[PoV Evran]
I opened my eyes slowly.
It felt like lifting a heavy stone from eyelids that had been closed for too long. Daylight sneaked in through the narrow cave opening, stabbing my vision with blinding heat. The cold stone pressing against my back made my body shiver.
My body felt shattered.
Every heavy breath seemed to weigh down my lungs with the remnants of yesterday’s journey. Sweat that had dried mixed with dust, blood that clung to my skin beginning to darken. My stomach twisted painfully, empty, as if my intestines were devouring themselves.
I had no idea how long I had slept in this hiding place—
a place barely worthy of being called a refuge.
Especially here… wild beasts, monsters, or whatever else could appear at any moment.
I lifted my hand, staring at my fingers, dirty, covered in wounds and scrapes. Bones protruded beneath thinning skin, a sign of hunger that had been gnawing at my body.
But… somehow, this morning, I could still open my eyes.
And in a world that never stopped trying to kill me, that alone was enough.
At least, for now.
In my embrace, the sword was still sheathed tight.
Two necklaces—one black, one pale gold.
A strange metal bracelet, and a metal emblem I didn’t recognize, all stored in the pockets of my torn and dirty pants.
But more important than all of that…
I was hungry. I was thirsty. I was tired.
Too tired even to think about what to do next.
Honestly, I just wanted to stay still.
Lean back.
Hope food and water would appear on their own.
But I knew very well that was the most impossible thing in this desolate desert.
I clenched my trembling fingers.
Forcing my body to rise.
My joints screamed, my knees wobbled, but I couldn’t stay here.
“I have to get out of here,”
I whispered softly. My voice hoarse, almost inaudible. My lips cracked and dry. Yet I took a shaky step forward, toward the cave’s mouth.
I drew a deep breath.
The hot desert air filled my lungs, dry, stinging my throat. Outside, the sand stretched endlessly. No trees. No rivers. No shadows. Just a sea of shimmering sand under the midday sun.
Fine dust danced in the wind, twirling through the air in small vortices that soon vanished. The sound of its whisper mingled with my slow heartbeat.
I had never ventured far from the village.
I didn’t even know exactly where to go.
All that remained was a single clue—memory.
I remember I was with my father. We had a small conversation in the yard at dusk.
I, sitting on the ground playing with small stones, and Father, busy fixing tools but still taking the time to answer my questions.
“Ha ha ha… You’re asking what a city is, Evran?”
His voice still echoed—warm, crisp, full of laughter.
“Yes! What is a city like, Father?”
I remembered how innocent I had been then.
“A city is a settlement bigger and busier than our village,” he said, stroking my head with his rough hand. “Someday, when you grow up, we’ll go to a city in the east. Many people there, markets rarely quiet, and at night, the sky full of tiny lights.”
I remembered my smile back then, so wide.
“A promise, okay?”
Father laughed again, then extended his pinky.
We linked fingers.
A small promise.
A promise that now will never come true.
I closed my eyes for a moment, holding onto something warm behind my eyelids.
I steeled my heart.
I clenched my fists.
There was nothing I could do but move east, following that faint clue.
Maybe I would reach the promised city. Maybe I would die in the desert.
But staying here would only hasten my end.
My steps faltered, carrying the remnants of my parents in my embrace.
The heat began to bite. The sun climbed higher, hanging directly overhead, as if scorching every inch of exposed skin. The sand beneath my feet burned my soles; my throat was dry—felt as if filled with tiny thorns tearing at me every time I swallowed saliva.
My vision began to blur. My breathing grew tight.
I kept walking.
I had no idea how long.
No idea how many steps.
But I could not stop.
Until finally… I saw it.
A whirlwind of sand spinning in the distance.
At first small.
Then growing larger.
Getting closer.
A sandstorm.
The wind began to howl, carrying thousands of grains of sand that lashed my skin like hot needles. I bent my head, shielding my eyes and mouth as best I could. But the storm was too strong. Sand whipped everywhere; the sky and the ground seemed to merge into a violent, spinning haze.
I crouched down.
Hugged my knees.
Trying to endure.
My body was pushed backward, sand beginning to bury my feet. The air grew thinner.
My eyes burned. My vision could barely penetrate the swirling storm.
“I’m sorry, Mother… Father…”
I whispered in my heart, almost inaudibly.
“I couldn’t keep our promise…”
Consciousness began to fade.
The world turned hazy.
The sound of wind, sand, and my heartbeat merged into one.
I could only remain still.
Waiting for the storm to consume me.
---
Far from there—along the western trade route, a caravan of merchants moved slowly across the harsh desert. The clatter of camels, donkeys, and horses accompanied the creaking wheels of wooden carts, echoing softly over the sand dunes. Goods atop the carts swayed, tied securely, moving in rhythm with the journey.
Mounted guards scanned their surroundings with caution. This land was not friendly. Behind every sand hill could hide bandits, wild beasts, or something far more dangerous.
At the end of the route, they arrived at a village—or rather, what remained of it.
Dariath.
Two weeks ago, the village had still been alive. Children ran along dirt roads, women hung cloths to dry in front of wooden houses, and smoke curled from thatched rooftops. Simple warmth that gave breath to a small settlement in the middle of a harsh desert.
Now, all that remained were blackened ruins. Burnt walls, scorched earth, and fragments of charcoal. The smell of smoke, long extinguished, still lingered, mixed with the unmistakable stench of death.
Some merchants halted their steps. Others dismounted, staring in horror at the remains.
“What happened here…?” whispered an elderly merchant, his face pale.
They stepped further into the ruins. Amid the ash and splintered wood, charred pieces of bones were scattered. Babies, women, men—all perished along with their homes.
“They… were burned alive,” muttered a guard, his voice heavy, almost choked.
Grief enveloped the caravan. Some lowered their heads, while others continued to gaze at the ruins of Dariath with watery eyes. Here had lived their acquaintances. Now, only ash, charcoal, and blackened bones remained.
No one spoke. Only the desert wind hissed, sweeping over burnt wood and cracked bricks.
Among the group, a young man with brown hair, a short beard, and square glasses stood stiffly. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on the ruins that once might have held laughter and warm conversations. In his chest, sorrow and anger collided.
Here had lived his old friends. And now, nothing remained.
Whoever did this… they would pay, he thought, clenching his fists tightly.
As a final tribute, the merchants and guards built simple markers from stones and salvageable wood. No ceremony—only quiet prayers sent on the desert wind, so that the souls of the fallen might find peace.
Time passed, and they could not linger in land that had lost its spirit. One by one, they returned to their carts and saddles, preparing to continue the journey to Azbirut—a city for mercenaries, traders, and adventurers seeking their livelihood.
But not long after leaving the village, a shout broke the silence.
“Wait a moment!”
The voice came from the front of the caravan. Riders pulled back the reins of their animals, bringing the group to a slow halt.
The caravan leader—a tall, authoritative man wearing a thick leather coat—immediately stepped forward.
“What is it?” he asked loudly.
A guard ran up, face covered in dust, breathing heavily, a tattered scarf fluttering around his neck in the wind.
“Leader,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I found a dying little boy… buried in the sand.”
The leader’s eyes widened. Without wasting a moment, he dismounted, his steps quick and heavy. There, in the guard’s arms, lay a small boy. His body was thin and frail, skin covered with burns and scratches, hair black with streaks of gray, and his face barely recognizable beneath the dried blood and desert dust.
The leader exhaled slowly, his gaze heavy. “Poor child… so young,” he murmured softly. Then, with a firm voice, he gave an order, “Bring him to the cart. Take care of him. We cannot let a child die in the desert like this.”
But before the guard could move, a voice cut through the air.
“Let me take care of him.”
All heads turned. The young man with glasses, who had been standing silently watching the ruins of Dariath, now stepped forward. His gaze was sharp, his tone heavy and determined.
The caravan leader was momentarily surprised. His eyes flicked to the guard, as if awaiting his opinion.
The guard remained silent, waiting for a decision.
Finally, the leader nodded slowly. “Very well. If you want to take responsibility, I allow it. I’ll give you compensation once we reach Azbirut.”
The young man with glasses gave a faint smile. “I don’t need compensation,” he said flatly. “I just don’t want this child to die for nothing.”
“Here… carry him!” shouted the guard with the tattered scarf.
He handed the nearly lifeless boy into the young man’s arms. Carefully, the man received the child.
The guard remounted his horse, then looked down. “Get on!”
The man hesitated. “Eh… is it okay?”
“Hurry up! Or do you want the child to die first!” the guard snapped impatiently.
Without thinking further, the young man leapt onto the horse’s back, still clutching the unfortunate boy tightly.
“Where’s your cart?” asked the guard gently, calming his restless horse.
“That one, the roof tied with a red cloth,” the man pointed toward a simple cart in the distance—its roof made of old canvas, with a tattered red cloth fluttering at one corner.
The guard nodded. He pulled the reins, and the horse sped forward, cutting through the caravan path.
“Hey! Clear the way! There’s someone injured!” he shouted loudly.
Immediately, the cart drivers along the route turned their heads. Without asking questions, they moved their reins, opening a path between the rows of carts.
From a distance, the leader watched. His face slightly somber. “I forgot to ask his name…” he murmured softly.
But the young man with glasses had already disappeared among the rows of carts, camels, and wagon poles, carrying the nearly dying child in his arms.
The leader took a deep breath. He raised his hand high.
“All right! Caravan, move out!”
The shout echoed across the desert wind. Rows of camels, horses, and carts began to move slowly again, leaving behind the ruins of Dariath—raising clouds of dust that swirled through the hot desert air.
---
[PoV Dario – Young Merchant]
The desert wind kept blowing, carrying fine grains of sand that slipped into every fold of clothing. Cold. Harsh. I didn’t care.
Sitting stiffly atop the horse, I held the small body in my arms—too light… too silent. Its breathing was shallow, barely noticeable against that frail chest. The skin was pale, some parts burnt, covered in wounds. The temples were blistered, both hands injured, dried blood mixed with dust clinging to them.
I could feel it… the body slowly cooling. Breathing shallow, almost imperceptible.
I had no idea who this child was, or how he had managed to survive this long.
In front of me, a guard with a worn scarf around his neck was pulling a horse's rope. he kept glancing forward, his eyes narrowing to pierce through the slowly moving line of carts.
“That… that one?” he asked flatly, pointing at the wrong cart.
I took a deep breath, holding back the urge to explode. “No.” I answered flatly, following the direction of his finger with my gaze, then pointing elsewhere. “The one with the red cloth tied on the roof. That one.”
He had asked the same question three times already. I was sure he was deliberately teasing me.
I snorted harshly, resisting the urge to punch his face. “Hey—”
Before I could finish, he interrupted. “Yeah, yeah, yeah… But we should at least get to know each other first, right?” His gaze was challenging, as if waiting for me to say my name first.
I rolled my eyes, unwilling to play along with his silly game, but still replied, “Dario.”
“Hmm… nice name.” He smiled faintly, as if amused. “I’m Silem.”
Yeah, nice name, I grumbled in my mind, increasingly annoyed.
“Which one was it again?” he asked, voice deliberately pressing, pointing haphazardly again. “This one?”
I was nearly losing my patience. “Not that one, damn it. The one at the back!” I pointed firmly. “The one I told you before—the one with the red cloth on the roof. Eyes on the road, huh?!”
“Y-yeah, yeah…” he replied lazily, the mocking tone clear.
I gritted my teeth. This brief exchange alone was enough to make my blood boil. But I buried it deep. This child was far more important than wasting energy on an argument.
When I reached my cart, without hesitation, I immediately got down. I lifted the small body—light… far too light for a child of this age. It felt like holding a bundle of ragged cloth, nearly lifeless.
Its skin was hot, feverish. Breathing weaker, intermittent, like a fragile thread that could snap at any moment.
I carried him into the cart, carefully leaning him against the long seat inside. Gently, as if the slightest touch could shatter the fragile body.
I reached for a small water jug, my knees still trembling. Slowly, I poured water into his cracked lips, little by little. Not too fast… don’t let him choke…
He was still breathing. Thin… shallow… but still alive.
I began cleaning his wounds. Desert dust and sand clung to his skin, some burns still wet, some already blackened. Every time the damp cloth touched his injuries, I could imagine the pain he must have felt. If only he were conscious… if only he woke from his unconscious state, maybe he would squirm, cry, or even moan quietly. But now… nothing.
I cleaned him as best I could. The wounds were bandaged with clean cloth from my travel bag. Every knot, every wrap, done carefully.
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the cart for a moment. At least… for now, he was safe.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Silem standing at the cart door. Silent. His mischievous gaze from before had disappeared. Yet strangely, I wasn’t surprised. Not because he had changed, but because I realized… this person had been crazy from the start.
His eyes now cold, heavy, and empty. Not the kind of cold that was fierce, but the cold of someone who could manipulate his expression to suit the situation. The face that had been cheerful and full of laughter now resembled that of a veteran executioner. And somehow, that expression… it seemed like he enjoyed carrying the madness within him.
“My job here is done,” he said softly. His voice calm. His gaze briefly scanning my face, then the boy’s. A thin smile appeared. Not a friendly smile. More like… a madman’s smile.
“Thanks for your cooperation.”
And without waiting for a reply, he turned. His steps were firm. Upright. His tattered scarf fluttering in the wind made him look like a leftover soldier from an old story.
I watched his back recede, and I knew well the type of person he was. Not about dual personalities, not about changing moods. He had been mad from the start, proud of it.
I exhaled sharply. Forget it. This child was far more important.
I checked the boy again; he was still breathing. Weak, but alive. Then I called my attendants, ordering them to prepare the cart. I didn’t want to fall behind the caravan.
Azbirut was getting closer. Just imagining it made my heart race. The city in summer was always crowded with mercenaries—and where there were soldiers, there was money. Weapons, healing potions, dried food, protective cloth… everything I carried could turn into gold there.
I grinned faintly.
“Hopefully the goddess of luck is still on my side,” I thought, imagining the coins soon flowing into my pocket.
---
[PoV Evran]
I opened my eyes.
Bright light immediately assaulted me, piercing my pupils without mercy. Instantly… I thought I was dead.
Maybe this was the end.
Maybe I was finally joining Father and Mother in another world, leaving all the suffering of that cursed desert behind.
“You’re awake.”
A voice.
I heard it… flat, but not as kind as I would have imagined in a place like this.
A cautious tone, like someone who wouldn’t hesitate to draw a dagger if needed.
I blinked, forcing my eyes to adjust.
The sunlight streamed through a small window on my left. The rays touched the wooden walls—the reflection made everything appear blurry, vibrating faintly before my not-quite-awake eyes.
A horse-drawn cart…?
I even made sure. This… wasn’t the afterlife.
Not hell.
Not the burning desert where I had last lost everything.
“Don’t pretend to be asleep!”
The voice snapped.
My body shuddered reflexively.
I wanted to speak. To answer. To ask who he was, where I was—but only a hoarse, broken sound escaped.
“Ahk… khhh…”
My throat…
It felt like coarse sand being forced through a cracked wound.
Too dry. Too painful.
Even to breathe… it felt like torture.
I tried to sit up…
But my body… didn’t feel like my own.
My joints felt disconnected. Numb.
Every small movement felt like shifting a stone stuck to my bones.
When my gaze fell on my own body, that’s when I saw it—
white bandages wrapped around my entire skin.
Some still faintly stained with red.
I didn’t even know when I had gotten these wounds.
Some I vaguely remembered, some I had no idea where they came from.
Now all of it was hidden beneath the faded cloth.
I wanted to complain.
To be angry.
Frustrated.
To kick something, to scream…
But with this body, I could do nothing.
“Don’t move too much.”
The voice was calmer now. No longer shouting. More like advice.
I obeyed.
Because indeed, there was nothing I could do.
Suddenly, it hit me—
looking around, my parents’ belongings that I had stored in a chest, which I had painstakingly opened…
were gone from my body.
The sword I had held.
The black patterned necklace.
The white and pale gold necklace with a beautiful pendant.
The metal emblem—in the shape of an open book.
The mineral iron bracelet.
All gone.
I felt irritated.
Why had this happened…?
But what could I do, with a body so exhausted, weak, and full of wounds…
Slowly, I turned.
Observing the figure across from me.
A man.
Short brown hair.
Thin beard.
Square glasses perched on his face.
Simple travel clothes, dusty and worn.
There was something.
A strange feeling.
Something familiar about him.
As if… I had seen him somewhere before.
In the village…?
I tried to remember.
But… it seemed I had already forgotten.
“Why are you staring like that, huh?” he huffed, a clearly annoyed expression on his face.
I didn’t answer.
Not out of fear.
But because it was useless.
And even just moving my lips… was painful enough.
So I stayed silent.
Letting the words drift in the hot, stifling air.
A few seconds later, I shifted my gaze.
My eyes fell outside the window.
To a world that felt increasingly unfamiliar.
All I saw was an endless stretch of sand.
A barren desert, embraced by a gray-golden sky.
The wind caressed the grains of sand, forming small waves that continued to shift.
Dust sparkled under the scorching light, like shards of fine glass scattering in the air.
In the distance, faint outlines of other carts could be seen moving slowly.
I heard the creak of wooden wheels, the clinking of small bells around horses’ necks, and the almost inaudible chatter of the guards.
I drew a shallow breath—as best I could.
The hot air filled my lungs, heavy, dry, like inhaling ash.
And at that moment…
For the first time since all of this began, that awareness slowly returned.
I was still alive.
For some reason.
For some purpose, I didn’t know.