The sun did not set in the desert so much as it was violently dragged below the horizon, the sky bleeding from a searing white into a spectrum of fire—ochre, crimson, a deep, bruised purple—before surrendering to an immense, velvet blackness. The heat, a tyrant all day, did not vanish but retreated, becoming a memory held in the sand that now radiated a creeping, bone-deep chill. The world shrank to the radius of their flickering campfires, the endless dunes transforming into a landscape of looming, shapeless shadows.
The caravan had made camp in a shallow basin, a slight depression between two great waves of sand that offered a meager illusion of shelter. The soldiers' tents were a small, orderly cluster, a pocket of defiant, flickering light. The slaves were given no such comfort. They were chained together in a tight, miserable huddle a short distance away, granted a single, small fire of their own and a few extra waterskins for the night—not out of kindness, but to ensure the "cargo" didn't perish before reaching the altar.
Alistar sat on a folded blanket near the periphery of the soldiers' camp, sharpening his short sword with a smooth, grey stone. The rhythmic shhhk-shhhk sound was a meditative counterpoint to the crackle of the fires and the low moan of the wind. His [Enlightened] mind was a humming engine, processing the day's events, the dynamics of the group, the variables of the environment, and the frustrating puzzle of his [Sealed Beyonder] Aspect.
He watched Revik. The young soldier moved through the camp with a new, heavy quietness. The conflict in his eyes had not abated; it had calcified into a grim resolve. He performed his duties—checking pickets, distributing the evening rations of hardtack and dried meat—with a mechanical efficiency, but his gaze kept drifting towards the huddled mass of slaves, their single fire a desperate, guttering eye in the vast darkness.
Good, Alistar thought, not with approval, but with assessment. The idealistic shock has worn off. Now he is in the painful, necessary stage of grappling with reality. His emotional energy is being redirected from despair to calculation. A useful evolution.
Later, as the camp settled into the deep watch of the night, Revik found him again. The stars were a brilliant, cold, and indifferent spray across the void, their light doing little to illuminate the world below. Revik's face was half in shadow, half painted in the orange flicker of the dying fire.
"You were right," Revik began, his voice a low, hoarse thing. He sat down heavily beside Alistar, not looking at him, but staring into the embers. "About everything. Releasing them is a fantasy. A quick path to a shared grave."
Alistar didn't stop sharpening his blade. "Acknowledging a fact is the first step toward useful action. What is the second?"
Revik was silent for a long moment, the only sound the wind and the soft scrape of stone on steel. "I can't just… deliver them. I can't be a part of this slaughter. There has to be a third option. Something you haven't calculated yet."
"There is always a third option," Alistar said, his voice flat. "It is almost always significantly more dangerous and has a lower probability of success than the primary or secondary options. That is why most dismiss it." He finally set the stone and sword down, turning his pale, luminous eyes fully on Revik. "You are proposing we intervene. Not to release them, but to help them."
Revik's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. "You… you'd consider that? After everything you said? About sentiment and efficiency?"
"Do not mistake my consideration for a change of heart," Alistar replied, his tone chillingly analytical. "I am reassessing the mission parameters based on new data."
"What new data?"
"Myself," Alistar said. He gestured vaguely at his own chest. "This trial is a test of potential. Escorting doomed prisoners to a sacrificial altar is a test of obedience, ruthlessness, and endurance. Valuable traits, certainly. But is it a test of potential? Or is it merely a test of compliance?" His [Enlightened] mind turned the question over, examining it from all angles. "Helping a group of ill-equipped, weakened slaves overthrow their armed, trained guards… that would require cunning, leadership, resourcefulness, and a profound understanding of chaos. It is a far more complex problem. And complexity is a better measure of potential than simple brutality."
He leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows under his cheekbones. "Furthermore, my… abilities… may be better suited to a scenario of upheaval and opportunism than to one of rigid, linear progression. A controlled system favors the established power. A broken system favors the adaptable. And I," he allowed a cold, thin smile to touch his lips, "am nothing if not adaptable."
Revik stared at him, trying to reconcile the cold, logical machine before him with the suggestion of rebellion. It was like hearing a clock propose anarchy. "So… you're not doing it to save them. You're doing it because you think it's a some harder test. A better one for you to pass."
"Precisely," Alistar said, as if confirming a simple mathematical truth. "Their survival becomes a byproduct of my success, not the objective. The objective is to break the Legion's plan and survive the consequences. If the slaves also live, it is a metric of the plan's efficiency."
Revik shook his head, a bewildered laugh escaping him. "You are the most terrifying and narcissistic person I have ever met."
"I will take that as a compliment. Now," Alistar's voice dropped to a near-whisper, the words barely audible over the wind, "if we are to do this, we require a plan. You have had time to brood on this. What are your initial proposals?"
A spark of hope ignited in Revik's eyes. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Alright. I've thought of a few things. First, we could wait for a sandstorm. The confusion would be perfect. We could slip among the slaves, use the chaos to pick the locks on their chains—"
"—and then die of thirst and exposure, blinded and flayed by the sand, within hours," Alistar finished, his voice dripping with disdain. "A sandstorm is as much a threat to us as it is to the guards. It eliminates command and control, but it also eliminates navigation and survival. The probability of the entire caravan, slaves and soldiers alike, being buried is unacceptably high. Next."
Revik flushed. "Okay, fine. Second: we sneak into the officers' tent tonight, steal the key to the chains, and free the slaves quietly. We overpower the few men on watch in the darkness."
"The chain is a single, heavy master lock, not individual keys," Alistar stated. "Kael carries it on his person, likely on a thong around his neck. He sleeps like a predator, one eye open. The sound of that lock opening would be unmistakable. The moment the first slave is free, the alarm would be raised. We would be outnumbered and surrounded in the heart of the camp. Suicide. Next."
"We stage a distraction!" Revik pressed, growing desperate. "A fire! We set one of the supply wagons ablaze. While everyone is fighting the fire, we free the slaves and run."
"And which direction do we run?" Alistar asked, his gaze unwavering. "Into the trackless desert, in the dark, with no supplies, no water, and a group of people who can barely walk? The Legion would simply let the wagon burn, form a perimeter, and hunt us down at their leisure at first light. We would be easy to track. The plan relies on the enemy being stupider than they are. They are not stupid. They are professionals. Next."
Revik's shoulders slumped in defeat. He mumbled his fourth idea. "We… we could try to poison the soldiers' water supply. Just the main cask. Make them too sick to fight."
Alistar's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine interest finally showing. "Poison. That has a marginally higher probability of success than your previous suggestions. Do you have access to poison?"
Revik looked up, a glimmer of surprise in his eyes. "I… yes. Actually, I do." He lowered his voice even further. "I collected some Devil's Thorn pods a few days ago. The sap… it doesn't kill, not quickly. But it causes fever, crippling cramps, large amount of joint pain pain, vomiting. A man who drinks it will be useless for a day, maybe two."
Alistar's mind, [Enlightened], began to spin, weaving this new thread into a tapestry of possibility. He saw it not as a single act, but as a sequence of cause and effect, a cascade of failure. "Show me."
Revik, with furtive glances, retrieved a small, wax-sealed pouch from his kit. Inside were several dried, twisted black pods. "I was… I was going to use it on myself if the guilt became too much. A way out."
"Sentiment," Alistar murmured, but without his earlier venom. He took one of the pods, crushing it slightly between his fingers. A faint, acrid smell rose from it. "How is it administered? How fast does it act?"
"It needs to be ingested. Mixed in water or food. The effects begin within an minuet. Peak misery hits after five to ten minuets."
Alistar stared into the middle distance, his pupils dilating as he processed, simulated, and calculated. The campfire, the stars, Revik's anxious face—all of it faded. He was building a model in his mind.
"Your previous plans failed because they were direct, physical confrontations where the enemy holds all the advantages: numbers, arms, training, and organization," Alistar said, his voice now a soft, confident monotone. "This… this is different. This is a biological attack. It targets their strength not with strength, but with sickness. It turns their own bodies against them."
He looked at Revik, and for the first time, there was a glimmer of something akin to respect in his gaze. "You have provided the catalyst. Now, here is the plan. You will not poison the main water cask."
"I won't?"
"No. That would be discovered too quickly. The water is guarded. And if all the soldiers fall ill at once, the command structure will still be intact, and they will simply postpone the march, fortify the camp, and root out the saboteur. We would be trapped."
"Then what?"
"You will give the poison to the slaves," Alistar said.
Revik stared, utterly baffled. "What? Why? To what end?"
"Listen," Alistar commanded, his voice like iron. "The slaves are the key. They are the one element that will be in close, intimate contact with the soldiers at the most critical juncture: the moment of sacrifice at the altar. The soldiers will be focused, vigilant, but their guard will be oriented outwards, looking for external threats. They will not be expecting the threat to come from the broken, half-dead offerings they are herding."
He leaned in, the fire casting dancing, demonic shadows across his intense face. "You have a rapport with them. They trust you, or at least, they see you as less of a monster than the others. Tonight, you will go to them. You will give them the poison. You will tell them to conceal it. Then, tomorrow, on the final approach to the Altar of the Fallen Sun, when the soldiers are marshaling them into position, they are to smear the paste—you will show them how to prepare it—onto their own hands, their faces, their clothes. Anywhere they can."
Understanding began to dawn on Revik's face, slow and horrifying. "The contact… when the soldiers lay hands on them to force them to the altar…"
"Precisely," Alistar hissed. "The soldiers will manhandle them. They will grab arms, shove backs, push them to their knees. The poison will be transferred through skin contact. It won't be as potent as ingestion, but with a concentrated dose, it will have an effect. Especially if the slaves are… persistent in their contact. A desperate, clinging grasp. A pleading hand on a wrist."
"Gods," Revik breathed, imagining the scene. The chaos, the confusion, as the Legionnaires, one by one, began to feel the fever and the cramps seize them.
"The ritual will be disrupted," Alistar continued, his voice cold and precise. "The commanding officers, including Kael, will be at the epicenter. They will be the first and most heavily affected. With the chain of command broken, and a significant portion of the guard incapacitated by sickness, the power balance shifts. The slaves, while weak, will outnumber the remaining healthy soldiers. And we," he gestured between himself and Revik, "will be the two armed, healthy, and prepared elements within the chaos. We can tip the scales."
Revik was silent for a long time, absorbing the cold, brutal genius of it. It was a plan that used desperation as a weapon, that turned pity into a vector for attack. It was monstrous. And it was their only hope.
"They'll be sacrificing themselves," Revik whispered. "They'll be ensuring they're the first to be touched, the first to be hurt."
"They are already sacrifices," Alistar said, without a shred of pity. "This way, their sacrifice has a chance to mean something beyond fueling an old shrine. This way, they become soldiers in their own war, not just kindling."
The wind picked up, howling softly through the basin, making the fire flutter and spit. The shadows around them seemed to lean in, listening.
"Will you do it?" Alistar asked. "Will you go to them?"
Revik took a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded, his jaw set. "Yes."
"Then go now. The deepest watch is upon us. Be swift. Be silent."
Revik stood, pocketing the pouch of Devil's Thorn pods as if it were a live serpent. He gave Alistar one last, unreadable look—a mixture of fear, revulsion, and a desperate, burgeoning hope—then melted into the darkness between the tents, heading toward the slaves' fire.
Alistar watched him go. Then he picked up his sword and stone again. Shhhk-shhhk. Shhhk-shhhk. The sound was steady, rhythmic, a metronome counting down the seconds until the dawn, and the beginning of the end.
Revik moved like a ghost through the sleeping camp. The sentries were posted on the high ridges of the basin, their attention turned outward to the vast, empty desert. No one watched the interior. Why would they? The threat was outside. The slaves were chained. The desert itself was the prison wall.
The slaves' fire was little more than a bed of glowing embers, casting a feeble, pulsing light on the huddled forms. They were a single, breathing organism of misery, the chain linking them a metallic spine. The air smelled of unwashed bodies, despair, and the dry, ancient scent of the sand.
As Revik approached, a few pairs of eyes opened, glinting in the dim light. They watched him without expression, too exhausted for fear, too broken for suspicion. The broad-shouldered slave, the one who had told the shifty man to be quiet, shifted slightly. His name, Revik had learned, was Goran.
"Soldier," Goran's voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding deep underground. "Have you come to give us final comforts?"
"I've come to give you a choice," Revik whispered, kneeling at the edge of their group. He kept his body low, his profile small against the night. All around, more eyes were opening, turning towards him like sun-starved flowers.
A bitter chuckle came from the shifty man, Tomin. "A choice? Between which rock we die under? How generous."
"Be silent, Tomin," Goran commanded, his eyes fixed on Revik. "What choice?"
Revik's heart hammered against his ribs. He unfolded the waxed pouch, showing them the dark, twisted pods. "This is Devil's Thorn. Its sap causes a terrible sickness. Fever, pain, weakness. It does not kill, but it renders a man helpless."
A wave of confused muttering passed through the slaves.
"You wish to poison us?" a woman asked, her voice trembling. "To spare us the knife?"
"No," Revik said, his voice gaining strength from his own conviction. "I wish to poison the Legion. Through you."
He laid out Alistar's plan, his words tumbling out in a hushed, urgent stream. He explained the transfer of the poison through touch, the disruption of the ritual, the chaos that would provide their one chance. He told them to prepare the paste by crushing the pods with a little water or saliva, to hide it under their fingernails, in the ragged hems of their clothes, anywhere.
When he finished, there was a long, heavy silence. The wind seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the faint hiss of the embers.
"This is your plan?" Goran asked, his massive brow furrowed.
"It… it is a plan," Revik said, unwilling to credit the cold architect behind it. "It is the only one that has a chance."
Tomin sneered. "So, we make ourselves into poison darts. The soldiers grab us, they get sick. And then what? We are still chained. We are still weak. They will cut us down where we stand."
"Not if you are not alone," Revik insisted. "I will be there. My… my friend will be there. We will have weapons. When the sickness takes hold, we will act. We will break the chain. We will fight."
"The cold-eyed one," Goran said, his gaze knowing. "The one who spoke of efficiency. This is his thinking. It has the smell of it. Cunning and cold."
Revik didn't deny it. "It is a chance. A fight. Isn't that better than kneeling on an altar?"
Another silence. Then, a young slave, the one who had stumbled earlier, spoke up. His voice was thin, but clear. "My mother… she was the one who fell today. The one they left." He looked at Revik, his eyes burning with a dry, fierce light. "I will do it. I will smear this poison all over my body. I will hug the first soldier I see until his skin melts to mine."
His words were a spark on tinder. A low growl of agreement rippled through the group. The despair was being forged, moment by moment, into a hard, sharp weapon of vengeance.
Goran looked around at the faces of his people, seeing the same grim resolve reflected back at him. He turned back to Revik and gave a single, slow nod. "We are dead men already. To die fighting, to spit in the eye of our butchers… this is a better death. We will do it."
A weight Revik didn't know he was carrying lifted from his soul. He quickly showed them how to prepare the pods, how to conceal the sticky, acrid paste. He moved among them, a shadow distributing not hope, but a weaponized despair. They took the pods with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics, their fingers trembling not with fear, but with purpose.
As he turned to leave, Goran caught his arm. The big slave's grip was surprisingly gentle. "Thank you, soldier. For seeing us as more than fuel."
Revik could only nod, a lump in his throat. He had given them a death sentence, and they were thanking him for it. He slipped back into the darkness, leaving the slaves to their grim preparations, their single fire flickering like a defiant, dying star in the immense desert night.
Back at his own post, Alistar saw Revik return. The young soldier's posture was different—straighter, filled with a tense, fearful energy. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Alistar acknowledged it with a blink. His internal monologue was a quiet hum. Phase one is complete. The variable has been introduced. The system is primed for failure. Now, we wait for the context to activate the catalyst.
He lay back on his blanket, looking up at the cold, indifferent stars. The desert chill seeped into his bones, but his [Super Regeneration] fought it, maintaining a core of vital warmth. His [Enlightened] mind ran simulations of the coming day, playing out scenarios, calculating probabilities.
He had set the board. The pieces were moving. Tomorrow, they would see if his gambit would lead to rebirth, or to a final, bloody death under a fallen sun.