One Hundred Years After the Battle of the End of Times
Princess Yasmin sat on a simple wooden chair, her silhouette dwarfed by the cavernous expanse of the hidden sanctuary. The palace, carved deep into the bedrock beneath a mountain in the Oasis, was a relic of a forgotten age. She tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the intricate honeycomb vaulting of the ceiling—muqarnas that seemed to drip like stone wax.
Above that, the high dome displayed a sprawling mosaic. It was a list of names. The martyrs. The heroes who had thrown themselves against the Supreme Lord a century ago. Center stage in the artwork was Nebras. The mosaic depicted him leading the charge, azure sword raised, clashing against the darkness of the Supreme Lord.
There were whispers, dark rumors passed down through enemy lines, claiming that Nebras had tried to flee the battlefield in his final moments. Yasmin refused to entertain such heresy. If he had fled, he would be alive. But he was here. He had been dead for a hundred years.
She lowered her gaze to the marble sepulcher in the center of the room. It was cold, silent, and final. She looked at it with a mixture of grief and a stubborn, fragile hope.
What would the world look like if Nebras had won? It was a question that had haunted millions of tortured souls for a century. In the darkness of their suffering, they imagined a world of lush greenery, of date palms heavy with golden fruit, of rivers running with sweet water instead of blood and ash. They imagined a life where every sunrise brought a promise, not a threat.
But those dreams shattered against the hard rock of reality. Outside this secret mountain retreat, the world was a hellscape that made the skin crawl.
Yasmin stood. She placed her hand on the cold marble of the tomb, tracing the grain of the stone. Slowly, she leaned forward, resting her cheek against the hard surface. A single tear escaped, sliding down to wet the dry stone.
"Will you never return?" she whispered, her voice trembling like a plucked string. "We are so tired of this misery."
The heavy wooden door creaked open.
A man entered. He was bald, his face a map of deep lines and old scars. A black patch covered his right eye, and a long sword hung at his hip, the leather of the scabbard worn smooth by use. He bowed, his movement stiff but respectful.
"Princess," the Vizier said. "You spend your time before Nebras's tomb again. My Lady... he is dead. He will not return. A century has passed. The dead do not rise. We must stop clinging to the ghosts of the past and focus on the brutality of our present. We must abandon these dreams, for the world does not care what we wish for."
Yasmin wiped her tear away quickly, straightening her posture to feign a strength she didn't feel. "Do you not knock before entering, Vizier?" she snapped.
The Vizier cleared his throat, offering a muttered apology.
Yasmin sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "A little daydreaming does no harm. It is the tether that keeps us sane. It keeps the despair from hollowing us out. I am confident... I know that if we believe in his return, he will return. What we lack in this age is faith, Vizier. We have become too rational. We weigh everything on the scales of logic, as if the world runs on immutable cosmic gears that cannot be broken. As if miracles are impossible. As if the Lord cannot rewrite the script if He wills it. You need to believe."
The Vizier rolled his single good eye toward the ceiling, clearly exasperated. He nodded reluctantly. "Yes, my Lady. But right now, your faith must translate into action. You must address the soldiers. The palace is in danger."
Yasmin froze. "Danger?"
"The Sand Soldiers," the Vizier said grimly. "They have located us. They gathered an army of a thousand constructs and are marching on our position. They tracked us after the last accident. They know where we are."
A cold knot formed in Yasmin's stomach. She paced the room, her mind racing. "What of Kaser?" she asked. "Where is he?"
"I have sent for him. He should be—"
A heavy knock interrupted him. At Yasmin's command, the doors swung open.
Kaser ducked to enter. He was a mountain of a man, a true giant. His light brown hair was a thick, tangled mane that cascaded down his back, wild yet imposing. At his waist hung two massive silver axes, heirlooms of a bygone war. He bowed low, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated in the floorboards.
"I am ready to crush your enemies, Princess," Kaser said. "But the situation is dire. We have barely three hundred men against a thousand. Our soldiers are afraid. They do not believe victory is possible. The Sand Soldiers require the Art to be defeated, and few of us have the capacity to wield it effectively."
Kaser paused, his expression grave. "I can fight them. I can low their numbers. But even I have limits. My reserves of Art will run dry eventually. We must flee, Princess. We must find another sanctuary."
Yasmin's voice hitched. Another tear threatened to fall, but she held it back. "We cannot leave Nebras's tomb to those monsters," she said, her voice shaking with emotion. "They will desecrate it. They will violate his rest. We have stayed safe here for a century because of him. His presence protects us."
The Vizier twisted his mouth in a cynical grimace. "The dead help no one, my Lady. We remained safe because the mountain is hidden, not because of a corpse. Now that the secret is out, we must fight or flee. As Kaser said, we must leave. You must abandon this tomb. The living require protection more than the dead."
Yasmin's eyes flashed. She pointed a trembling finger at the Vizier. "I will never leave this shrine," she declared, her voice rising. "I will not lose hope. My mother did not lose hope, and neither will I. He will return... I am... I am certain... he will—"
RUMBLE.
The tomb shook violently. Yasmin stumbled back. The Vizier reached for his sword. Kaser widened his stance, axes ready.
A muffled scream echoed—not from outside, but from inside the marble block.
CRACK.
The solid stone fractured. Dust sprayed into the air as a hand—bloody, desperate, and very much alive—punched through the marble lid, clawing at the air.