Ragged Valleys of Carlon – Nightfall, Year – 8002 A.A.
The Ragged Valleys lay beneath twin moons like an old wound that refused to heal. Their stone ribs jutted skyward in broken defiance, black against silvered sky, and the cold winds that scoured them carried the dry taste of old bones and ancient, hidden fury. In the lunar light, every crack in the valley walls glowed white, like scars that the centuries had failed to bury.
Between those scarred cliffs, a rebel camp burned small and stubborn—a scatter of torchlight bruising the darkness rather than banishing it. Flames bent and flickered, their glow carving brief faces into the weathered rock: warriors huddled in silence, blades dark against their backs; banners inked with symbols feared and revered—a black crescent, a faceless wolf. Even the wind seemed to whisper past them without pausing, as if reluctant to disturb the pact that hung heavy in the air: the promise of violence yet to come.
In the largest of the battered tents, the Savior stood unmoving. Pale white fur draped him like living moonlight; neither beast nor man, his form eluded every tribal shape and name, as though the world itself could not quite decide what he was. The hood of his cloak shadowed most of his face, but the faint line of a snout and the its pale gleam spoke of something long exiled from any people who would claim him. His right hand hovered over a sand-worn map pinned to the table, the parchment stiff with blood-sweat and the touch of desperate hands.
"Twin Serpent's Spine."
The Savior's finger traced the path, moving over runes inked with haste and fear. It paused on a narrow place where the valley walls curved like a serpent's throat closing upon itself.
"Veldt's Throat," he murmured.
The tent flap shifted, bringing dust and chill. Garo entered—a Tenrec Tracient, lean and taut as dried cord, breath still ragged from climbing scree and skirting patrols. His leathers bore the dust of hidden paths; goggles ringed his eyes like dark moons. His paws, cracked and dirt-rough, clapped to his chest.
"Savior. I'm back."
The Savior did not turn. His gaze, unseen beneath the hood, stayed fixed on the map.
"Report."
Garo moved closer, the tips of his claws pricking the parchment as he pointed.
"Carlon's convoy cuts through the Spine at dawn," he rasped. "They guard it light up front, heavy at the throat. But all weight centers on the middle cart. They call it Item X."
The Savior's head tilted slightly. "You saw it?"
"Not its shape," Garo admitted, voice dropping. "Seals wrapped tight as a grave. No scent. No glow. Even mana recoils from it."
Slowly, the Savior turned, and though his face remained half-veiled, there was something in the pale angle of his snout, the stillness that spoke of old vows.
"It must not reach Tashlan."
The voice, calm and low, stripped of comfort. Each syllable weighed and found worthy.
"Gather the assault team," the Savior continued, hand lifting from the map. "Strike begins at moonset."
Garo dipped his head once, the shadow of relief and fear crossing his features, then vanished back into the biting wind.
Outside, the wind grew restless, twisting dust into brief spires that danced and died. Far beyond the camp, in the canyons' unlit depths, the earth itself seemed to breathe—stone grating faintly, as if something old had turned in its sleep.
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Carlon Convoy Encampment – Veldt's Throat, Midnight
Between cliffs that fell like broken fortress walls, the convoy lay at uneasy rest. Wooden barricades and stone ramparts had been thrown up in crooked circles, torches burning in iron sconces blackened by oil and fear. Soldiers paced in pairs, feet scraping rock worn smooth by older caravans and older wars.
At the camp's core stood six black crates, sigil-sealed and lightless. Item X, they called them—though even that name felt too bold to speak aloud. Their presence pulled sound inward; even wind seemed to hush near them. Insects, ever drawn to flame and life, veered away from the crates as if repelled by some memory they could not name.
Among the watchers, General Gon loomed largest—a Komodo Tracient, skin a patchwork of scale and scar. Across his shoulder plate burned the Özel #20 tattoo in crimson ink. His forked tongue flickered once, tasting the air's tension more sharply than any scent. One thick claw dug into the stone by his side, knuckles pale under scale.
A younger Komodo, breath fast, stumbled into the lamplight. "General! Lord Kurt… he's arrived."
Gon's nostrils flared. "Bring him," he ordered, though the words came softer than expected.
The soldiers parted. Footsteps approached, measured and quiet, yet impossibly certain.
Out of the wavering torchlight stepped Adam Kurt.
His fur, blue as midnight river, caught the firelight in shifting silvers and indigos. The blindfold, simple yellow cloth, lay unwrinkled across his eyes; its simplicity contrasted the impossible calm that radiated from him. His robe, sleeveless and green as old cedar, bore on the chest the subtle embroidery of the Kurt crest. And on his back, the hilt of Hisame, small and unassuming, sat as though it had always belonged there.
He stopped beside Gon, extending his hand, palm steady. "General Gon," Adam spoke, voice low, neither warm nor cold, as if he had weighed every word before breathing it. "They said you'd be here."
Gon took the offered hand, feeling bone and sinew firm under fur, but no aura, no mana surge—only silence deeper than fear. "An honor, Lord Adam," he managed. "We've secured the pass as best we could. It's rough ground."
"Rough ground suits rough truths," Adam replied, his head angling minutely.
Then he turned. Though blindfolded, the movement felt deliberate—focused directly on the sealed crates. His nostrils barely flared, but something sharpened in the tilt of his ears.
"That's the cargo," he murmured. Not asked, but named.
Gon hesitated, scales shifting over thick muscle. "Yes, Lord. But how did you—"
Adam's smile was small, almost regretful. "Quiet things scream loudest when they wish not to be heard."
The general swallowed. Blind folded. And yet he saw what no trained scout could.
"We prepared a tent," Gon offered, "and guards to—"
"No need," Adam interrupted gently, voice soft as dusk. "I'll watch with the stones."
He stepped beyond the circle of flame and oil, his shadow blending into the cliff's ancient scars.
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Campfire Edge – Later That Night
Flames dwindled, giving more shadow than heat. Soldiers huddled close, battered helmets lying in the dust beside them. Grain liquor passed hand to hand, each sip warming ribs already bruised by tomorrow's dread.
One soldier, voice husky from smoke, whispered, "You hear about the valleys? Whole paths gone. Men walk east, find their own footprints coming west."
"Mana storms," muttered another, words muffled by a scarf.
"No," rasped a third, leaning in. "It's him. The pale one. Stands on cliff tops at moonrise. Never speaks. Eyes like frost moons they say."
The first spat. "A ghost?"
"The Pale Myth," the third insisted. "Savior of the Outcast. Some say he's not born of tribe or god."
The second scoffed, voice shaky. "A god, then?"
A colder voice cut through, quiet yet sharp.
"No god."
They turned, startled.
Adam Kurt stood just beyond the circle of dying coals, arms crossed, blindfold catching the last glow. His ears twitched once, dismissive.
"The God of the North," he said, voice low, "has been silent for over a thousand years."
The wind stirred, and embers lifted, spiraling briefly before dying.
"He's something else."
He spoke no further. His head tilted upward, as though to watch the twin moons he could not see.
The soldiers dared not ask more. Silence returned, as thick as the stone cliffs hemming them in.