The desert was an endless graveyard of gold and death. The sky above was a flat, merciless sheet of white, and the sun burned with such intensity that it felt as if the air itself were catching fire. The dunes shifted under the constant assault of the wind, which howled across the horizon like a living thing, tearing loose threads of sand and flinging them against exposed skin with a sting like hundreds of tiny knives.
Marcus trudged through it, every step a labor. His boots sank deep into the scorching sand, leaving shallow prints that were gone almost immediately as the storm swept over them. His breath came ragged and heavy, chest rising and falling as if the weight of the sun itself was pressing down on him. Sweat drenched his back, turning his shirt a darker, dirtier shade, and the salt stung when it ran into the cuts on his arms. He lifted his left hand to wipe his brow, grimacing when the sweat mixed with the fine grit clinging to his skin, leaving an ugly, grainy smear across his forehead.
He shook his hand off with a frustrated grunt and wiped it on his trousers, which were already caked with dirt and blood from earlier. His hair — once a light brown, now darkened with sweat — clung to his forehead in damp strands, and his eyes squinted against the storm, every blink an effort to clear away the sand.
Ahead of him, Soren walked as though the desert were a well-paved road in spring.
The red-haired man's gait was unhurried, each step measured and confident, boots crunching softly against the sand as though even the dunes themselves knew better than to challenge him. His hair, a deep crimson that seemed to glow under the punishing sun, whipped about wildly in the wind, but his face was calm, collected, almost amused. His pale coat — once white but now tinged with the ochre of desert dust — billowed around his legs as if the storm was doing him the courtesy of carrying its edges.
Unlike Marcus, there was no sweat clinging to Soren's skin, no exhaustion in the way he moved. His crimson eyes — sharp, almost luminous — were half-lidded as though he were bored, but Marcus had noticed earlier that Soren was always watching, always calculating, even when he looked as though he might be sleepwalking. His presence had a weight to it, an energy that made Marcus feel as though the desert wasn't really empty — not with this man here.
"Where exactly are we going again?" Marcus finally shouted, his voice hoarse and nearly stolen by the wind.
Soren didn't turn his head. "To Zul'Azar," he called back casually, as if that explained everything.
Marcus blinked grit out of his eyes and scowled. "Zul'Azar?! Are you insane? This place is trying to kill us already! How do you expect us to survive long enough to get there?"
There was no reply. Soren simply kept walking, his back straight, his coat whipping behind him.
Marcus cursed under his breath, but followed. What choice did he have? The red-haired man had saved his life. More than that — he had chosen him. Out of all the others.
They walked on.
Minutes bled into more minutes. The wind roared. The dunes stretched endlessly in every direction. Marcus's legs burned with the effort of climbing the uneven ground, and his breathing had become shallow and harsh, each inhale pulling in hot, dry air that scoured his throat.
Then, suddenly, Soren stopped.
Marcus nearly walked into him. "What is it now?" he demanded, brushing sand from his eyes.
Soren didn't answer immediately. He simply turned his head slightly, red eyes narrowing as they swept over Marcus, as though assessing him, judging something. His expression was unreadable — calm, but with that ever-present faint amusement lurking in the curve of his mouth.
For a moment, Marcus thought Soren might finally explain something — anything.
Then the sand gave way beneath his feet.
It happened so fast that Marcus barely had time to cry out. The dune seemed to melt under him, a sudden collapse that dragged him down in a whirl of dust. He reached for something — anything — but there was nothing to hold on to. The storm roared, and then he was gone, swallowed whole by the earth.
By the time Soren blinked, the hole had closed over as if the desert itself had swallowed Marcus and sealed its lips shut. No trace remained — not a ripple of disturbed sand, not a single footprint out of place.
Soren exhaled slowly through his nose, a faint hiss in the storm's roar, and crouched low. His gloved hand brushed aside a thin layer of sand as he pressed his ear to the ground. For several heartbeats, there was nothing. Just the oppressive silence of the dunes, the hiss of wind, and the distant groan of shifting sand.
Then he heard it.
Faint. Distant. Muffled screams.
A wet tearing sound, like meat being pulled from the bone. The sharp, brittle crack of chitin breaking. Something scuttling.
Soren stood with unhurried precision, brushing the sand from his coat sleeve as though annoyed more by the dust than the situation. His crimson eyes narrowed, the faint glow in them deepening until they looked almost molten. For the first time since Marcus had met him, Soren's expression shifted — not into rage, but into something colder.
"A scitterbug nest," he said flatly, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind. "Of course it had to be a damn scitterbug nest."
He tilted his head back, looking skyward. The desert sun glared down, merciless and white, but he seemed unbothered by its heat. His face remained unreadable as though he were weighing a choice — to walk away and let fate run its course, or to intervene.
The decision came with a soft, almost amused sigh.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his wild crimson hair, "this is going to be a pain in my ass."
His boots shifted in the sand, planting wide. The wind tugged at his coat as he raised one leg, then brought it down sharply. Once. Twice. Three times. Each stomp echoed unnaturally in the desert, the vibrations thrumming underfoot like a drumbeat.
Then silence.
Soren's crimson gaze slid closed, his head tilting slightly as though listening to something deeper than the storm.
The desert answered.
The sand beneath him rippled, then dropped. The world yawned open, a perfect circle forming around him, and gravity seized him like a hand.
Soren didn't fight it. He didn't even reach for balance. He simply allowed himself to fall, coat flaring outward as he descended into the earth. Above, the hole hissed closed, sealing off the sky, and the light of the sun vanished.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
The air here was different — damp, heavy, tasting of metal and rot. The faint stench of blood hung in the stillness. Soren landed lightly, boots sinking into wet earth with a muted squelch. His coat swayed around him as he straightened, crimson eyes adjusting to the gloom.
The tunnel was narrow, claustrophobic, its walls coated in a dark resin that gleamed faintly in the scarce light, reflecting like wet glass. It was too smooth to be natural — the work of something that had carved these halls deliberately.
Then the sound came.
A faint jingle of bells.
So soft it was almost imperceptible, yet it carried down the tunnels in an unnatural way, echoing too far, lingering too long. It was the kind of sound that didn't belong here, like a carnival bell played deep in a tomb.
Then came the sound of metal scraping against stone — slow, deliberate, like a blade being dragged along the walls just out of sight.
"Oh, scitterbugs…"
The voice slithered through the dark, soft and singsong, carrying an edge of twisted delight.
Soren turned his head slightly, listening, a faint smile beginning to curve his lips.
"Oh, scitterbugs…"
The voice came again, louder this time, sharper, more desperate.
"Where are you?!"
The tunnels shuddered with the cry, dust sifting from the ceiling.
Soren chuckled softly to himself, crimson light beginning to glow at the tips of his fingers.
"Looks like I'm not the only hunter down here."
He stepped forward, his boots soundless on the wet ground. The red light in his hands brightened, casting faint reflections on the resinous walls. His silhouette stretched and warped in the gloom, making him look less like a man and more like some wraith conjured from the storm above.
"Marcus," he murmured, his voice low, almost conversational. "Try not to die before I get to you."
And then, with the faintest curl of a grin, Soren strode toward the sound of bells.