Velka Aurel walked at a distracted pace, letting the sand sift through her boots as if she could bury her own unease beneath every grain.

  Beside her, Mahtani Rha’a kept a steady rhythm, eyes fixed forward, as though neither wind nor sun could touch her.

  In the distance, the rest of the team moved ahead, gathering supplies from a small support outpost. Velka had insisted on going with Mahtani —“to carry the heavy boxes,” she’d said, her laugh sounding hollow even to her own ears.

  The air shimmered, heavy, as if the sun itself were listening to them.

  Mahtani broke the silence first:

  —You’re fighting wrong with yourself, Velka.

  Velka let out a short chuckle, arching an eyebrow.

  —Oh, yeah? You should see how I fight real enemies. They actually pay me for that, you know?

  Mahtani didn’t stop walking.

  —I saw your duel with me. I saw your eyes when Lyss fought Luma. And I saw how quiet you went when everyone else was cheering.

  Her words weren’t accusation—just weight, soft and inescapable.

  —Your laughter is louder when you lie, Velka Aurel.

  For a heartbeat, Velka wanted to snap back with something sharp, something clever.

  But the words died, caught somewhere between her tongue and her throat.

  She looked down at her hands—open, calloused. Hands that could heal others… and wound themselves.

  —You know what’s worst? —she said finally, her voice low, a fragile laugh hiding underneath.— That when I started, I was good at this. At fighting, joking, taking care of the idiots I love.

  And now… it feels like they’re all running toward something big, and I’m just behind them—picking up the laughter they leave behind.

  Mahtani stopped. She looked at her the way one looks at a well in the middle of the desert—dark, deep, but essential.

  —You’re not behind. You’re still. There’s a difference. And you know how to move better than anyone, Velka.

  Velka blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  —You’re poetic today, sand spirit, —she muttered, her teasing barely holding together.

  Mahtani smiled faintly and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  —When you decide to fight yourself again… come find me. I won’t let you lose.

  Velka lifted her gaze toward Al-Rahad’s burning sky.

  The wind brushed her cheek like a fragile promise,

  and for a fleeting moment,

  she felt the desert wasn’t pushing her back—

  it was asking her to stay.

  Sometime later...

  We were riding back from training, packed tight in the transport while Zayrah steered through the dunes as if they were the alleyways of Sel?nrah.

  Mahtani, beside her, didn’t say a word. Irsah sat with her hands folded over her lap — serene, but her eyes were knives sweeping through every shadow.

  —What are you staring at, queen of silence? —Velka scoffed beside me. Her tone was teasing, but the edge had dulled.

  —Better check your broken sword, Velka, —Neyra shot back without looking— Wouldn’t want it to fall apart before we get back.

  —Oh, Neyra! Don’t be cruel, —I said, forcing a laugh. But it was a laugh made of smoke. We were exhausted. All of us.

  Then I felt it —a sudden pull in my gut, sharp and wrong.

  As if someone had torn the seam of the air with dirty nails.

  The air shifted before anyone spoke. It wasn’t heat or wind, but a low vibration that made the sand tremble under the vehicle.

  Zayrah slowed to a whisper.

  —Out, —ordered Mahtani, her voice tempered like a blade no one expected to draw.

  I jumped down first. The wind spat hot sand against my lips.

  Ahead of us, on the slope of a dune, stood figures —men and women draped in tattered cloth, their eyes burning with something that wasn’t faith.

  And beside them… a tall silhouette wrapped in a veil so black it seemed to drink the light itself.

  She didn’t speak. She simply stood there, a rotten altar made flesh.

  I felt her shadow look straight at me —though she had no eyes. My scar burned, faintly, as if remembering something ancient.

  Ashad stepped forward from the group, his smile an insult.

  —Daughters of Seravenn, —he proclaimed, voice steeped in devotion that bordered on madness— Welcome to the open wound of Al-Rahad.

  He raised his arms, gaze lost in the dark figure beside him.

  —Do you feel how the sand trembles under your boots? It’s because this land no longer wants to belong—to you or anyone. She is waking.

  A dull roar interrupted his sermon.

  Cracks tore open behind them —alive, breathing twisted magic.

  From within crawled things: solid smoke, claws of boiling clay, eyes without pupils.

  Constructs. But not like the ones before —these bore ancient runes across their bodies, glowing with a sick light, as if petrified prayers had become flesh.

  Neyra cursed beside me, her voice lost in the roar of the wind.

  The zealots shouted orders, but soon it was clear: the constructs obeyed no one.

  One shredded a fanatic with a single swipe. Another turned toward Velka, who met it with her broken sword like a torch of madness.

  —I love when dinner comes to me! —she yelled, laughing. But her laugh was hollow. I felt it. She did too.

  Irsah summoned her calm, slowing two of the beasts just long enough for Mahtani to crush them with a strike of her shield-spear.

  Zayrah shouted something at me, but my focus was on Neyra.

  She was dazed —the raw magic, the sheer pressure—it still overwhelmed her.

  A liquid fang lunged toward her. I ran—but Caelia was faster.

  Her eyes flashed, fixed on a point only she could see: the exact place to strike. With her shield and a kick, she deflected the creature into a burning fissure.

  Neyra, panting, whispered to herself:

  —Not again… I didn’t think…

  Caelia caught her by the arm, no scolding—only that steel-hard warmth that made her indestructible.

  Ashad was laughing behind his veil.

  The dark figure beside him—still nameless to me—lifted her hand. The constructs roared louder, like rabid dogs straining against their leash.

  —Retreat, —Ashad said, voice sharp with mockery— This was enough to measure you.

  The zealots still breathing fled after him, stumbling, screaming.

  Deprived of the distortion that fed them, the constructs melted like oil in boiling water.

  Only we remained. Sweat. Sand. Superficial cuts.

  My heart pounded so hard I thought Sangre de la Corona might tear it from my chest.

  Velka, staggering, patted my back clumsily.

  —Next mission: vacation, —she muttered, dropping her broken sword into the sand.

  Her smile convinced no one.

  I said nothing.

  I looked at the still-smoking fissure.

  Something shifted beneath it —a murmur I couldn’t understand, but it made my scar throb.

  Al-Rahad was still breathing.

  But now I knew it was bleeding too.

  And somewhere under its skin… something had opened its eyes.

  When the last construct dissolved into a cloud of dust and crackling shards of raw magic, I stood still, feeling the adrenaline drip down my back like cold sweat.

  Beside me, Caelia lowered her hand, still wrapped in that fierce blue glow —an electric cyan so pure it looked torn from the cruellest sky. Her breathing was heavy, but her expression… it was that of someone who had crossed a threshold.

  I was the first to step closer. My voice came out low, worn thin by exhaustion and relief.

  —Caelia… your eyes. They look— I hesitated, drinking in every filament of light threading through her iris, —like beacons in a storm. And your skin… it has marks, cracks of light. It’s beautiful… and terrifying.

  Velka, panting behind us, let out a laugh that tried to sound teasing, but cracked before it reached her lips.

  —What the hell was that, huh? Gorgeous— you gonna tell us you can read minds now? Because that would definitely be cheating.

  Caelia sighed, looked up, and for once let a trace of vulnerability color her voice.

  —I don’t know exactly… it just happened. I saw Neyra trapped, distracted… and something inside me screamed to look beyond the surface. Suddenly everything solid split open before me—her cracks, her weak points, even in those creatures… I could see where to break them.

  Neyra, a fresh cut across her forehead, crossed her arms as if to lock the shame inside her chest.

  —I should’ve seen it coming… the surge of pure magic still messes with us. I got distracted copying Ashad and his followers… forgot to think about my limits. —She turned to Caelia, her voice soft, clumsy— Thank you… for saving me.

  Zayrah let out a faint snort, spinning her spear between her fingers.

  —What you fought today is the consequence of letting Yareen toy with the living magic of this land.

  When she spoke the name, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

  —That woman doesn’t summon demons—she twists the truth of the sand until it turns against us.

  Mahtani struck her fist into her palm, the sound swallowed by the night breeze.

  —Next time… we’ll cut that lying tongue out of her mouth.

  Irsah stepped forward, her hand resting gently on Caelia’s shoulder—soft as the shadow of a drifting cloud.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  —What you’ve awakened isn’t just a weapon. It’s a door. Be careful what you let through it, Caelia Vorn.

  Luma, a fresh cut glistening above her brow and her broken spear pressed to her thigh, smiled sharply.

  —I like this version of you, Living Shield. —Her eyes shifted toward me— And you, Blade of Crowns… someday, you and I, no interruptions. I promise.

  Velka laughed again, her voice brittle, like shattered glass echoing against stone.

  —Perfect. A truce with a volcano, a few sand demons, and we can open a traveling circus.

  But when our eyes met, there was no humor there. Only pain.

  I brushed her wrist, wordless. There was nothing I could say to quiet her tide of doubt —only stay afloat with her for another night.

  And in that stillness, beneath a sky of ash and moonlight, I knew none of us would leave Al-Rahad the same.

  The desert had tested us—

  and was beginning to decide whom it would devour first.

  We had returned to the residence after days away. Sleeping on makeshift sacks, waking up with sand scratching every seam of our clothes… Al-Rahad spared no one, not even those of us born from lands of iron and stone.

  When Zayrah parked the vehicle and opened the door, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding since the last fight. My muscles felt like stone, my knuckles still trembling with leftover adrenaline.

  Velka was the first to jump out. She walked beside me the whole time, clinging to my shadow—yet somehow different. Her jokes came late, like they needed too long to find the strength to leave her lips.

  We nearly tripped on the doorstep and laughed, but when I looked at her, Velka didn’t look away.

  She said nothing. She just let silence settle between us, stitched together like a crooked seam.

  —Damn sun in this hellhole! —Neyra groaned behind me, breaking the tension. If I peel my shoulders again, I’m billing Zayrah for it.

  —That’s what you get for skipping sunblock, obsessive, —Caelia shot back in her usual dry tone, though her neck was just as red.

  Velka seized the opening.

  —Oh please, you’re not exactly porcelain yourself, my General of Distrust. —She laughed, but the sound withered halfway out. Her hand brushed my arm, testing something she couldn’t bring herself to say.

  Inside, the cool air felt like balm. We dropped our packs and weapons on the kitchen table, and for a moment only the sound of breathing filled the space—footsteps, the splash of cold water, cloths dampened for burns.

  The house smelled the same, but the air was heavier. As if the walls themselves had breathed the war with us.

  Velka sat beside me on the couch, so close I could feel the heat of her leg against mine.

  She looked at me again. This time, her eyes held no mockery, no playfulness—only a silent question trembling between her gaze and her lips.

  —Lyss… —she murmured, trying to find words that never came. At last, she tapped my arm, pretending it was nothing, just as Neyra appeared with a glass of juice, launching into her usual scolding.

  —Drink it, walking corrosion. At this rate you’ll dry out before I get to scold you tomorrow.

  I let out a short laugh, taking the glass, while Velka shifted beside me, pretending to get comfortable—but she never moved away.

  There was something different about her lately.

  A closeness that burned hotter than Al-Rahad’s sun.

  And though I didn’t understand why…

  part of me was afraid that I did.

  The private audience chamber was built for whispers, not confessions.

  The scent of sand incense lingered beneath the flicker of oil lamps, their light trembling under domes etched with verses in aged gold.

  At the center, Sultana Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n listened, seated with regal composure upon a throne that looked like an oasis carved from lunar stone.

  The walls exhaled a false serenity; no one dared to look too long at the gilded inscriptions. Everyone knew that beneath them, hidden passages led to truths the palace preferred to forget.

  Before her stood Zayrah, Mahtani, Irsah, and Luma —steady in posture, yet with eyes haunted by what still pulsed in their veins.

  The battle with the constructs—and the shadow of Yareen—had left its mark.

  Mahtani was the first to speak.

  —Your Highness, as you ordered, we protected our guests at all times. It was when the sands began to tremble that the constructs appeared. Not by our doing… nor theirs.

  Luma, a fresh bandage wrapped around her forearm, stepped forward with her usual directness.

  —*I won’t lie, my Sultana. That woman—*she said, her voice laced with scorn—twisted the magic itself. I could feel the earth breaking apart. And her zealots, drunk on her poison, only made it worse.

  At the sound of that name, the flames of the incense wavered.

  A faint tremor crossed the Sultana’s jeweled hands, though her face remained a mask of grace.

  —Yareen… she whispered, as if speaking an omen aloud. Her gift was always the word, never distortion. For her to bend the ley of Al-Rahad now means…

  Zayrah bowed her head slightly, her voice steady as tempered sand.

  —It means her ambition grows, my Sultana. And fear will no longer be enough to stop her.

  Irsah, serene as ever, finished the thought with a calm that carried the weight of mourning.

  —The guests from Seravenn fought well. They endured even when the earth itself turned against them. They have earned my trust. And you know, Sultana… I do not offer it easily.

  Azhara inhaled slowly. Her eyes—vast, ancient—wandered to the blank wall behind the dais, as if through it she could see the secret that kept her awake through every night:

  the sanctuary, the last Mother, the truth her ministers dared not imagine.

  She rose, and the moon itself seemed to bow around her.

  Her hair fell like a silver veil, her crown gleaming faintly within the cascade. The room fell into reverent silence.

  —Listen well, —she said, her voice soft yet sharp as a whip of silk— Faith is no longer enough. The guard is no longer enough. If Yareen can twist the magic of Al-Rahad, neither this palace nor our prayers will hold her back.

  For a moment, she was not a queen but a mother.

  —Prepare yourselves. Protect our guests. Soon they will know more than they ever should have. And you— her gaze swept across them, one by one, —will be my bridges… or my blades.

  Luma bowed her head, rebellious even in submission.

  Zayrah and Mahtani exchanged a glance of silent understanding.

  Irsah closed her eyes, letting the serenity of her sorrow temper what duty could not contain.

  Outside, the desert wind struck the sealed windows.

  It was not mere wind.

  It was the desert itself—reminding Sel?nrah that nothing, not even the ancient, can stay asleep forever.

  That night...

  I didn’t dream.

  At least, not like before.

  This time, there was weight. Texture. Sound.

  The sand shifted beneath my bare feet—cold, like the skin of a freshly washed corpse. There was no sky above me, only a dome of liquid darkness breathing in rhythm with a heart that wasn’t mine.

  I heard the voice before I saw her.

  Not a whisper—

  a presence.

  —Lyssandra...

  My name stretched across ancient syllables, spoken by someone who had been waiting centuries to say it.

  I turned. The sand opened in widening circles, and at the center lay a sleeping figure, wrapped in veils of glass and dust. I couldn’t see her face, but somehow, I knew her.

  —Who are you? —my voice trembled, small against that vast silence.

  A faint movement—a finger, a breath, a pulse—broke the stillness.

  —I am no dream, the voice said, clearer now, alive. I am the one who still remembers.

  —Remembers what?

  —What you forgot. What your blood still keeps.

  The air smelled of ozone and dry flowers. I felt the burn at my abdomen, right where the scar throbbed with its own pulse. The figure seemed to sense it; the veils around her stirred with a wind that existed only there.

  —Awake me, daughter of Wrath… —she whispered— the sand sings your name.

  The vision fractured.

  A white storm, a cry that wasn’t human—then silence.

  I woke with my heart hammering in my chest.

  Dawn had barely brushed the stained-glass windows, scattering shards of gold across the walls. My hands were damp, my hair clung to my neck. The scar burned—not with pain, but with a certainty I could no longer deny.

  I rose barefoot, feeling the chill of stone beneath my feet.

  Outside, the air smelled of desert after rain—a scent that came only before miracles… or catastrophes.

  Something beneath Sel?nrah was breathing.

  And I had heard it.

  The voice still echoed inside my skull, sharp enough to hurt if I ignored it.

  —Awake me.

  I looked at my reflection.

  The woman staring back wasn’t entirely me.

  Curiosity burned through my veins, a slow, sweet fire devouring me from within.

  I knew the Sultana was hiding something—

  I had heard it in her voice, seen it in the way she avoided certain names.

  And now, I couldn’t pretend not to feel it.

  If that voice was a dream, I would make it speak.

  If it was real…

  then the Sultana would have to answer me.

  I hadn’t slept. I didn’t want to.

  Dawn spilled through the curtains like molten gold, heavy and quiet, trying to anchor me to the bed.

  But the dream still echoed in my chest—too real, too sharp to ignore.

  Today, I would get answers… even if I had to tear them out of the desert’s throat.

  The air smelled of spice and stone cooling after the night. When I entered the kitchen, Velka was hunched over a cup of tea, hair a mess, half-asleep. Neyra was checking her staffs like they were extensions of her body. Caelia, pristine as always, braided her hair with meditative calm.

  I stood there for a few seconds before speaking.

  —“Today I’m going to speak with the Sultana.”

  Velka raised an eyebrow, sipping her tea like she needed courage.

  —“Just like that? No breakfast, no preamble?” She smirked faintly. “Of course you are, queen of problems. And if she doesn’t answer with words, we’ll make her sing with lightning.”

  Caelia shot her a warning look, then turned back to me.

  —“Lyss… you shouldn’t force her hand. If Azhara keeps silent, it’s for a reason. In this land, secrets weigh more than weapons.”

  —“Then it’s a risk we’ll share,” I said. “But I can’t keep pretending not to notice. I have to know what’s happening.”

  Caelia sighed, a soft warmth beneath the discipline.

  —“Then you won’t go alone.”

  Neyra leaned forward on her elbows, eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of danger.

  —“You can’t speak of a nameless voice and expect me to sit still. If there’s a secret, I’m coming too.”

  Velka exhaled somewhere between laughter and resignation.

  —“Perfect. Four idiots walking straight into the pit of lies. Just like old times.”

  —“Three idiots,” Caelia corrected dryly, “and one who’ll make sure the rest don’t get killed doing something stupid.”

  Velka blew her a kiss. Neyra rolled her eyes. And for a moment, everything almost felt normal again.

  Just for a heartbeat.

  Then I told them what I’d heard.

  The dream.

  The sleeping figure.

  The voice calling me by name.

  No one laughed. Not even Velka.

  When I finished, the silence was so thick I could hear tea dripping onto the table.

  —“If what you’re saying is true…” Caelia murmured, frowning, “then this isn’t just a magical resonance. It sounds… older.”

  —“And more forbidden,” Neyra added, her voice low, curiosity shading into unease.

  Velka crossed her arms, that crooked half-smile faltering into something serious.

  —“Then we’ve got the perfect excuse. A personal report from the frontlines. We ask for a private audience, you ask your questions, and if the Sultana twitches, we’ll know you’re right.”

  —“And if she doesn’t twitch,” I said, keeping my tone steady, “I’ll ask anyway.”

  Caelia lowered her eyes, shaking her head just slightly.

  —“I knew it. When you talk like that, nothing stops you.”

  I smiled faintly.

  —“And you three wouldn’t let me go alone.”

  Velka nudged my shoulder. Neyra nodded once. Caelia met my gaze and held it.

  —“I don’t know what’s beneath this palace,” I said quietly, “but it’s alive. And this time… I won’t look away.”

  Outside, the desert wind rose, rattling the shutters like it had been listening all along.

  For a breathless moment, it felt as if all of Sel?nrah was holding its breath.

  And for the first time, so was I.