The first thing Godric felt was the stone—cold, cracked, ancient. As his eyes blinked open, he saw only darkness beyond the pillar of light that bathed him. It wasn’t firelight, nor mage-born. It was sunlight, spilling down from a jagged opening high above, casting his frame in pale gold and shadow.

  He groaned, his body stiff, bones aching from battle and blood loss. Dust clung to his cloak and hair. With a hand over his ribs, he muttered under his breath, “Where in the Divines' name did they send me now…”

  From the dark, a voice answered—not loud, not echoing, but present.

  “Nowhere.”

  Godric’s breath caught. He turned his head sharply, scanning the dark.

  “Who’s there?”

  Another voice, smoother, younger—though disembodied—responded.

  “Names are a luxury. What matters is how you survived the Maw of Thar'Zhun.”

  A silence lingered after the utterance of the name. The very sound of it weighed heavy in the air. Thar'Zhun. The name clawed at the edges of Godric’s mind like a buried memory, but none surfaced.

  He slowly sat up. “I didn’t survive it. Not really. I ran. I fought. I… got lucky.”

  There was no reply.

  Instead, a third voice emerged—this one deeper, older, lined with time.

  “Who are you, wanderer?”

  Godric answered without hesitation, steadying his breath.

  “I am Godric of Rosetown. I hail from Primera, and… I need to reach the Dhilāl immediately. If there's any mercy left in these sands, I ask it now.”

  Silence.

  Then, faint movement. A shift in the darkness, like robes brushing old stone.

  A faint rustling echoed from the shadows. Not one voice, not three—just a single pair of footsteps. Godric tensed, struggling to rise to one knee, his hand instinctively brushing near his blade's hilt.

  From the darkness emerged a figure draped in layered black robes, the hems etched with forgotten runes. What stood out most were the chains. Thick, silver-gold-black links, uneven in size and luster, wrapped around his shoulders and trailed loosely around his arms like ceremonial binds. Their ends did not rattle. They hummed.

  The man’s face was obscured—either hidden by a hood or something else, but Godric could feel a presence behind that shadowed veil. Not malice. Not warmth. Something older.

  “You…” Godric rasped, coughing lightly. “You were the voices?”

  The robed figure tilted his head, amused.

  “I was. It is often easier for the mind to accept judgment when it believes it speaks to many, rather than one.”

  Godric narrowed his eyes, rising to his feet despite the aching pain. “Who are you?”

  The man lifted one hand slowly, palm exposed in a disarming gesture.

  “I am no one of consequence.”

  “That’s never a comforting answer,” Godric muttered.

  A chuckle. It was quiet, but real.

  “Perhaps. But I am not here to comfort. Only to observe… and to deliver a message. My master was pleased with your performance.”

  Godric stiffened. “Your… master?”

  The man stepped forward, and for a flickering moment, one of the chain links glowed a soft, deep azure. “You were not meant to survive the Maw of Thar'Zhun. Let alone wound it. It has slept beneath that city for an era unbroken. Your actions did more than simply awaken it… you made it bleed. And now, it slumbers again.”

  Godric blinked. The memory of the shriek, the clash atop its spine, the crystals erupting with pale-skinned warriors—it all rushed back with weight and clarity.

  “I didn’t mean to fight it,” he said quietly. “I was trying to get out.”

  “All the more impressive,” the figure responded. “Few stumble into the jaws of legend and emerge with even a name left to them. And yet, here you are… Godric of Rosetown.”

  At that, the man took another step forward. The light from above caught one of the chain links as it shimmered—this time a golden hue.

  “My master wishes to observe you further. The road ahead will twist and fray, but should you reach the Dhilāl alive… then the next piece of the game shall begin.”

  Godric’s brow furrowed. “So I am part of a game.”

  “Weren’t you always?” the robed figure said, his voice laced with knowing. “From the moment you left Rosetown.”

  Godric exhaled sharply through his nose. “If your master wants to talk, he can come down here himself.”

  That earned a pause.

  “He already has,” the figure murmured.

  Before Godric could question him further, the man raised a hand—and the chains shimmered once more, the chamber flooding with cold light.

  Godric shielded his eyes. When he looked again, he was alone.

  Godric stepped cautiously toward the stone archway where faint rays of sunlight pierced through cracks in the cavernous ceiling. His boots echoed against the dusty floor as he approached the exit—his sword resting neatly by the entrance, untouched. A moment of hesitation passed as he reached for it. It felt warm, familiar, balanced—as if no time had passed. Even his pack lay nearby, sealed and undisturbed.

  "Why..." he whispered, scanning the shadows for the figure in chains—but found nothing. Just stillness. Just questions.

  With a final look back, Godric stepped out of the tomb and into the biting wind.

  The Sleeping City was behind him. The southeast horizon lay ahead.

  Days passed.

  The terrain shifted from cracked stone and dead plains into rolling dunes of gold and red. Strange rock formations marked the land like the bones of ancient titans. Godric kept low, preserving his energy as the sun’s gaze grew ever harsher.

  Then, life.

  A cluster of villages appeared—mudbrick and sandstone structures clustered like huddled shoulders in the wind. He approached carefully, weapon sheathed, hands open. Curious stares greeted him. He raised a hand in greeting.

  “Hello,” he said, slowly. “I’m… I mean no harm.”

  A group of older villagers gathered. They replied in words unfamiliar, rich in rhythm and accented in ways that echoed nothing from Primera. Godric tried again in a simpler tone—but met only confusion. He gestured, pointed, tried a mix of hand signs and words, but the distance between tongues remained unbreached.

  Later that evening, exhausted and unmoored by his failure to connect, he climbed a dune overlooking the sprawling sands. The desert stretched infinitely—like an ocean of silence.

  He sat. The loneliness pressed in.

  Until footsteps approached.

  A boy, no older than ten, ascended the slope with practiced ease, balancing a clay jug of water and a leather-bound book under one arm. Wordlessly, he handed the jug over.

  Godric blinked. “Thank you,” he said, slowly and clearly, pressing his hand to his chest. “Godric.”

  The boy nodded, then sat beside him, opening his book. Pages turned, marked with a mixture of diagrams, symbols, and flowing script. It was a child’s lesson book—geometry, basic records, and language. The boy read aloud to himself, mouthing syllables with focus.

  Godric watched in silence. A seed of an idea bloomed.

  His eyes narrowed, studying the book’s text. Shapes, sentence forms, repetition. A language. He recalled what Xhiamas had told him: that the Uhrihim could grasp new foundations, and that language itself was once the core of lóm?’s magical understanding.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Perhaps... I’ve been approaching this the wrong way.

  He gently pointed to one word. Then another. He held up fingers and mimed counting. The boy tilted his head, then nodded. Slowly, a rhythm formed—one that bridged understanding.

  Godric grinned. “Mind if I borrow this?” he asked, tapping the book.

  The boy blinked. Godric mimed again—read, study, return. The boy considered, then handed it over.

  For hours into the night, Godric sat by the firelight of the village's edge, copying letters into the dirt, speaking softly to himself. Translating not Primeran into the local tongue—but the other way around.

  Just like the ancient mages had done—reaching for the divine, word by word.

  ***

  The village stirred awake under the soft light of dawn. Smoke curled lazily from clay chimneys, and the first sounds of labor echoed through narrow alleyways. But Godric had not slept. He stood at the edge of the village square, the boy’s leather-bound book pressed against his chest. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his fingers were still stained with sand and ink from a night of tireless study. He stepped forward, heart pounding.

  A small crowd gathered.

  Villagers looked on with wary curiosity—some recognizing the foreigner from yesterday. The boy who had lent him the book stood nearby, eyes wide with anticipation.

  Godric took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Divines… let this work.

  He opened his mouth.

  And to his own astonishment, the words came—not with hesitation or error, but smoothly, fluently, as though he had spoken the language since childhood. The syntax felt natural, the intonation true.

  A hush fell across the square.

  The villagers murmured in disbelief. A few stepped forward with beaming smiles. Questions came all at once—who he was, where he was from, how he had learned so quickly. Godric answered each one calmly, respectfully, in their own tongue.

  He turned to the boy and knelt, placing the book gently in his hands. “Thank you,” he said warmly, “without your help, this would not have been possible.”

  The boy smiled wide, clutching the book to his chest.

  Soon after, the village elder—a tall, robed man with deep lines of age carved into his face—approached and welcomed Godric into his home. The scent of herbs and dried meats filled the air as they sat upon ornate rugs and cushions beneath an open-air ceiling.

  “You have a gift,” the elder said. “And a reason for being here. Tell me, foreigner—where do you come from?”

  “From Rosetown,” Godric replied, “in the kingdom of Primera.”

  Whispers broke among the gathered elders. One woman crossed herself. Another murmured a blessing.

  Godric paused, then leaned forward.

  “I seek the Dhilāl al-Qadar. Do you know where I might find them?”

  The room fell silent. A shadow passed through the elder’s gaze.

  A woman clutched her prayer beads. Another man glanced over his shoulder. One of them uttered a quiet, trembled prayer—to the Stranger.

  The elder raised a hand to calm the murmuring.

  “That name should not be spoken lightly,” he said gravely. “The Dhilal are dangerous, child of Primera. They dwell in the places where light does not touch. Hunters of fate… whisperers of ruin. Their name is not welcome in peaceful villages such as ours.”

  Godric bowed his head in apology.

  “Forgive me,” he said in Azanean, “but I must find them. There are answers I seek—answers only they can provide.”

  The elder regarded him for a long moment, then poured tea into a small brass cup and handed it to him.

  “Then you walk a narrow path, Godric of Rosetown,” he said, “and may the Stranger walk it with you… because if the Dhilal notices your steps, they will not be kind.”

  Godric bowed low to the villagers as he prepared to leave.

  “Your kindness will not be forgotten,” he said, fastening the last of his gear. He offered a respectful hand to the elder, who clasped it with a tired smile.

  “Travel well, Rosetown wanderer,” the elder replied, “and may your tongue stay true and your blade stay sharp.”

  With that, Godric turned southeast once more, the sun cresting behind him. The map he carried bore a clear warning in fine script: “Territory claimed by the Dhilāl al-Qadar. Trespassers risk never being seen again.”Yet the trail had shown him nothing.

  No shadowy silhouettes. No danger. No watchers in the dunes.

  Just sand. Heat. Wind. The vast stillness of Azane. Godric scowled.

  “So much for ‘dangerous,’” he muttered, folding the map away. The sun was beginning to dip now, and a row of broken ruins stood a short walk from the main trail. He decided to camp there.

  By twilight, a small fire crackled beside the crumbling stone, casting shadows on what might once have been a temple or a watchtower. Godric sat with his back against a half-buried column, chewing on dried jerky, lost in thought. The stillness of the desert was strange—too calm, like the land was holding its breath.

  He didn’t see the scorpion until it was nearly on his hand.

  “Bloody—!” Godric yelped, grabbing his torch and swiping it hard across the sand. The burning head struck the scorpion’s tail, sending it scrambling away into the darkness.

  As the light trailed its path, it cast an orange flicker across the inner face of the ruined wall. That’s when Godric saw it.

  A carving. Faint. Faded with time—but unmistakably there.

  He stood, torch in hand, and stepped closer. Sand had buried much of the lower inscription, but what remained still told a story.

  Etched into the stone, in curving Azanean script, were these words:

  "Where the stars forget the sky, and the wind hides its voice, seek the gate of shattered silence, beyond the dunes where none rejoice. Speak no name. Cast no light. Wait for the shadow that answers not."

  Godric ran his fingers across the grooves. He didn’t understand all of it—but the phrase “gate of shattered silence” stirred something in him. A riddle? A location? A warning?

  “Wait for the shadow that answers not…”

  He sat back down, eyes lingering on the writing as the fire crackled beside him.

  The fire had dimmed to a faint glow, and the wind carried sand like whispers across the ruins.

  Godric stirred, uneasy. The night pressed in heavy—too heavy. He felt it before he heard it: the stillness had changed. It wasn’t silence anymore—it was absence.

  Then, a breath.

  Not his.

  A whisper, like a breeze behind him that didn’t stir the air. He stood slowly, drawing his weapon without a sound. The torch’s flame flickered out with an unnatural hiss. He was plunged into blackness. No moon. No stars. Nothing.

  Then—movement. A shimmer, like a ripple of heat in the shape of a man. It stepped out of the shadows as if it had always been there. Its face was obscured beneath a dark, patterned veil, and its cloak shifted like sand in the wind. No footsteps marked the ground.

  “Who walks with the names of the dead on their breath?” the figure asked, voice neither young nor old, but layered—as if multiple voices spoke in unison.

  Godric tightened his grip on his weapon. “My name is Godric of Rosetown,” he said evenly. “I seek the Dhilal al-Qadar.”

  The figure stood still for a moment. Then it circled him, silent as a phantom.

  “What gives you the right to speak our name beneath the breath of the dunes?”

  Godric hesitated. He could feel it now—power, coiled like a serpent just beneath this figure’s voice. But he remembered the inscription, and the words etched into the stone.

  He said nothing.

  He cast no light.

  And he waited.

  The figure stopped. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then: “So you can listen. Good.”

  A second shimmer appeared to his left—another sentinel, blade drawn, glimmering black with Azanean runes.

  “A test, then,” said the first.

  The second spoke in a whisper. “We shall not test your strength… but your silence.”

  Suddenly, the air grew colder. Figures emerged from the dark edges of the ruin—six, maybe seven in total. Each cloaked, silent, watching.

  Godric was surrounded—but none attacked.

  Instead, they began to chant softly, a language he barely recognized. The world blurred—sounds fading in and out. His breath shortened. A pressure settled on his chest. Then—

  He saw her.

  Coraline. Standing just beyond the ring of shadows. Then Cassian, arms crossed, disappointed. Xhiamas, bloodied. And finally… Wyatt, collapsed, hand reaching out.

  “Save them.”

  “You failed.”

  “You were too late.”

  Godric’s hands shook—but he remembered the words.

  Wait for the shadow that answers not.

  So he didn’t speak. Didn’t cry out. Didn’t weep.

  He stood there, sword drawn, silent.

  After what felt like hours, the illusions vanished.

  The sentinels stopped chanting.

  The first one approached, placing a gloved hand on Godric’s shoulder

  .

  “You are not Dhilal, foreigner… but you walk as one of us would.” “Perhaps we were wrong to doubt the words of the elder.”

  Godric blinked. “…You know who I am?”

  The sentinel tilted their head.

  “Not entirely.”

  Without another word, the shadow turned and walked toward the east. The others melted into the darkness, vanishing like smoke.

  The one who had spoken last remained a moment longer.

  “Follow. The shadows now watch your steps, Godric of Rosetown. Make them count.”

  Then it, too, disappeared.

  Godric exhaled, chest heavy. He had passed a test he didn’t fully understand. But the path to the Dhilāl was finally opening. And he knew—he was being watched.

  Maybe the Dhilal were close. Maybe they were already watching. And maybe—just maybe—he had finally taken a step onto their path.

  The sands no longer whispered. They sang—low and secretive, as if passing a message between dunes.

  Godric followed the trail left behind by the sentinel, though he never saw footprints. Only subtle signs—a shift in the grains, a shadow darker than the night. As the sun began its slow ascent, bleeding pale light across the horizon, he found himself at the mouth of a narrow canyon, the rocks rising like jagged teeth around him.

  There, carved into the stone, was a symbol: an open eye, veiled by three bands.

  He had seen it once before—in the journals Ziyad had shown him. The sigil of the Dhilāl.

  He stepped inside.

  The canyon darkened quickly, curling inward until light could no longer reach. He lit no flame. The shadows seemed to guide him, bending around his steps. The deeper he went, the colder it became, until at last he emerged into a hollowed basin.

  Black tents dotted the edges, stitched with silver thread. Watchers stood along the ledges above, hidden, but he felt their presence.

  Then, a voice.

  “You tread deep into the Veiled Expanse, outsider.”

  A man emerged from one of the tents. His face was marked with three vertical lines—Godric presumed him to be someone of high status within their ranks. His eyes, a pale bronze, studied Godric with the weight of someone who had outlived wars.

  “You passed the trial of silence. Few have. But that does not grant you welcome.”

  Godric nodded. “I understand. I came only seeking—”

  “Answers?” the man interrupted. “So do we.”

  Another voice, this time female, came from behind. An elderly woman, wrapped in black linen and adorned with a necklace of sun-bleached bones, stepped forward. Her voice trembled with age but not weakness.

  “You walk like one of us. You carry no light. You listened when the Veil asked for silence.”

  She came closer, her fingers hovering over his brow, as if feeling something just beneath the skin.

  “But your shadow is… wrong.”

  Godric flinched. “Wrong?”

  The old woman didn’t answer right away. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, softly:

  “It’s not your own.”

  The words struck something in him—deep, primal.

  The marked man stepped between them.

  “Enough.” He turned to Godric. “You’ll be permitted to stay. But understand this: we know the signs of our own. You are not one of us. You are something else.”

  Godric said nothing. He felt it was wise to let them believe he was simply a gifted outsider.

  The old woman added as she walked away:

  “The wind carries your name, stranger. But not the name you gave us.”

  That night, as Godric sat alone, staring at the fire pit within the silent basin, he remembered the words from his vision—the masked man, the warnings, the weight of everything still hidden.

  The Dhilāl were watchers of prophecy. But even they could not yet see the truth.

  Not yet.