The desert had no name.
It stretched endlessly beyond sight, a barren sea of golden sand whipped into waves by the breath of a merciless wind. The sun reigned supreme in the cloudless sky, a flaming tyrant whose rays showed no mercy to the flesh of men. The heat was not simply oppressive—it was a punishment, ancient and eternal. No shade. No water. No hope.
And yet they marched.
A line of thirty souls, shackled together by thick iron chains rusted by sweat and blood. Feet blistered and burned on the scorching sand. Shoulders hunched, backs bent, lips cracked and bleeding. Men, women—no longer individuals but hollow shells, dragged by routine and fear, not will.
Among them walked a boy—or perhaps a man. No one could tell. His limbs were thin, skeletal. His skin bore the color of sun-scorched parchment. His lips were split open, his feet raw, and his eyes… His eyes were the only part of him that defied the desert.
Red. Dry. Empty.
There was no hate in them. No sadness. No memories. Only the echo of a silence too deep to describe.
He did not know how long he had been walking. He did not remember where the march began, or where it was meant to end. He could not recall his name, nor why he was even here. His mind was a wasteland—silent, dry, cracked like the earth underfoot.
And then—
BAM.
The sound of flesh meeting sand.
The body in front of him had fallen, pulling him down as the chain connecting them snapped taut. The boy collapsed face-first into the sand, the weight of the dead dragging him violently to the ground. A moment later, the man behind him tripped and fell as well.
A small chaos rippled through the line.
"What's going on?" barked a voice, deep and harsh.
A man approached from the rear flank—one of the guards, tall and broad-shouldered, his face partly hidden beneath a metal half-mask. His right eye was missing, replaced by a scarred void surrounded by burned flesh.
Another guard, closer to the fallen body, glanced down and spat into the sand.
"Looks like one of the slaves died."
The one-eyed commander scowled, stepping closer. "Then why the hell are all of them lying on the ground like cattle in the dust? Get them up, or I'll bury them with him."
His voice was cold. Not angry—disappointed, almost bored. As if he'd seen this a thousand times before and grown weary of the repetition.
The slaves still conscious scrambled to their feet without protest, terror painted across their faces. Hunger, pain, and fatigue no longer mattered in the face of that voice.
The fallen one, however, did not move.
The guard nearest to the corpse knelt beside it. He tugged at the slave's arm, checking for resistance. None came. He drew a short iron dagger from his belt and stabbed the corpse lightly in the chest—just beneath the rib cage. No reaction. No gasp. No twitch.
"Dead," he confirmed.
"Cut the chain," the commander ordered.
The guard obeyed without hesitation, slicing the chain between the corpse and the boy beside him. The dead slave's body slumped fully into the sand, free at last—though not in any way that mattered.
"You—skinny one. Come here."
The boy looked up slowly, blinking through sweat and sand.
The guard was pointing at him.
He stepped forward, silent, obedient.
The guard attached the chain to the boy's cuff with a practiced hand. No words. No praise. No comfort. Just the cold click of iron. Then, without a backward glance, he barked the order to move.
"Keep walking. We're not stopping until dusk."
And so, the march resumed.
Behind them, the corpse baked in the sun, slowly swallowed by the sands of a nameless world.
No one looked back.
Not even the boy with the red, empty eyes.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed ever higher, its light a blade that sliced the skin and boiled the blood. Each step became a battle against the body. Blisters burst. Lips split. Sand clung to wounds like salt. And still—they marched.
Then, somewhere near the front of the line, a voice cracked like a branch beneath weight.
"Water… please… Just a little…"
It was a man, older than the rest, his face gaunt, his voice hoarse. His knees trembled with each step. His wrists bled from the chafing metal. Yet he looked up, defiant, desperate.
A second slave, emboldened, added: "We'll die out here…"
Then another: "Mercy, please… a drop…"
The guards stiffened. The march slowed as murmurs turned to pleas.
And then—
"Silence!"
The command came like a whip.
The one-eyed commander turned in his saddle, rage written across his scarred face. "Speak again, and I'll cut your tongues out myself. You're not here to live. You're here to arrive."
But before fear could silence them entirely, another voice rose above the wind.
A woman's voice.
Sultry. Playful. Cruel.
"Holala…" it said, as if amused. "What's this? Vermin whining as though they were human? How very… charming."
The line of slaves slowed to a halt. Even the guards turned.
There she stood, atop a dune of golden sand like a goddess in a tale of nightmares.
She was wrapped in crimson silk that danced in the wind, her long black hair cascading like a river of shadows. Her skin shimmered unnaturally, almost like glass. But her eyes—green like serpent stones—were colder than any desert night. And her smile held the promise of death dressed as kindness.
She walked toward the broken man who had first begged for water.
He looked at her with wide eyes—fearful, trembling—but did not run.
"You." Her voice was soft now, almost sweet. "You want water?"
He hesitated, glancing at the guards, then at the other slaves. His throat was fire. His limbs barely held him upright. He nodded.
A slight grin tugged at the corners of the woman's lips.
"As you wish."
She raised her hand, fingers tracing symbols in the air—elegant, ancient. The very air around her shifted, shuddered, then hummed.
A spark of light formed in her palm.
It grew, twisted, expanded.
In an instant, a colossal sphere of water burst into existence around the man. It engulfed him whole, rising high above the sand like a captured sea. The man's scream was muffled—bubbles and terror. He thrashed inside, pounding his fists against the watery prison, eyes wide in betrayal and disbelief.
No one moved.
The woman watched. Patient. Eyes gleaming with morbid delight.
He struggled… then slowed… then stilled.
Only when all motion ceased did she lower her hand.
The sphere collapsed, sending a wave of water and a lifeless body crashing to the sand. The man lay sprawled, face down in the shallow pool.
The silence shattered.
The slaves—mad with thirst, driven by instinct more than thought—rushed forward.
They dropped to their knees beside the corpse, scooping water into their mouths with bloody hands. Some cried. Others laughed like lunatics. They drank greedily, even as the sun drank with them—sucking the puddle into the sand.
In the chaos, the boy with red eyes stumbled forward, yanked along by the chain. His thin body hit the ground hard, dragged into the throng of desperate bodies by those behind and before him. He coughed, choking on dust and cries.
The woman's gaze found him.
And for the briefest of moments—something in her expression changed.
Curiosity? Recognition? Contempt?
But then it was gone.
She turned her back without a word and vanished into the dunes as quickly as she'd come.