The Sorcerer-Kings
South of the burned empire stretched the sands — an endless desert where caravans moved like rivers and oases bloomed like jewels. There, the Sorcerer-Kings of Dahran reigned, each wearing crowns of bone and sunstone, each bound by pacts older than dynasties. Their power was not armies or steel, but storms. With chants older than the empire itself, they bent dunes into mountains and winds into blades.
When news came that inevitability had crossed borders, the kings gathered beneath a blackened sun. Their decree was simple:
"Fire cannot survive the desert. Sands bury all."
And so they raised a storm to smother inevitability before it could reach their gates.
The Watchtower's Decision
In the fractured tower, Hei Long's women gathered closer, the heat of jealousy and devotion sharper than the desert sun.
Qingxue gripped her blade, pride burning. "Let them bury the horizon in sand. I'll carve mountains into dust."
