The sun hung high, its glare bending the horizon like glass. A modest caravan snaked through the dunes — six thick-wheeled wagons pulled by scaled desert yaks, each covered in dust-beaten cloth and guided by a single, burly elf whose skin was the color of old bronze and eyes hidden behind ash lenses.

  Inside the third wagon, Rell lounged against a crate of water canisters, arms folded. His head swayed with the wagon’s creaks, one foot braced against the wood, the other casually kicked out the side flap.

  Thessia sat near the entrance, sharpening a blade that was already sharp. Neyxa leaned back against the canvas, one leg pulled up, sketching the caravan’s layout into her notebook.

  They’d been traveling for hours.

  “You ever think,” Neyxa muttered, “that this whole alliance thing was doomed from the start?”

  Thessia didn’t look up. “Used to work.”

  Rell cracked an eye open.

  “Elves had magic. Dwarves had tools,” Neyxa continued. “Combined, they built kingdoms. But now? Barely speak. No shipments. No trust. No unity.”

  “Advisor broke it,” Rell said simply.

  Thessia looked up, blade paused. “Yeah… him and whoever backed him.”

  The guide riding up front raised his hand — signaling a short rest. The caravan creaked to a halt beside a worn stone marker: a half-buried pillar etched with faded dwarven runes.

  They stepped down, stretching. Sand hissed underfoot like dry whispers.

  Ko Mala emerged from the rear wagon, cracking his shoulders. The hulking gorilla-shaped Blessed Beast sniffed the air, frowning. “Wind shifts. Heat rising too fast. May be noontide surge.”

  “That a storm?” Neyxa asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Thessia unwrapped a small bundle of dried fruit and passed some to Rell. “So, how’d this ‘unity’ fall apart?”

  Ko Mala sat beside them, voice rumbling like thunder muted by distance. “Used to be simple: elves sent magical fibers, channel dust, and glyph-catalysts. Dwarves built machines to spread it. Heatless forges. Water-condensers. Sky catchers. Together, made miracles.”

  Neyxa frowned. “And now?”

  “No shipments. No trust. Dwarves say elves greedy. Elves say dwarves hiding secrets. But it was all Advisor’s plan. Divide. Control. Profit.”

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  Rell’s fingers tapped his boot.

  “Heard dwarves tech takes… long time,” he added.

  Ko Mala nodded. “Without elf magic, it takes decades. One dwarf's life might only see one engine finished.”

  They fell into thoughtful silence.

  Then—

  BOOM.

  The lead wagon exploded in a plume of sand and metal, flipping sideways and skidding down the dune.

  “AMBUSH!” the guide screamed, right before an arrow pinned his neck to the wagon’s side.

  Chaos.

  Rell leapt up, dragging Neyxa behind a fallen crate. Thessia already unsheathed her twin blades, eyes narrowing.

  Bandits emerged from the dunes like wraiths. Eight of them. Brown wraps. Sand goggles. Scythes curved like crescent moons. Their boots never sank — terrain mastery.

  “Bandits?!” Neyxa hissed.

  Thessia pointed. “Circle formation — stay close!”

  Too late.

  The second wagon tilted — two bandits slammed the side, flipping it clean.

  Ko Mala charged from behind, knocking one clean off his feet and into a dune. Another ducked low and swept his leg. The beast fell back — surprised — into the sand, groaning.

  “Too fast,” Ko Mala snarled, rolling into a defensive crouch.

  Two more bandits appeared behind Neyxa, one swiping at her with a curved blade. She ducked, parried with a quick dagger snap, but a third hit her from the side with a sand burst. Her body spun and hit the dune hard.

  Thessia went down next — three attacking her from different angles. She held them off for a moment before one slid under and kicked her legs out. Her head hit the sand with a dull thud.

  “Damn!” Rell cursed.

  He gritted his teeth.

  His body moved like muscle memory. Elbows flared. Knees low. His footing was trash in this sand — too loose — but he made it work.

  He slipped past the first bandit, uppercutting his gut.

  CRACK.

  The man folded.

  Rell turned into a spinning elbow — caught another square in the jaw.

  Two down.

  He dropped, letting a blade whistle over his head. He kicked the attacker’s leg, then stomped his chest when he hit the ground.

  Three.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “Gettin’ the feel.”

  The wind picked up.

  Sand began to spiral.

  The last three grunts retreated.

  One figure stepped from the storm — the Bandit Commander. No goggles. Just a veil of cloth over half his face and tattoos running across his arms and shoulders, glowing faintly.

  The sand swirled tighter around his feet.

  He raised his hands — slow, graceful, martial.

  The sand moved with him.

  A wave of dust slammed into Rell, flinging him backward. He rolled three times and barely caught his footing, boots digging in.

  “Okay… you magic dancer. Cool.”

  The commander darted forward — sand blades forming around his arms. They clashed — fists to fists, footwork wild. Rell struggled to land hits — the sand pulled him, slipped under him, made it hard to stand.

  The commander spun — a full circle with sand spiraling around like chakrams. Rell crossed his arms and tanked it, skidding backward.

  “Damn… strong.”

  The commander pulled both arms together — forming a single lance of compact sand.

  He hurled it.

  Rell’s eye twitched.

  He leaned back — then burst forward.

  Chuck Flash.

  He copied it instantly — forming his own condensed sand blast.

  The two lances met.

  BOOOOOOM.

  A massive sandstorm ignited between them — funneling into the sky, roaring with chaotic force.

  Wagons flipped.

  Beasts scattered.

  Bodies flung.

  Everything. Whiteout.

  When the sand finally settled — the battlefield was empty.

  Scorched earth.

  Scattered gear.

  One broken wheel slowly spun in the wind.

  And no one in sight.