Vale raised a brow, casting a long, searching glance at Drago. There was something in the old man's words that refused to settle comfortably in his mind, something heavy and unresolved, but Vale chose not to speak just yet. The question lingered, unvoiced, as the three of them continued onward.
It took only a few steps before Eskar moved past Vale, his boots crunching softly against the sand. Almost immediately, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble.
Vale froze.
The vibrations were deep, far deeper than those of a scorpion. The sand shuddered in rolling waves, as if the desert itself were drawing breath. Vale looked down instinctively, his jaw tightening, before moving quickly to join the others. They stopped a dozen meters away from the scorpion's carcass, its massive form half-buried, black chitin cracked and lifeless.
Vale exhaled slowly and glanced toward Drago just as something enormous erupted from the sand some thirty meters away.
The desert guardian emerged in a cascade of shifting dunes, stone-plated wings unfolding as grains of sand slid from its body like water. Its massive head lifted, eyes locking onto the fallen scorpion. The beast opened its colossal maw, fresh saliva dripping from stone-lined jaws as it lumbered forward with terrifying inevitability.
The obsidian glow that had once armored its chest was gone now, replaced by the familiar, muted sandstone hue, as if the battle from earlier had never happened.
As the guardian advanced on the carcass, Vale finally spoke, his voice steady but curious.
"What did you mean," he asked, watching the beast carefully, "when you said there are things only the gods know?"
Drago sighed once, long and weary, and straightened fully, leaning on his cane. "The gods," he said, "know far more than any mortal, or immortal, ever could." He paused, eyes fixed on the horizon. "And whether you wish it or not, you will learn that truth soon enough."
The guardian reached the scorpion then, tearing into the corpse with brutal efficiency. Stone teeth crushed chitin as if it were nothing more than brittle clay.
Vale rose to his feet, understanding the unspoken signal. Their presence was no longer required, the kill had been acknowledged. Eskar, however, lingered for a moment longer, watching the wyvern dismantle the carcass. His expression was unreadable, neither awe nor fear, only a distant stillness, as if his thoughts were far removed from the violence before him.
After a moment, Eskar turned away and followed.
Vale glanced back at him as they walked. Something about Eskar felt… different. Over the past few days, he had grown quieter, more withdrawn. He spoke less, reacted less. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps it was the desert. Vale couldn't say. He didn't know Eskar well enough to be sure.
'It's probably nothing,' he told himself, and let the thought go.
They caught up to Drago, and the march continued.
Hours passed.
The sun crawled slowly across the sky as the desert stretched endlessly in every direction. Eventually, something began to gnaw at Vale's awareness, something subtle, but deeply wrong.
There was nothing.
No movement beyond the occasional scorpion. No distant silhouettes on the dunes. No creatures circling the sandstone mountains, no signs of prey or lesser beasts. An ecosystem this vast should have been teeming with life.
But it was empty.
Vale slowed, scanning the horizon again, his unease growing. Finally, he sighed and spoke up.
"Sir Drago?"
Drago turned his head slightly, casting Vale a sideways glance. His expression was already irritated, as though he'd anticipated the question and resented it. "What is it?"
Vale swallowed. "If you don't mind me asking… where are all the animals?" He gestured vaguely at the desert. "The predators, aside from the scorpions and the occasional sand dragon, they're nowhere to be seen."
Drago did not answer immediately. He continued walking, his robe hovering just above the loose sand, untouched by it. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, stripped of all warmth.
"The beasts," he said, "are below."
Vale's eyes widened. He glanced at Eskar, who narrowed his own eyes in confusion. The two exchanged a look before Eskar spoke carefully.
"My apologies, sir," he said. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Drago stopped.
He turned slowly to face them, his expression complicated, something ancient flickering behind his eyes. Vale felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine.
After a moment, Drago turned forward again and resumed walking, releasing a deep sigh.
"When you look beneath your feet," he asked, "what do you see?"
Vale frowned, confused by the question. "Sand," he answered simply.
Drago was silent for a heartbeat.
"And that," he said quietly, "is where you are wrong."
He continued walking as he spoke, his words falling like stones.
"Beneath us is not sand. Beneath us is blood and flesh. Sand dragons. Desert guardians. Death stingers. Countless others." His cane tapped once against the ground. "They are killing each other. Eating each other. Tearing one another apart… right beneath your feet."
A bead of cold sweat slid down Vale's face despite the scorching heat.
"Just because you cannot see death," Drago continued, "does not mean it is absent, boy. Remember that. It will keep you alive."
Vale stared at the sand below his boots, his expression tight as the weight of Drago's words settled in. The desert no longer felt empty.
It felt crowded.
Suddenly, Eskar spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an odd sharpness.
"Who rules this place?" he asked. "This desert?"
Drago glanced back at him, then forward again, allowing a long silence to stretch between them. The sun dipped lower, staining the horizon in crimson and gold.
"There are six Monarchs of the Scorched Sands," Drago said at last. "But none are close to us now."
He continued walking, unhurried.
"Most are too busy battling one another, trying to kill each other in much the same way the lesser predators do."
Vale looked at Drago for a long moment, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fist. The desert wind brushed past them, carrying heat and silence in equal measure. Finally, Vale spoke again.
"You know of the spawn ranking system," he said carefully. "Correct?"
Drago's eyes widened, just slightly, but enough for Vale to notice. After a brief pause, the old man nodded and turned his gaze back toward the horizon.
Vale swallowed. "Then… what rank would you place these monarchs at?"
For once, Drago did not answer immediately.
They continued walking in silence, their footsteps the only sound in the vast expanse. The pause stretched long enough that Vale wondered if the question would go unanswered entirely. But eventually, Drago spoke.
"They are Apostates," he said at last. "Every one of them has reached the ninth stage of their evolutionary cycle."
Vale's eyes widened.
"However," Drago continued, "none of them are spawn. Therefore, the ranking system does not truly apply to them."
Vale frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "If they aren't spawn," he asked slowly, "then what are they?"
Drago stopped.
He turned to Vale, studying him for a long, heavy moment, then shook his head.
"It is better not to say," he replied simply.
Vale raised a brow, clearly dissatisfied, but when he glanced at Eskar, the crimson-haired boy only shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the evasive answer. Whatever unease Vale felt, he let it go with a deep sigh as the sun dipped lower, staining the dunes in gold and crimson.
Another hour passed before they finally stopped between two massive dunes, their shadows stretching long across the sand.
Drago turned to them. "Get the claws ready. Strip the carapace and cut the meat onto whatever you can." He paused, tapping his cane once. "I'll prepare a fire."
Vale did as instructed, already feeling his stomach tighten with hunger as he worked. The smell of exposed flesh mixed with the dry desert air, sharp and unpleasant. As he worked, his gaze drifted downward, to the sand beneath his knees.
A strange sensation crept over him.
Then the ground vibrated.
Vale's eyes snapped open. He looked around sharply, instinctively searching for the desert guardian. The tremors grew stronger, more focused, until stone and sand erupted nearby.
The wyvern surfaced.
Its massive, rock-plated body tore free of the desert floor, wings folding tightly against its sides. But something was wrong. Its movements were erratic, rushed, its posture tense in a way Vale had not seen before.
The guardian's eyes flicked toward them, then away, then back again.
'What's wrong?' Vale thought.
Drago noticed it instantly. He walked forward without hesitation, stopping mere meters from the colossal beast. The wyvern hissed softly, a short, sharp sound, nothing like a roar.
Vale watched, uneasy, as Drago's expression shifted. Recognition dawned in his eyes.
The old man exhaled slowly, disappointment heavy in the sound.
The wyvern recoiled, backing away before plunging back beneath the sand, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Silence followed.
Drago turned and approached Vale and Eskar, stopping a few meters away. His expression was strained, thoughtful.
"Change of plans," he said.
Vale followed Drago's gaze instinctively, and froze.
Far off in the sky, against the burning orange of the setting sun, a red speck had appeared.
It was moving.
As it drew closer, wings became visible, vast, unmistakable.
"Looks like we're having a visitor," Drago continued quietly. "An old friend."
Vale raised a brow, his heart beginning to pound. "Who is it?"
Drago did not look at him. His eyes remained locked on the approaching figure as the red shape grew larger, its presence pressing down on the desert itself.
"The First Monarch of the Scorched Sands," he said.
A pause followed.
"The Bloodscale."