The moon was nothing more than a faint smear behind the swirling veil of dust. The city of Tirath slept beneath a shroud of amber fog, its narrow alleys breathing the scent of smoke, spice, and sin.
Inside The Dune's Rest inn, laughter spilled from the lower floor—gruff voices, slurred songs, and the clinking of metal cups. Shadows leaned over card tables. No one in that place asked questions; the fewer you asked, the longer you lived.
At a corner table on the second floor, six cloaked figures sat apart from the noise. Their clothes were common—coarse and dusty—but their posture betrayed something sharper: discipline. They drank sparingly, eyes never leaving the door.
The youngest, Nafira, leaned closer to the group, her voice low.
"I overheard something," she said. "A pair of survivors—men who escaped the Forbidden Desert—are being held at Fort Shalem."
The others froze.
"Fort Shalem?" said Sahir, his tone grim. "That's too close to the Wall. We just came through there."
Farid's gaze turned thoughtful, calculating. "How far?"
"Less than thirty minutes if we cut along the lower ridge. The same route we entered by."
The silence stretched. Below them, someone shouted a drunken toast. A bottle shattered.
Farid finally spoke. "If those men are alive, they'll talk. And if they talk, the world will know we're awake. The prince's return will not stay secret for long."
"What are the orders, Captain?" Nafira asked.
He rose slowly, pulling his scarf up over his mouth. "We move tonight. Under the storms. We'll reach the fort before dawn."
Around them, the air thickened with quiet purpose. Chairs scraped softly against wood. They slipped away one by one, vanishing into the dust-choked streets. A few of the inn's other guests watched them go—smugglers, gamblers, fugitives—but said nothing. In Tirath, secrets were currency, and everyone had their own debts to bury.
When the last of the Salaam scouts left, the old barkeep shook his head.
"Desert's eating good men again," he muttered, wiping a glass. "Always does."
Fort Shalem – The Interrogation
Inside the fortified compound, General Asher Vohl stood beneath a single hanging lantern. The room smelled of rust, oil, and sweat. The two Bulkitan survivors slumped against their chains, their faces pale, their lips cracked from thirst and fear.
Vohl's gloves were spattered crimson.
"Let's go through it once more," he said calmly, pacing between them. "You entered the Forbidden Desert under contract from the Red Dawn guild. You were looking for—what exactly?"
"Artifacts," rasped the first man. "Treasure… the guild heard rumors of a buried city."
"And you found it?"
The second man looked up, trembling. "No… it found us."
Vohl stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed. "Describe what you saw."
"They came from the sand," the man whispered. "Clothed in wraps the color of the dunes. Only their eyes showed—green, bright like polished glass. They didn't shout, didn't curse. Just moved through us. Fast. Silent."
The general's jaw tightened. "Green eyes. And turbans."
Both men nodded weakly.
He stared down at them for a long moment, weighing the words. Salaam. That name had been dead since before history had ink. Only myths spoke of it—an empire buried by its own arrogance and the gods' punishment.
Still, the survivors' accounts were identical. Every detail matched. And that, he knew, was the problem.
"Do you expect me to believe ghosts slaughtered an armed expedition?" Vohl asked quietly. "The Red Dawn guild doesn't send amateurs."
"They weren't ghosts, sir," said the first man. "They bled. We killed one of them… but even dying, he smiled. Like he pitied us."
A chill ran through the room.
Vohl said nothing for several seconds. Then he turned away, flexing his gloved hands. "Enough for tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, we take you to the capital. The High Council will hear this."
He stepped outside, closing the steel door behind him. His guards straightened at attention.
"Keep a double watch," he ordered. "No mistakes tonight."
"Yes, General."
He walked down the corridor, boots echoing softly against stone. The night pressed in beyond the fort walls, the faint roar of sandstorms humming like a distant engine. Something about it made his skin crawl.
If even half their story is true… he thought grimly, we're facing a power our history books forgot.
The Desert Path
Outside the city of Tirath, the Salaam recon squad moved like shadows beneath the moonless sky. The wind stung their faces; sand lashed at their cloaks, filling the air with a dry whisper.
Farid led from the front, compass in hand, the faint glimmer of runes from the old world glowing on its rim. Behind him, Sahir and Nafira followed, each carrying packs of light equipment and curved desert blades—blades forged in Khartoum's reborn forges just days ago.
"Stay low," Farid said. "The Maltec patrols follow the ridges. We'll cut below the dunes and move through the dry channel."
They advanced quickly but silently, the fort's lights flickering faintly on the horizon like stars trapped behind glass.
Nafira broke the silence first. "Captain… what if these men are innocent? What if they don't even understand what they saw?"
Farid's eyes stayed on the path. "Then we make their end quick."
The words hung heavy in the cold wind.
Fort Shalem – The Night Watch
In the guard tower, two soldiers leaned against the parapet, trying to stay awake. The storm had thinned, revealing the vast black expanse of desert beyond the wall.
"I swear, I keep seeing things moving out there," one said, rubbing his eyes.
"You've been on shift too long," the other replied. "It's just dunes."
A flicker of light flashed in the distance—a faint, bluish spark. The first guard frowned.
"You saw that, right?"
"Lightning. Has to be."
But the second flash came lower this time, closer to the ground. Then another. The guards leaned forward, squinting.
Shapes moved at the edge of sight—quick, smooth, barely stirring the sand.
At the Edge of Darkness
Farid raised a hand, signaling the squad to stop. They crouched low as the fort came fully into view. Tall steel gates. Watchtowers glowing faintly orange. The hum of generators mixed with the howl of wind.
"There," Sahir whispered, pointing to a side channel that led beneath the northern wall—an old drainage trench now half-filled with sand.
"That's our entrance," Farid said. "Once inside, we find the holding cells. We move quiet. No unnecessary kills."
"And if we're seen?" Nafira asked.
Farid looked back toward the desert, where faint golden light shimmered beneath the sands—the glow of Khartoum stirring.
"Then we remind them that Salaam doesn't fade."
He drew his blade, its curve catching a glint of moonlight, and led his squad forward into the trench. The shadows swallowed them whole, the sound of their steps vanishing beneath the wind.
Above, the guards leaned over the wall, scanning the dunes. The night was still. Too still.
And then, somewhere below, metal whispered against stone. A door latch shifted.
A shadow passed under the floodlight, gone before anyone could name it.
The wind rose again, carrying with it a low hum—a sound like chanting buried in the sand.