The desert night was merciless.
Wind swept across the dunes in icy sheets, carrying with it grains of sand that stung like needles. Kaelen trudged forward, one arm supporting Serenya, whose steps faltered with every mile. Her skin was pale, her lips bloodless, yet her eyes burned with a fevered light that unnerved him.
They had not spoken much since leaving the ruins. Words seemed fragile against the memory of what they had seen—the chains, the eyes of silver fire, the voice that had called her by name.
But silence was its own poison.
"Drink," Kaelen said at last, handing her his waterskin.
Serenya accepted it with trembling fingers. She drank greedily, as though the water might wash away the whispers still clinging to her mind. When she finished, she exhaled shakily, her breath misting in the cold.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Kaelen only nodded.
They pressed on until dawn tinged the horizon with gray.
By then, Serenya's strength was failing. Kaelen glanced at her—at the way her steps dragged, at the Mark burning faintly beneath her collarbone. He made a decision.
"We stop here," he said.
She opened her mouth to protest, but exhaustion silenced her. Kaelen guided her to a hollow between two dunes, where the wind was weaker, and set down their packs. He knelt, striking flint until a small fire crackled to life.
Serenya sank down beside it, hugging her knees to her chest. For a while, she only stared into the flames.
Finally, she spoke. "It said my name."
Kaelen's hands stilled over his sword as he sharpened it. He didn't look at her. "I heard."
"It knew me, Kaelen. Not just my name. The way it spoke…" She shuddered. "It felt like it had been waiting."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "That's what makes it dangerous. It doesn't matter what it says—it's chained for a reason."
"But what if the reason isn't what we think?" Serenya's eyes lifted, glinting with desperate fire. "What if it was bound unjustly? What if it's the key to everything the prophecy means?"
Kaelen finally looked at her, his gaze like a blade. "Or what if it's the end of everything?"
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with things neither dared to say.
They rested through the morning, but Kaelen's ears never stopped listening, his hand never strayed far from his sword. Serenya, despite her exhaustion, tossed restlessly in her sleep. More than once, she whispered words in a language Kaelen didn't know, her brow furrowed with distress.
By midday, when the heat grew oppressive, Kaelen spotted something on the horizon—shapes moving across the dunes. His hand went to his weapon instinctively.
Riders.
They came swift and sure, cloaked in flowing garb the color of sand, their faces veiled. Spears gleamed in their hands, banners snapping in the wind. At least a dozen of them.
Kaelen stood, sword half-drawn. "Serenya. Wake."
She stirred, groaning softly as she sat up. Her eyes widened at the sight of the riders. "Who are they?"
Kaelen didn't lower his blade. "Nomads. Or raiders. We'll know soon enough."
The riders encircled them in a wave of dust and sand. Their leader dismounted—a tall man with skin weathered by sun and wind, his eyes sharp above his veil. He studied Kaelen and Serenya with the wariness of a hawk.
"You walk where no one walks," the man said, his voice rough with age and authority. "The Whispering Wastes devour all who enter. Yet you return." His gaze lingered on Serenya's Mark, which glowed faintly even in daylight. His eyes narrowed. "Marked one."
Kaelen shifted, stepping subtly in front of her. "We seek only passage."
The man ignored him. "You went to the buried temple."
Serenya flinched. "You know of it?"
A murmur went through the riders. The leader's eyes grew darker, more dangerous. "Fools. That place is cursed. Its chains bind what should never walk free."
Kaelen's grip on his sword tightened. "Then you know what lies there."
The man's gaze flicked to him, unreadable. "We know enough. More than outsiders should." He gestured, and two riders dismounted, offering water and cloth for shelter. "Come. You will speak with the Elder. If the sands did not claim you, perhaps it is because you are meant to be heard."
Kaelen hesitated, suspicion a weight in his chest. But Serenya's hand touched his arm, light but insistent. "Kaelen," she whispered. "If they know… maybe we'll finally get answers."
Reluctantly, he sheathed his blade. "Lead the way."
The nomads brought them to their camp, hidden within a canyon where water trickled faintly from stone and palms offered shade. Tents of woven fabric stood in neat rows, and children's laughter mingled with the sound of fire and song. It was a stark contrast to the desolation of the Wastes.
Serenya's eyes softened as she watched the people, her earlier fear easing. Kaelen, however, never let go of his wariness. He had seen too many masks worn by those who claimed wisdom.
The leader guided them to the largest tent, richly adorned with symbols stitched in gold thread. Inside, incense burned, its smoke curling like silver serpents.
An old woman sat cross-legged on a rug, her hair white as snow, her skin lined with the weight of years. Her eyes, however, burned bright and sharp, like twin stars.
The leader bowed. "Elder. We bring strangers from the temple."
The old woman's gaze fell on Serenya. She inhaled sharply. "Ah. The Mark."
Serenya tensed. "You know of it?"
The Elder nodded slowly. "More than you do, child."
For the next hour, the Elder spoke, her voice weaving through the silence of the tent.
She told them of the Veil Wars, a time long before kingdoms rose, when gods walked freely in the world. Some sought dominion, others sought balance. But one—whose name was lost to shadow—sought freedom from both.
"It was not light, nor dark," the Elder said, her hands trembling as she poured tea into clay cups. "It was both. It was neither. It was the in-between."
Serenya's breath caught. "Twilight."
The Elder's eyes flicked to her. "Yes. The Twilight One. Bound by the others, for they feared it. They chained it beneath the sands, where it waits still."
Kaelen's voice was hard, steady. "And you're saying it speaks still."
The Elder inclined her head. "It calls to those who carry its blood. To those who bear its mark."
Silence crashed through the tent.
Serenya's hands shook as she gripped her cup. "Its… blood?"
The Elder's eyes softened, pity flickering there. "You are not only chosen, child. You are kin."
The words struck Serenya like lightning.
Kin.
Her chest tightened, her breath coming fast. She felt the Mark on her skin burning, as though confirming the truth. A part of her wanted to scream in denial. Another part… had always known.
Kaelen was already on his feet, fury sparking in his eyes. "Lies. Old stories twisted into chains. Don't put this on her."
The Elder only sighed. "Believe what you will, warrior. But the truth is written in her very blood. You cannot change it."
Kaelen's hand went to his sword, but Serenya caught his wrist. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears. "Kaelen… what if it's true?"
His heart clenched. For once, he had no answer.
That night, the nomads offered them food and rest. Serenya lay awake in the tent, staring at the ceiling of woven cloth. The Elder's words spun through her mind, sharp as daggers. Kin. Blood. Twilight.
Beside her, Kaelen sat awake as well, his back to the fire. His sword lay across his lap, polished and ready, as if it could protect him from the truth itself.
Finally, Serenya whispered, her voice raw. "If I'm its kin… if I'm tied to it by blood… what does that make me?"
Kaelen closed his eyes, his chest heavy. He wanted to tell her she was still herself. That she was still Serenya. But the image of the chained god's silver eyes burned too brightly in his mind.
He didn't answer.
And in the silence, Serenya's tears fell quietly, unseen.
But the desert never let peace last.
Far beyond the canyon, beneath the shifting sands, something stirred. The chains in the buried temple groaned. The silver eyes burned brighter.
And the whispers spread, carried on the wind, reaching further than before.
"She is mine…"