Dawn had barely broken over Seravenn when we were summoned to the military hangar. The metallic chill of the place seemed to bite into my skin; every step echoed hollowly against gray walls that had never known warmth. My boots dragged a little, more from exhaustion than reluctance.

  Velka walked beside me, her hands shoved into her pockets, her hair still a mess.

  —Looks like they’re making us fly before the sun even decides to rise —she muttered, with an exaggerated yawn.

  —You should be grateful —said Neyra, not looking at her, her seriousness never resting—. The cold of Seravenn is preferable to the desert’s heat.

  Caelia said nothing. She walked ahead of us, straight-backed and immaculate, as if even weariness refused to touch her.

  I drew in deep breaths, trying to push away the weight that had been sitting on my chest for weeks. The hangar smelled of oil and iron. That same smell always reminded me that, no matter how many missions we had completed, we were still pieces within a greater machine.

  The plane awaited us, stripped of any insignia, painted a dull gray that said nothing and hid everything. A member of the Veils motioned for us to board without ceremony.

  As I stepped onto the ramp, my heart gave a jolt. It wasn’t fear. It was that tension that comes when you know you’re leaving behind more than just a country. I was crossing a threshold I had no idea where it would lead.

  The plane took off smoothly, though the roar of the engines vibrated through my bones. We settled into the narrow seats, barely separated by the metal aisles. The air inside was cold, almost abrasive, as if it wanted to remind us there was no turning back.

  Velka was the first to break the silence.

  — I hate flights… except when there are cookies. Are there cookies?

  — We don’t have an oven here —Neyra replied without taking her eyes from the window, though the small curve of her lips betrayed the smile she was trying to hide.

  — Then who’s going to save me from boredom? —Velka complained, tossing her head back.

  Caelia sighed, though without harshness.

  — You could try sleeping, like any normal person.

  — Sleeping is for the weak —Velka shot back, though she curled up in her seat as if she were about to try anyway.

  I leaned toward the window on the other side. From there, Seravenn stretched below us like a gray tapestry, full of scars that never seemed to heal. Little by little, the metallic tones gave way to the vast golden immensity beyond the horizon. The desert.

  It wasn’t the first time I had seen it on maps or in books… but seeing it for real was different. There were no clear borders, no lines to mark it. Only a change in the air, in the light, in the way the horizon seemed to breathe. The sun pressed down differently. Even from here, it looked closer, harsher.

  — We’ve never set foot in Al-Rahad… —I murmured, almost to myself.

  — Nor do we know it —Neyra added thoughtfully—. All we have are reports and prejudices.

  — And songs —Velka said, leaning toward me with a mischievous smile—. Don’t you remember? All those old tunes about caravans and mirages.

  Caelia narrowed her eyes, ever pragmatic.

  — Those songs also speak of bones bleached in the sand. Don’t forget that part.

  Silence took hold of us for a few seconds. I swallowed, clenching my fists on my knees. The memory of what had happened weeks before still burned in my chest. Not fear, not exactly… but respect.

  Caelia broke the pause, her voice steady, never sounding like judgment.

  — How do you feel, Lyss?

  I turned toward them. Neyra was already watching me, and Velka’s gaze carried the same intensity but with a different spark: the kind that hid tenderness under teasing.

  — Better —I replied, and I meant it when I said it—. Not… not completely fine. But better.

  Velka smiled, tilting her head.

  — As long as you don’t go running like a lost soul through the academy hallways again, I’ll count it as a win.

  — That wasn’t funny —I said, though a soft laugh slipped out.

  Velka didn’t answer. She simply slid closer, ignoring the cramped space of the seat. She nestled against my shoulder, as if nothing mattered more than giving me the warmth she thought I needed. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, unsure whether to laugh or thank her in silence.

  Neyra nodded, always reserved, but with a firmness that felt almost like a vow.

  — We’re here. That’s what matters.

  The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm. As if, even inside that cold, metallic plane, we had created a small refuge. Outside, the desert stretched like a golden ocean, and we were nothing more than four drops about to plunge into it.

  The descent was steady, but my stomach tightened as if we had flown through a storm. When the wheels struck the runway, a dull thud ran through the fuselage, and I knew we had arrived.

  The hatch opened with a metallic groan, and a wall of heat hit us at once. The air was dry, heavy, as if every breath came laced with invisible embers. The sun bore down mercilessly, and the desert stretched beyond the hangars like an endless golden ocean.

  My boots crunched against the scorched asphalt. I felt the heat climbing up my legs, seeping into the fabric of my uniform. Velka let out an exaggerated whistle.

  —Who left the oven door open?

  Neyra shot her a sharp look, though she couldn’t quite hide the faint smile tugging at her lips. Caelia, on the other hand, had already squared her stance, the first to impose order with nothing but posture.

  And then we saw them.

  Three figures stood waiting before us in silence. I didn’t need an introduction to know what they were: magical girls, but not like those of Seravenn. There was something different about them… a solemn calm, almost spiritual. As if their power didn’t need to assert itself—its presence alone was enough.

  The first to speak was a woman with firm bearing, her long white hair falling like a curtain to her waist, and golden eyes without pupils that seemed to reflect a distant sun.

  —Welcome to Al-Rahad —she said, her clear voice expanding through the hangar—. I am Zayrah al-Namir. By order of Her Highness, Sultan Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n, we will be your companions in this joint operation. —She gestured to the others—. This is Mahtani Rha’a, and Irsah Qalam.

  Mahtani, taller, with honeyed skin and an immaculate obsidian braid, inclined her head slightly. Her blue eyes seemed to spark under the desert light, though the set of her jaw betrayed a contained anxiety. Irsah, in contrast, was smaller, almost fragile in appearance, a white streak crossing her dark hair and gray eyes so deep it felt like they could read beyond the visible.

  For a moment, none of us spoke. The silence was thick with heat and expectation.

  Then Caelia stepped forward, her voice tempered and firm as always.

  —Thank you for receiving us. I am Caelia Vorn, commander of the Shadows of the Crown. With me are Velka Aurel, Neyra Solvine, and our field leader, Lyssandra Velcrux.

  At that moment, Zayrah’s gaze fell on me. It wasn’t judgmental, nor doubtful. It was as if she recognized me… and didn’t yet know why.

  Zayrah nodded slowly.

  —A transport will take you to your assigned residence. There you may rest. The operational zone will be accessible tomorrow at dawn.

  Mahtani spoke next, her tone firm yet tinged with caution.

  —For security reasons, the Sultan has restricted your movements to certain areas: the central market, the southern food corridor, the elevated riverbank, and the Old Zócalo. We ask that you remain within these authorized zones.

  Irsah added, her voice soft yet carrying with perfect clarity:

  —Your belongings have already been delivered. We will meet you tomorrow at first light.

  With a subtle inclination, the three turned and left. None of my squad spoke until a soldier signaled us toward the transport vehicle.

  The heat followed us even as we climbed aboard. And yet, what weighed on me most wasn’t the blazing sun—it was the certainty that we had just taken our first step into unknown ground… and nothing would ever be the same.

  The journey was silent at first. The hum of the engine filled the space, carrying our thoughts, and for a while none of us dared break that strange air. As the landscape of Seravenn faded behind us and the golden vastness of Al-Rahad spread out before us, I felt a sharp pang in my chest. It wasn’t fear. It was… respect. As if every grain of sand across the border knew we were stepping into a land that did not belong to us.

  —This doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen —murmured Neyra, her forehead pressed to the window.

  Velka let out a low whistle.

  —If I faint from the heat, blame the Council of the Veils. Or the Sultan. Or Lyss. Or everyone, in that order.

  —You’re as dramatic as ever —snorted Caelia, though her tone sounded almost relaxed, as if even she knew this place was greater than her words.

  I hardly spoke. I only watched. Felt. The horizon began to fill with impossible shapes: towers linked by hanging stone bridges, massive domes carved with arcane symbols that gleamed in the sun, balconies draped with flowing tapestries, terraces where fountains spilled clear water in cascading streams. It was like stepping into a city built from the memory of generations.

  Our assigned residence was in an elevated, quiet district. The streets were paved with pale stone, the air carried the scent of spices and fresh incense, and from the windows came the distant voices of a marketplace. The house itself was simple but spacious, with a kitchen, a terrace, a bathroom, and a room with four beds. When we opened the door, an enchanted breeze greeted us like a whispered welcome.

  Velka was the first to break the silence, collapsing onto a couch with an exaggerated groan.

  —Goddesses! Who builds forty-degree heat and then adds stairs?

  Neyra set down her pack carefully.

  —I don’t know if I’m more tired from the trip… or from listening to you.

  —Both things have side effects —added Caelia, inspecting every corner with her soldier’s eye—. We have free time until tomorrow. We should change into the clothes they provided. Better not draw attention.

  The clothes were traditional yet practical: light tunics that let the skin breathe, optional veils in sober colors, leather sandals that creaked with every step. As I dressed, something inside me quieted. Perhaps it was the softness of the fabric, or the warm air filtering through its weave. But there was also a strange sensation: as if every stitch reminded me that I was under another gaze.

  When I stepped into the main room, Velka pointed at me dramatically.

  —You… dressed like that… you’re breaking the rules, Velcrux. This isn’t tactical anymore, this is illegally divine.

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  Caelia rolled her eyes.

  —Focus.

  Neyra, to everyone’s surprise, nodded seriously.

  —Even if Velka has a strange way of saying it… yes. It suits you, Lyss.

  I felt my cheeks burn. Pretending indifference, I walked out onto the terrace. From there, the city stretched before me like a golden dream: streets that coiled like living serpents of sand, temples crowned with crystal mosaics, merchant ships sliding along the banks of the sacred river.

  —Don’t you feel it? —I asked softly.

  —The heat? —Velka shot back, half laughing.

  —No… something else. As if the city itself were watching us.

  The others fell silent. And their silence was answer enough.

  Caelia straightened, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

  —It’s time to go out. Let’s observe this land well. We’re going to work in it… and we don’t yet know how much it will demand of us.

  I nodded without speaking. Because deep inside, I already knew: Sel?nrah was not just watching us.

  It was waiting.

  Sel?nrah. The city of a thousand reflections.

  Or so read the carved stone sign we saw as we crossed the great arch that marked the boundary with the old quarter.

  Walking through Sel?nrah felt like losing yourself in a dream breathing to the slow rhythm of sand. Every building seemed built not only of stone, but of memory. The domes rose and gleamed beneath the sun like ancient mirrors; the alleyways, covered with ivory and deep red fabrics, smelled of incense, freshly baked bread, and spices I couldn’t name. In the distance, a lute and reed flutes carried notes that mingled with the murmur of voices. The heat was constant but not suffocating—more like a blanket you couldn’t push away.

  Caelia walked ahead, more upright than usual. She wore the traditional tunic we had been given, light, with the shoulders left bare but the rest of the body draped in modest elegance. At first, she had seemed stiff, uncomfortable, but little by little she seemed to surrender to the atmosphere… as if resisting it was pointless.

  —This looks nothing like any city I’ve ever seen —Neyra remarked, watching a central fountain where children played with clay jars.

  —Far even from our emotional maps —Velka added with a crooked smile. Then she turned to me with mischief—. Don’t you think, Lyss? You look about ready to faint from all this sun.

  —I’m fine —I lied, though the heat was indeed scorching my skin. Still, something in me refused to complain. There was peace in this city. Peace… or something I couldn’t quite decipher.

  We spent the morning wandering through a floating market stretched across a web of narrow bridges. The vendors shouted in a language we didn’t understand, but a smile and a gesture were enough to bargain. Velka bought moon-shaped sweets and handed them out as if she were a local hostess. Neyra busied herself reading every sign, stumbling through new words. Caelia kept watch in silence, always a step ahead or behind, never at the center. I… just observed. Let myself be carried along.

  The air shifted when we passed through a small sanctuary draped with colorful ribbons that danced in the wind. The faint crackle of incense burning in low braziers accompanied the swaying of whispered prayers. An old woman, her skin weathered and her eyes veiled by time, approached us. She said nothing. She touched my forehead with two warm fingers and handed me a sprig of dried flowers. She did the same for the others.

  Caelia didn’t flinch. She didn’t stop her. She closed her eyes and accepted the gesture with unexpected serenity.

  Once outside, I asked her quietly:

  —Do you know what this means?

  —A blessing for those who have lost something —she replied calmly.

  Velka arched a brow.

  —And how do you know that? Do you have some secret handbook of local superstitions already?

  Caelia gave her the faintest glance and shrugged with casual ease.

  —I read it in a document before we came. —And with no further explanation, she kept walking, as if she had no desire to expand on it.

  I looked down at the sprig in my fingers. The faint, earthy scent clung to my tunic. I slipped it into my pocket, carefully, as if that small gesture was worth more than any medal.

  Velka huffed, though with a trace of respect.

  —If they bless us for what we’ve lost, they’ll have to plant an entire forest for us.

  Neyra gave the faintest smile.

  —Maybe that’s exactly it. A reminder that we’re still here.

  Caelia said nothing. She walked ahead, her step slow but resolute. And I, with the sprig pressed against my chest, wondered if that blessing was for what I had already lost… or for what I was yet to lose.

  Nearby

  The bustle of Sel?nrah continued its dance of voices, incense, and colors. Merchants argued over prices in a harsh tongue, street musicians beat hand drums with circular rhythms, and pigeons pecked at seeds beneath the purple fabrics stretched between the arches.

  Mahtani paid no attention to any of it. Hidden beneath the shadow of a canopy, she silently watched the foreigners.

  Velka, the one with mocking eyes, held a sweet wrapped in palm leaves as if she had discovered treasure. Neyra, rigid and calculating, barely let a smile escape, yet her steps were lighter than those of a soldier on guard. Caelia kept her posture straight, ever watchful, and yet paused to watch a little girl playing with dancing fire in her hands. Minor magic, yes, but real.

  And Lyssandra…

  Lyssandra walked as though the city itself recognized her. Every step seemed to stir a faint murmur in the sand beneath her feet, as if the desert were holding its breath. A bird took flight just as she passed under its shadow, and a thread of dust spiraled up around her boots.

  Mahtani clenched her jaw.

  They did not fit.

  They were not what she had imagined: they bore no imperial arrogance etched into their gestures, no disdain in their eyes. Nor fear. What they carried instead were visible cracks, honest vulnerability… and that, she knew well, was more dangerous than any open threat.

  —They are not enemies, but neither are they allies —she murmured to herself, more warning than judgment.

  Then, when she saw the old woman approach Caelia with a twig of dried flowers, something shifted within her. The foreigner did not recoil. She did not push the hand away. She closed her eyes and accepted the gesture. That instant was enough for Mahtani to understand: they came from war, yes, but they also carried open wounds. Wounds where doubt—or alliances—could be sown.

  Mahtani turned, leaving the market behind unnoticed. Her steps rang firm through alleys decorated with golden stone mosaics. The sun began to descend, pouring liquid fire over the rooftops.

  When she reached the back gates of the Palace of Winds, the guard let her pass without a word. She advanced in silence through the private corridors until she stopped before a figure draped in white veils.

  —Your Majesty —she said, bowing her head with the rigid respect protocol demanded—. Perhaps we should watch them more closely.

  The figure did not answer immediately. She only raised her gaze. Her eyes, caught between aged gold and muted lavender, gleamed like a half-kept secret.

  Sultan Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n said nothing. But Mahtani understood: the seed of doubt had already been planted.

  And though the sovereign was not yet ready to reveal everything…

  perhaps soon she would be.

  Back to the alley

  We walked away from the little sanctuary, the sound of the wind chimes still clinging faintly to the air. The mood lingered heavy, solemn—until Velka leaned closer to me with that smile of hers that always carried mischief underneath.

  —Hey, Lyss… —she said quietly, making sure Caelia couldn’t hear—. Do you think you could… I don’t know… loosen her up a little?

  —Loosen her up? —I raised a brow.

  —Not literally —Neyra cut in from my other side—. We mean… help her relax. Help her enjoy this for once.

  —It’s not like I haven’t tried —I whispered back, glancing at Caelia walking a few steps ahead. Her back was straight, her shoulders tense, eyes scanning every shadow as though danger might rise from it.

  —We know —Velka said—. But you have something we don’t. She listens to you. Maybe she’ll never admit it, but she does.

  Neyra nodded.

  —And this place, this day… it’s probably the only time we’ll get without training, or planning, or following orders. If we don’t take it now, we never will.

  —So what exactly do you want me to do? —I asked, torn between amusement and resignation.

  Velka’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that question.

  —There’s a little alley nearby where artists paint portraits. Quick ones, spontaneous. Let’s drag her there. Something small, silly… human.

  —And you think that’ll make her laugh?

  —Or at least frown a little less —Neyra said, though there was a flicker of hope in her voice too.

  I looked at Caelia again—the firm, silent figure always walking ahead, always the one to guard us, to hold us together. Maybe it was our turn to hold her for once.

  —Fine. Let’s go.

  Velka nudged my shoulder with hers, grinning like a coin flipped in the air. She led us with suspicious confidence down narrower streets, past stalls heavy with spices and dyed fabrics. Finally, we found it.

  A narrow alley hung with curtains of sand-colored cloth that swayed between light and shadow. Portraits lined the walls, clipped to ropes: laughing children, serene elders, dancers traced in blue ink. The smell of woodsmoke and mint hung in the air. Music from a string instrument floated faintly from somewhere nearby.

  —This place… —Caelia murmured, her eyes cautious but caught by the sight.

  —Street art —Velka announced as though giving a lecture—. Instant. Fleeting. Like our missions, right?

  A woman with ink-stained hands approached them. Her smile was wordless, her gesture inviting toward the low stools.

  —Would you like a portrait? —she asked in a soft, accented voice.

  Caelia shook her head. But before she could speak, Neyra stepped forward.

  —Do it for us, Caelia. Just this once. Nobody’s stealing your soul with a brush… probably.

  —It’s only a picture —I added gently—. A moment, nothing more.

  Caelia’s eyes met mine. Doubt lingered in her expression, but something softened. Maybe it was the tone of my voice, maybe the scent of the place.

  —Fine —she said at last, and sat down—. But only if you do it too.

  —Of course! —Velka threw herself onto a stool like it was a throne.

  I took mine with a smile, Neyra settling with unusual grace beside me.

  The artist worked quickly, her brush moving as if she already knew us. Caelia kept her posture upright, but her shoulders eased little by little. Once or twice, she glanced at me, as though checking if this was really happening.

  When the portraits were handed over, they weren’t perfect—just simple strokes of black ink on aged paper. Yet they caught something deeper than likeness. Neyra’s was precise, lines sharp and deliberate, like her. Velka’s brimmed with restless energy, loose strokes like fire. Mine looked softer than I imagined myself. And Caelia’s… hers showed a strength wrapped in gentleness, as if the artist had peeled back her armor for a second.

  —I like how she drew me —Neyra whispered, surprised.

  —I look gorgeous, as always —Velka said, and for once she wasn’t joking.

  Caelia held hers the longest. At first she said nothing. Then, her voice barely audible:

  —I don’t remember the last time anyone drew me. Maybe when I was a child. Not since the army.

  Her fingers brushed the paper’s edge as if it were fragile.

  —Do you like it? —I asked softly.

  —I don’t hate it —she replied, and a tiny, rare smile broke across her face.

  Velka and Neyra exchanged a triumphant glance, but kept silent, walking ahead as though nothing had happened.

  Caelia slipped the portrait carefully between the pages of her tactical notebook. She walked beside me, and for once, her voice carried no command, no order.

  —Thank you, Lyss.

  Beneath the orange Al-Rahad sky, with the smell of mint and ink still lingering, I thought that maybe—even distrust could sometimes rest.

  The afternoon carried us to an open terrace where we shared crusty bread with sweet and spicy sauces. The wind brought with it distant prayers from a tower, and for a moment we fell silent, the four of us. Listening. Feeling.

  Velka was the first to break it:

  —This feels like a pause in the war… as if someone had pressed “pause” on the universe.

  —A fleeting illusion —murmured Neyra, though her lips were softly curved.

  Caelia smiled, barely. A curve so slight I almost missed it.

  —Even if it’s an illusion, sometimes it’s enough to remind us who we are.

  In that moment, I understood why she wanted us all to go out. It wasn’t just reconnaissance of the terrain. Caelia needed to breathe too. Maybe more than any of us.

  The sun began to sink, and the city lit up in golden and purple tones. Oil lamps flickered on one by one, and the breeze carried the scent of anise and clove. Sel?nrah did not sleep: it changed its skin.

  We walked back at a slower pace. We had laughed. Bought small keepsakes. Neyra was flipping through a local mythology book, analyzing its pages though she didn’t understand all the words. Velka had tied a patterned scarf over her head and was striking “desert noble” poses, pulling more laughter out of us. Caelia walked in the center this time, no longer looking over her shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t seem to carry the weight of the world on her back.

  I, however, could only think about what tomorrow would bring. But for today… for a few hours, we had allowed ourselves to feel.

  The streets of Sel?nrah were dyed in copper shades. The heat gave way slowly, as if the sand itself exhaled soft fire. We advanced along an elevated path, flanked by cloth awnings and glass lamps hanging like motionless fireflies.

  And then we saw it.

  An elderly woman sat in front of a polished stone house, holding a small ceramic bowl. She murmured something—prayer or song—and traced a symbol in the air with her thumb. A moment later, a tiny bluish flame appeared, soft and alive, illuminating her lined face.

  —Did you see that? —I asked quietly, stopping in my tracks.

  —Was that… magic? —Velka squinted, half nervous, half fascinated.

  —It’s emotional. Very faint. But it’s real magic —Neyra affirmed, more serious than ever.

  Then another young man, farther ahead, was lighting glass lamps without matches or oil: he simply lifted his hand, and a warm golden pulse spread from his palm. Light without heat, born of intent.

  Caelia stepped forward, incredulous.

  —It can’t be… —she murmured—. They have no lineage. How is this possible?

  I felt my own scar throb, a faint pulse under my skin. I swallowed hard. It wasn’t like ours. It wasn’t magic for combat, nor for wounding. It was as if Al-Rahad itself breathed emotion, as if this land recognized its children and gifted them, in their daily lives, crumbs of what for us was a storm.

  —This place… —I whispered—. It isn’t like the others.

  Velka lowered her voice, still full of awe:

  —I feel small. Like we’re the real outsiders here.

  Neyra folded her arms, her eyes cold with calculation.

  —If every inhabitant can do this, even in small ways, the strategic implications… are enormous.

  Caelia couldn’t take her eyes off a boy making a sphere of water dance in his hands while an old man corrected his posture. Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if she didn’t want to accept what she was seeing.

  —This… changes everything.

  We lingered for a few more seconds, watching that simple life painted with wonder. And in that moment we knew Al-Rahad wasn’t just an allied nation. It was something deeper. Something ancient. A living memory of what emotions once were, before war twisted them.

  When we finally reached the residence, no one spoke for a long while. The silence was heavy, reverent. Velka dropped onto one of the beds and muttered in mock exhaustion:

  —Even their cats seem wise here…

  The three of us laughed softly. But beneath that laughter, we all knew the same truth: the journey was only just beginning.