15 years ago...
The desert breathed fire beneath the merciless sun. Its expanse was endless, an ocean without water, an empire of sand stretching far beyond the horizon. The dunes rose and fell like frozen waves, their crests sharp and shifting, sculpted anew each hour by the tireless breath of the wind. From afar, they seemed alive—undulating, sloping, curling upon themselves—yet up close they were jagged, harsh, and unforgiving, each grain of sand carrying with it the weight of centuries.
The ridges shifted constantly, never still. One moment a dune towered like a mountain, the next it crumbled under the faintest breeze, spilling downward in a silent cascade. The desert was not a place of permanence but of restless change, every line drawn by the wind rewritten again and again. The air itself shimmered under the punishing glare of the sun, warping distance, twisting shapes, and conjuring cruel mirages that flickered on the horizon. Lakes that did not exist, oases of green that would never be found—they danced mockingly in the heat, vanishing the moment a weary traveler drew near.
The silence was its own kind of cruelty. There was no birdsong, no rustling leaves, no trickle of water—only the faint whisper of shifting sand and the low, steady howl of the wind. It was the silence of emptiness, heavy and absolute, pressing upon the ears until one felt deafened by its stillness. And yet, in that silence, there was also menace, for the desert was never truly empty. Things hid beneath the sand—serpents that struck with unseen speed, insects with venom strong enough to kill, and other creatures adapted to the sun's wrath, all unseen until it was far too late.
The heat itself was a living thing. It radiated from the sky in punishing waves, but it also rose from below, the sand beneath one's feet burning like smoldering coals. Each grain retained the sun's fury, scorching the skin of the unprotected, clinging to clothes, seeping into every fold and crevice. Breathing became an ordeal, each inhale dry and sharp, as though the lungs themselves were being scoured by the air. Even the wind brought no relief, for it carried with it not coolness but fire, sweeping sand into the eyes, mouth, and skin with needles of pain.
And yet, for all its cruelty, the desert had a beauty to it—a vast, terrible beauty. At dawn, the dunes glowed with pale gold, the horizon blushing rose as the first rays of sunlight spilled across the sand. At midday, it was a sea of white fire, blinding and relentless, the sky a dome of azure so pure it seemed unreal. And at dusk, the sands turned crimson, each ridge painted in blood-red shadow, as though the desert itself was set ablaze. By night, when the winds stilled, the stars emerged in uncountable multitudes, sharp and cold, hanging above the barren world like distant lanterns.
But this beauty was not meant for man. It was a beauty meant to humble, to remind all who stepped foot upon its soil that the desert belonged to no one. It devoured the weak, punished the arrogant, and stripped the strong to their bones. It was both ancient and eternal, the graveyard of countless nameless souls, and the weary traveler who dared to walk alone across such a wasteland did so with the odds of survival stacked mercilessly against him.
Few traveled here willingly. The desert was no place for solitude. The scorching days, the freezing nights, the storms that tore skin from bone—all of it conspired against those who sought passage. Bandits, slavers, and worse things that had no name haunted the dunes, making certain that even those who could endure the desert's cruelty rarely endured its inhabitants.
And yet, a lone figure pressed forward.
A man, draped in ragged cloth and sand-stained wrappings, staggered across the golden expanse. His face was half-hidden beneath a hood, though the cracked lips and sun-scorched skin beneath betrayed the toll of his journey. He moved like a dying animal, his breath shallow and uneven, his legs trembling under the weight of each step.
His hand lifted weakly to his brow, swiping away a thick line of sweat that instantly turned to grit upon his skin. The heat seared his lungs. He tried to draw in air, but instead the desert gave him a mouthful of sand. He gagged, doubling over violently as his throat convulsed. A rasp tore from his chest, followed by a wet cough that spat blood onto the earth.
He clutched his side in agony, fingers pressing against his ribs where blood seeped through the cloth, staining it a deep rust-red. Each droplet trickled down his wrist, fell onto the sand, and bled into the earth as though the desert itself were drinking him dry.
His vision blurred. He swayed. But still, he whispered to himself, the words trembling as though they alone held him upright:
"I… I can't stop now."
And so he staggered forward, driven by something unseen, something that clung to him even as his body threatened to collapse. His chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts, but his arms remained wrapped protectively around the object strapped tight against him—a bundle concealed beneath his tattered cloak, bound close to his heart. Whatever it was, it weighed far heavier than the desert heat or his bleeding ribs.
As though mocking him, the wind rose. A sandstorm began to curl across the horizon, sweeping toward him in a whirl of dust and golden haze. It was not blinding, not yet, but it was suffocating. The sand lashed against his skin like shards of glass, grinding into every crease, forcing itself into his mouth and nostrils with every labored breath. The dunes around him blurred into an endless sea, indistinguishable one from the next.
His legs faltered. His bones ached as though they had turned brittle beneath his flesh. He placed one trembling hand against his chest, as though the pressure alone could keep him tethered, keep him moving.
A thought—half delirious, half despairing—slipped through his mind.
"Am I… really going to die here?"
He slowed, every step heavier than the last. His hood slipped back in the wind, revealing a gaunt face marked with exhaustion and desperation. He closed his eyes for only a heartbeat, only to steal a fragment of rest. The darkness was comforting—too comforting.
And then, movement.
His eyes cracked open, sluggish but sharp enough to catch the silhouettes.
At first, he thought the storm was playing tricks on him. But no—there they were. Figures cresting the dune before him, black-clad forms against the burning horizon. There were more than a dozen, perhaps two dozen, all cloaked in cloth and steel. Knives glinted at their sides, scimitars hung loose at their waists. Caravans trailed behind them, heavy and creaking, pulled by beasts of burden. The banners stitched to their canvas bore symbols he recognized instantly.
His stomach sank. His breath hitched.
Slave traders.
His body reacted before his mind. His chest heaved as panic seized him, and he tried—tried desperately—to run. His mind screamed at his limbs to move, to flee, to escape the fate that had claimed countless nameless souls in the desert.
But his body refused. His legs trembled and collapsed beneath him. His knees sank into the scorching sand. He tried to rise, to push himself forward, but his arms trembled violently and gave way. His body was broken. His will could not mend it.
He lay there, the grit biting into his face, his chest heaving.
And still, his eyes turned upward.
Why the sky? He did not know. His gaze flicked between the figures of the slavers drawing closer and the expanse above—the white-hot blaze of the sun, the swirling haze of storm clouds. Perhaps he sought something there. Perhaps he sought nothing.
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was hope—futile, desperate hope—that made him look.
"Will you answer me…?" he thought bitterly. "Or will you watch me fall?"
For the first time in years, he prayed. Not to any god in particular, not to any name he had ever whispered before. His plea was raw, formless, born from desperation rather than faith. He begged the sky, the sand, the storm—anything that might listen—to spare him.
And in some cruel twist of fate, something did answer.
But answering and helping were two completely different things.
For the storm thickened, curling like smoke around him, swallowing the horizon. His sight wavered, dimmed. His chest heaved once more, then fell. The desert dissolved into darkness.
The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the black-clad men cresting the dune above him, their shadows stretching long against the sand.
And then, nothing.
Sometime later...
BANG!
CLANK!
SLAM!
The man cracked his eyes open, sand clinging to his lashes, crusting against his eyelids until it felt as though glass had been ground into them. His ears pulsed with sound: metal grinding, keys rattling against belts, iron hinges squealing as if in pain. The air itself carried the acrid tang of scorched metal and sweat.
Blinking through the haze, he dragged his weary gaze upward. A cage. That was the first thing he registered. Iron bars, rusted in places, their edges gnawed away by time and neglect, boxed him in on all sides. The floor beneath him was nothing but sand mixed with grime, and every breath he drew filled his lungs with dust. His body ached; his ribs burned; his lips were dry and split.
Other cages lined the perimeter of this wretched caravan. Men and women slumped within them, silent shadows, their heads bowed. Some had scraps of cloth or rags pulled low to hide their faces. The fragments of skin they did expose were mapped with scars, burns, and deep welts—marks of cruelty carved into them by whips, blades, and iron brands. None of them dared raise their eyes to meet his. None moved except to breathe.
He ran one trembling hand through his hair, brushing aside strands of dark green matted with grit and dried blood. His capture was not in question; the iron beneath his fingers told him everything. He was a prisoner. The greater problem was what came next.
Escape.
But escape from slavers was no small feat. Especially when bound in iron, surrounded by wolves who had chosen this life and reveled in it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous BANG against the bars.
A hulking man loomed outside his cage, his silhouette blotting out the sun. He was thick-necked, shoulders broad as a beast of burden, with a coat the color of tar draped across him. The fabric was stitched with copper loops and charms—some trophies, others trinkets that jingled mockingly with every step. He carried himself with the brutish confidence of someone who had broken many men before. His thick hands gripped a dented metal tray.
"Hey, pretty boy!" the man barked, his voice gravel dragged across stone. His lips curled into a crooked grin as he shoved the tray through the bars. "Dinner's served!"
The tray clattered at his feet. Its contents were barely food: a slimy heap of gray flesh that looked like the mangled carcass of some desert rat, its bones twisted, its body bloated, coated with something like larvae half-boiled and writhing still.
The prisoner said nothing. His eyes flickered to the tray once, then away. With stiff movements, he picked it up, brought it close, and quietly set it beside him. He didn't protest, didn't thank, didn't curse. Silence was safer. Silence kept the guard's attention short.
The burly man snorted, disappointed by the lack of reaction, and stomped to the next cage. Keys rattled on his belt as he swung the tray in one hand.
"Oi," the brute barked, shoving the new tray forward, "your turn. Supper."
This time, the response was not silence.
From within the shadows of the cage, the man inside tilted his head. His rags concealed much of him—long strips of cloth wrapped around his torso, arms, and legs like he had dressed himself in bandages against the desert's cruelty. But even with his face obscured, the tension in his body spoke volumes. His voice, when it came, was sharp, disdainful, and younger than the brute expected.
"I'm not eating this."
The words hung in the air, shocking in their defiance.
The guard blinked, then barked a laugh. "Not eating it? Boy, you'll eat it or starve. You think we're running a tavern out here? You're lucky to get scraps fit for dogs!"
"I'd sooner eat sand than touch that filth," the prisoner spat back.
Murmurs rose from the nearby cages—slight, muffled gasps. The other captives did not often speak, let alone challenge. Eyes widened in the shadows, the briefest spark of something like hope—or fear—glimmering.
The burly man's face darkened. His grin melted into a scowl. He stomped forward, the ground trembling beneath his boots, and slammed the tray against the bars. The vile meal splattered, chunks of gray meat sliding down between the gaps.
"You've got a mouth on you, rag-boy," he growled. "Let's see how long it lasts once I break your teeth in."
The man inside the cage chuckled low, bitter. "You could try. You won't succeed."
That insolence snapped something inside the guard. His nostrils flared, and veins stood out against his thick neck. With a roar, he pressed his face up against the bars, close enough that the prisoner could see the spit flying from his lips, smell the sour stench of old ale and meat.
"You little shit—"
It was all the prisoner needed.
In a sudden blur of motion, his body surged forward. His foot shot out, muscles snapping taut like a bowstring loosed. The kick landed square against the cage door.
CRACK!
The rusted iron screamed in protest. Hinges, already weakened by neglect, tore loose under the force. The door burst outward with a thunderous BANG, slamming into the burly guard's chest. He staggered back with a curse, clutching at the air as the prisoner stepped through the threshold.
In the same moment, the desert wind seized the prisoner's rags. The long strips of cloth, frayed and sun-battered, unraveled and tore free. They flared outward in the hot wind like banners before scattering across the sand.
What stood revealed silenced the camp.
The man was no ordinary slave. His hair, spiked and untamed, caught the light like fire itself—red as burning coals, as though each strand had been forged in a furnace. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, glowed with a crimson hue that seemed to bleed into the air around him. They were not merely eyes; they were embers, alive, searing, furious. His body was lean but corded with wiry strength, every muscle strung tight as if honed by years of struggle. Scars traced his skin, but they did not diminish him—they only carved the image of someone who had survived every cruelty thrown his way.
The other prisoners gasped. Some recoiled. Others pressed to the bars of their cages, eyes wide with awe.
The burly guard stumbled back, his copper trinkets jangling violently, his hand reaching instinctively for the knife at his waist. But his eyes betrayed him: fear, stark and raw, gleamed there.
The red-haired prisoner tilted his head, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.
"You were saying?" he asked, voice low but carrying, cutting sharper than any blade.
The camp erupted into chaos. Guards shouted, scrambling for weapons. The prisoners pressed against their cages, chains rattling as hope—real hope—flared in their chests for the first time in years. The boy with crimson eyes took a single step forward, and even that step was enough to command the air around him.
He was no mere captive. He was something else entirely.