damp but intact, bearing the final lines of communication—a last vestige of the old world. I dare not open it fully, but I lift the flap, glimpsing parchment that might prove worthless if the world collapses. Still, a merchant finds hope in contracts, does he not?

  Suddenly, the shriek of maddened oxen tears through the gale, and I jerk my head up. Another wagon train emerges from the seething darkness, heading straight into the thickest storm.

  A roar echoes from the caravan ahead—a wounded bellow, perhaps horses or oxen driven to desperation. “Merciful saints,” Mikel breathes, scanning the darkness. “Have the deaf begun to lead the blind? Who else would wander this gale?”

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  “Halt!” bellows a Blemmye, lifting a vast palm. At the new caravan’s head stride a man and a woman, both drenched but bedecked in wealth—gold chains, embroidered cloaks, trailing servants and pike-bearers behind them. Despite their finery, their eyes shine with desperation.

  “The road is closed,” the Blemmye warns gravely, advancing with water sluicing off his gargantuan form. “Certain doom awaits by land or sea. Come with us to higher ground.”

  For an instant, I imagine the pair might heed him. Then the woman sets her jaw in defiance. “Ships!” she cries above the wind. “We have paid for passage. We shan’t linger in this accursed realm a moment longer. They will arrive—you shall see!”

  Lightning courses overhead, and my frustration flares. How can they be so willfully blind?

  I leap from the wagon into the muck, nearly slipping. My voice rings out, sharp with loss and anger: “Can you not behold what your very eyes witness? Do you not feel this creeping death in your bones? We came from yonder border, and I promise you—it is naught but ruin behind us. The Old World is sealed!” I gesture forcefully at the Blemmye. “Hearken to those who possess true sense!”

  Tension thrums in the air. The man and woman exchange anxious glances, yet they cannot yield. One of their mercenaries steps closer, pike lowered in stance, ready to defend their folly.

  The Blemmye, towering above us all, merely gazes at them with calm, sorrowful patience. In another blaze of lightning, I glimpse that solemn face, as though he already foresees their doom.

  Mikel comes to my side, trembling, but we can do no more. There is no persuading these fools. Thus we stand in silence, battered by wind and rain, our ragged caravan on one side, theirs on the other—two illusions of safety in a land that spares none. One choice: to heed or defy the tempest.

  Suddenly—a sound unlike any thunder splits the heavens. A hellish shriek, a deeper rumble, a promise of nightmares made flesh.

  It strikes near our path, an impact so violent it wrenches the sky and devours all hope in its wake. For a heartbeat, reality tears; a shockwave rips the ground, then folds in upon itself with a suffocating hush, a requiem of horror.

  I stagger, vision swimming, trying to discern the dark horizon. There, at the epicenter, a rift in matter writhes as though longing to seal—but some foul force pries it open further, a wound in the world.

  A distant howl echoes, reverberating with that same malevolent power. The caravan opposite us stirs in frantic alarm.

  In one collective moment of terror, neither side clings to pride. We scatter—our group eastward, theirs westward—driven by base survival. The storm has no patience for our arguments.

  Rain and wind lash me as I haul myself onto the wagon’s seat. Mikel joins, white-faced, while the Blemmyes issue brisk orders. I spy the wealthy pair receding into the roiling gale, stubborn to the last.

  Thunder roars anew. My heart hammers, a sickening dread twisting my guts. Will we meet them again, or will the storm claim their souls entire? No time to dwell. The wagons lurch onward, and we plunge deeper into the deluge, clutching at hope with trembling fingers.

  We have not advanced more than a dozen wagon-lengths when pure madness unfolds. A blazing arc of violet lightning flares across the sky, splitting into wriggling tendrils that exude a ghastly, droning music. My vision falters; for a moment, I imagine I see through fevered eyes.

  Mikel cries out, claiming the heavens twist into fiendish visages above him. A Blemmye tries to console him, yet I note how that giant’s own face darkens with alarm. None are exempt from this creeping chaos.

  A second rupture claws open in the distance with a noise like tortured metal, scattering debris in a swirling vortex. Reality flickers. Many of us waver on our feet, ears ringing as though some unholy cry resonates within our minds.

  Each lightning strike mutates in hue—blue shot through with rancid green, purple flickers dancing from cloud to cloud. Shadows skitter at the corners of my sight: malformed shapes that vanish the instant I turn to look. My pulse throbs in my temples, every inhalation labored by fear.

  Then, calamity. The earth heaves beneath us. Our lead wagon pitches violently forward. The horses rear, eyes rolling white with terror, then collapse into a sinkhole that tears open under their hooves. The driver—a burly fellow whose name I never learned—shouts in desperation, wrestling the reins.

  I watch, stunned, as the wagon’s axle snaps with a sharp crack. Provisions—grain, linens, essence of life—spill into the widening chasm. The Blemmyes rush in, striving to haul the beasts free, but the ground crumbles further. With a deafening roar, the sinkhole swallows the entire wagon and its cargo.

  One of the largest Blemmyes—called Orzal by his kin—flung himself toward the wagon, straining at the reins in a final attempt to save the driver. For an instant, he bought enough time that the man managed to leap aside, bruised but alive.

  Yet in that selfless act, Orzal misjudged the treacherous ground. The sinkhole jerked, collapsing beneath him. He let loose a strangled cry as he vanished into the roiling depths. Another Blemmye lunged to seize his arm, only to grasp empty air made slick by rain.

  A ragged keening, half-human, half-giant, echoes in the storm. We rush to the yawning pit, scouring the darkness for any glimpse of Orzal. Nothing. Only shifting mud and the incessant roar of water drowning the earth. I stand there, mind numb with disbelief. Could these mighty guardians, near titans in stature, be so swiftly taken?

  The Blemmyes gather in stricken silence, their sorrow etched plainly on solemn faces. One bows his form, fists trembling in rage or grief—or both. Mikel shudders beside me, eyes vacant, as though all his wits have fled.

  A weight of despair seizes my heart. Without those supplies, we stand perilously thin on rations and aid. Shall we starve before the storm abates?

  Lightning forks overhead once more. Our lament is cut short by another shriek in the distance, the storm unrelenting. We have lost a vital wagon, and with Orzal’s sacrifice, our spirit falters. The Blemmyes, once bastions of calm, now walk with bowed shoulders.

  Mikel clutches my sleeve, murmuring broken phrases I can scarcely parse. I force out false assurances—“We shall endure… hold fast”—though each word tastes like ash.

  The leading Blemmye musters enough composure to call us together. Stumbling over sodden earth, we huddle the remaining wagons close. Exhausted eyes meet in stunned silence. If Orzal could perish, what chance have we frail men?

  There is no alternative but to press on, leaving that gaping pit and all its stolen cargo behind. Rain batters our backs, and the dissonant howls of unseen ruptures loom ever nearer. No path remains but forward, each step an offering to a world sliding into ruin.