The wind across the eastern plains carried sand, salt, and smoke.
General Theron marched at the head of five thousand soldiers—Flame Guard veterans, Emberborn recruits, and a new division of coastal riders from Vale's southern command. Their banners bore the crest of the Crown Flame, now blackened at the edges: not a symbol of royalty, but of vengeance.
His orders were simple: take the fight to the Dust Empire.
Strike first. Burn fast. Do not stop.
The scouts called it the Stormfront. An offensive line stretched across Eldhame's eastern border like a blade.
And ahead of them lay the first true test: the oasis fortress of Rashiq-Dar, the Empire's forward outpost on Eldhame soil.
Rashiq-Dar was a city of spires and sandstone, wrapped in veils of shifting dunes. Built at the edge of the Duneshade Expanse, it served as a launch point for spies, saboteurs, and assassins—like those who had struck at Eldhaven.
Theron knew the walls were high.
But he also knew walls meant little to fire.
He summoned Captain Idran—a Duneshade native who had once served the Empire before defecting to Uthred's cause.
"You know the tunnels?" Theron asked.
Idran nodded. "They run beneath the south gate. Used for smuggling spices... and weapons."
Theron's eyes glinted. "Good. Then tonight, we light them from within."
Night fell heavy over the desert. The moon glowed weakly behind rolling dust clouds.
A handpicked team of Emberborn scouts and Idran's sandrunners moved silently across the dunes. They wore desert cloaks, faces wrapped in linen soaked with vinegar to keep the grit from choking their lungs.
Theron watched them vanish into the dust.
An hour passed. Then two.
Then the first explosion shook the south wall.
A second.
And then the gates of Rashiq-Dar opened—not for escape, but in confusion.
That was the signal.
Theron raised his torch high. "FOR THE FLAME!"
The full force of Eldhame surged forward.
Arrows lit the sky.
War had come to the Empire's doorstep.
Rashiq-Dar's outer defenses fell in under an hour.
The defenders, caught off guard, scrambled to rally. But the Emberborn were already inside the walls, spreading fire through the markets and storehouses.
Theron moved like a storm. Where his blade fell, the enemy scattered.
He found himself in the garden court of the governor's palace—a place of carved stone fountains and perfumed air, now thick with smoke and blood.
From the far end of the courtyard stepped a figure in golden armor, face masked by a bronze visor shaped like a hawk.
Commander Sahran al-Mir.
Empire loyalist. Slayer of the Southern Spires.
They locked eyes.
Theron drew his twin sabers.
Sahran raised a curved glaive.
No words were exchanged.
Only blades.
The duel was brutal, silent, and surgical.
Steel met steel beneath the red light of burning towers. Sahran's glaive struck with a dancer's precision, forcing Theron to move constantly, adjusting to wide sweeps and sudden jabs.
Theron bled first—a shallow cut to the thigh. He responded with a spin that nearly opened Sahran's ribs, but the Empire commander twisted away with the grace of a master.
They fought across the fountain steps, onto the tiled mosaic of the courtyard. The flames overhead cracked the air. Shouts from both armies roared around them.
Finally, Theron baited a high strike and rolled beneath it.
He slashed.
Sahran staggered. Blood bloomed beneath his golden breastplate.
But the commander turned, used his momentum to shove Theron back, and vanished into the smoke.
Theron made to follow—
—but a horn blast from the western wall stopped him. Reinforcements were coming.
He turned to his second.
"Seal the gates. Burn the storerooms. We hold Rashiq-Dar before dawn or we all die in it."
For three hours, the battle raged through alley and tower.
Empire reserves pushed into the city from the west, attempting to reclaim the central courtyard. Theron's archers, positioned on rooftop parapets, rained arrows into the ranks.
Captain Idran led the sandrunners in a brutal ambush through the supply quarter—smoke bombs, curved blades, whisper kills.
By morning, Rashiq-Dar's banners burned.
Theron stood atop the central spire, raising his sabers high.
The Flame Guard roared his name:
"THERON! THERON!"
Below, hundreds of Empire prisoners knelt in chains.
And beyond the dunes, the war deepened.
A message was dispatched by hawk to Uthred's court:
> Rashiq-Dar is ours. The path to the eastern supply chain is open. Theron stands. Awaiting orders to march.
Uthred read the letter aloud.
Vale, resting beside the fire, smiled faintly.
"Then the desert burns," she said.
Uthred nodded. "And the Empire bleeds."
But behind him, Maera approached with another scroll.
Dark parchment. Sealed with gold wax.
An ultimatum.
From the Emperor himself.