Ravon swallowed the last bite of his dried meat. Across the dead campfire, Lyra meticulously peeled the paper wrapper from a small, frosted cupcake, taking a delicate bite.
"Today we get out of this forest," she announced, wiping a crumb from her lip. "Once we cross the tree line, we will enter a remote village."
Ravon looked up at the dense, humid canopy. "Should I wear my winter coat?"
"Do whatever you want," Lyra said, standing up and dusting off her black dress. "Just don't slow down."
Since the heavy sack of supplies was stowed securely inside her magic, Ravon held out his hand. "Give me my coat. I don't want to freeze in the North."
Lyra reached into her small dimensional pouch. She pulled out his thick, blue fur coat and tossed it to him. Ravon slid his arms into the heavy sleeves, immediately breaking a sweat in the morning humidity, but he fastened the buttons anyway.
They walked for two hours. The dense timber began to thin. The damp earth slowly turned dry and cracked. Lyra paused near the edge of a grassy clearing to harvest a few stalks of fresh Aethergrass, tucking them into her pouch.
They stepped past the final line of trees.
A blistering wall of heat slammed into them.
Ravon stopped dead in his tracks. Stretching out before them was not a frozen tundra or a snow-capped mountain range. It was a vast, rolling ocean of golden sand dunes. Bleached animal bones and jagged green cacti dotted the harsh landscape. Dry wind whipped loose sand through the air.
"Why is there a desert in the North?" Ravon asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Isn't this place supposed to be covered in snow?"
"I am a witch, not a cartographer," Lyra replied, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun. "I don't know why there is a desert here. It is my first time traveling this far."
Ravon quickly unbuttoned his heavy fur coat. He shoved it into his empty leather bag, tying it tight before following her out into the dunes.
The heat was brutal. They trudged through the shifting sand for hours, losing their sense of direction in the featureless wasteland. A weak sandstorm constantly blew dust into their eyes.
Ravon wiped his cracked lips. He watched Lyra pull a leather canteen from her pouch, take a long sip, and cap it.
"Give me the bottle," he rasped, his throat burning.
Lyra tossed it to him.
Ravon caught it eagerly. He tipped it back, waiting for the cool relief. Nothing came out. He shook it. It was completely empty.
He lowered the canteen, staring at her in disbelief. "Why did you give me an empty bottle?"
"You asked for the bottle," she pointed out smoothly. "You did not ask for water."
Ravon hung his head, too thirsty to argue. He turned his gaze back to the horizon. A few hundred yards away, the sun reflected off a wide, shimmering pool of blue water.
"A pond," Ravon gasped, a surge of energy hitting his tired legs. "Let's go."
He hurried down the dune, keeping his eyes locked on the water. But halfway there, the edges of the pool began to blur. A few steps later, the water completely vanished into thin air, leaving only dry sand.
"Where did it go?" Ravon asked, stopping in confusion.
"Fool," Lyra sighed, walking past him. "That was an illusion caused by the heat."
Suddenly, the wind howled. A fierce gust of sand whipped through the air, forcing them both to squeeze their eyes shut. Lyra grabbed the brim of her hat to keep it from flying away.
Ravon cracked his eyes open against the sting of the dust. Through the haze, a sharp, rhythmic flash of light caught his attention. It reflected brightly against the sun, signaling across the dunes.
The wind died down.
"Did you see that light?" Ravon asked, pointing toward a tall dune to their left.
Lyra squinted. The light flashed again. "Probably someone asking for help."
"Then we should help them." Ravon started walking.
"It could be a trap, idiot," Lyra warned, grabbing his sleeve.
"What if someone is actually dying?"
"What do you get out of helping strangers?" she demanded.
"Happiness," Ravon said simply. He pulled his arm free and jogged toward the dune.
Lyra let out a sound of pure frustration, but she followed him up the slope.
They dropped onto their stomachs at the crest of the dune, peering over the edge. In the valley below, a wooden cart sat idle in the sand. Ten figures wearing dark robes surrounded it. Towed behind the cart on a heavy iron chain was a locked iron cage.
Inside the cage sat three young children. One of them held a broken piece of mirror, trying to angle it toward the sun.
"Are they slave traders?" Ravon whispered, his grip tightening on his scabbard.
"Worse," Lyra narrowed her eyes at the markings on the robes. "They are some cult's members."
Ravon drew his sword. The steel hissed softly against the leather. "I'm going."
Lyra yanked him back down by the collar. "Sit quietly. These are not mindless beasts. We need a proper plan to ambush them."
"I don't have a plan."
"I do," Lyra said.
She crawled slightly to the left, angling her staff toward the valley. The orb glowed.
Directly behind the iron cage, the sand shifted violently. Two bulky rock golems erupted from the earth.
"We are under attack!" a cultist shouted, pointing at the constructs.
Six cult members drew their weapons, rushing toward the rear of the convoy. Inside the cage, the children screamed, pressing themselves against the front bars to get away from the towering rock monsters.
"Now," Lyra whispered.
The two golems slammed their massive stone fists into the dunes. A massive cloud of blinding dust and sand exploded into the air, completely swallowing the back half of the convoy. The cultists coughed blindly.
Lyra pointed her staff at the front of the cage. A compressed lance of wind shot through the air, violently shattering the iron padlock.
Ravon launched himself down the dune. He hit the front of the cart like a meteor. He slashed his sword, cutting down the first guard instantly. Two more guards rushed him from the side. A second wind lance from Lyra pierced both of them, dropping them to the sand.
Ravon jumped onto the driver's bench. The cultist holding the reins drew a dagger and lunged. Ravon deflected the blade with his steel, pivoted, and kicked the man squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling off the cart into the sand.
Through the dust cloud, Lyra sprinted to the front of the cage. She tore the broken padlock away and pulled the door open.
Three eight-year-old children huddled together, their wrists bound with coarse rope. Two boys and one girl.
"Get inside the cart," Lyra ordered.
The children didn't hesitate. They scrambled out of the cage and into the back of the covered wagon. Lyra climbed in behind them. Raising her staff, she brought it down hard on the iron chain connecting the cage to the cart. The metal shattered, leaving the heavy dead weight behind.
A loud explosion shook the valley.
"Move the cart!" Lyra yelled toward the driver's bench. "Both my golems are destroyed!"
Ravon stared blankly at the leather reins in his hands. "I don't know how to drive a cart!"
"I do!" one of the tied boys yelled from the back. "My father is a coachman!"
Ravon spun around. He sliced the ropes binding the boy's wrists. They instantly switched places. The eight-year-old boy grabbed the leather reins, snapped them hard, and shouted at the draft horse. The cart lurched forward, its wooden wheels churning through the sand.
The dust cloud behind them began to settle. Four cult members stood amidst the rubble of the golems. Two gripped swords, while the other two held wooden staffs.
"Attack the cart!" a swordsman yelled. "They have the sacrifices!"
One of the cult mages aimed his staff. A continuous, roaring stream of fire erupted from the wood, chasing the wagon.
Lyra thrust her staff backward. A thick stone wall burst from the sand, absorbing the brunt of the fire. The heat was too intense; the wall cracked and scattered into debris, but it broke the attack.
The second mage chanted rapidly, hurling a volley of compressed fireballs at the escaping cart.
Ravon leaned out the back of the wagon. He swung his sword in a rapid flurry, deflecting two of the fireballs into the sand. But the third slipped past his guard, striking the thick cloth ceiling of the wagon. The canvas instantly caught fire.
Lyra raised her free hand, summoning a sphere of water. She splashed it against the canvas, dousing the flames before they could spread to the wood.
Seeing their magic fail, the first mage shifted tactics. He slammed his staff into the dirt, launching a barrage of sharp, jagged rocks through the air.
"Get down!" Ravon shouted, stepping in front of Lyra. He used his blade to bat the heaviest stones away, but a jagged rock slipped past his shoulder. It tore a new hole through the canvas roof and sliced a shallow gash across Lyra's upper arm.
Ravon gritted his teeth. He channeled his core, hurling three blazing fireballs back at their pursuers. One struck a swordsman directly in the chest, knocking him out of the fight.
"Hold on!" Lyra yelled. Blood dripped down her arm, but her eyes were fixed in fierce concentration.
She slammed the butt of her staff against the wooden floorboards. A powerful, swirling gust of wind erupted behind the cart. It picked up tons of loose sand, creating an impenetrable, chaotic sandstorm that completely buried their tracks and blocked the cultists' vision.
The cart raced through the desert, leaving the shouting cult members completely lost in the dust.
When they were finally safe, Ravon pulled himself back inside the wagon, his chest heaving. The little boy driving the cart slowed the exhausted horse to a steady trot.
Lyra sat on a wooden crate. She pulled a small glass vial from her dimensional pouch. She uncorked the basic homemade healing potion and drank it. The bleeding gash on her arm slowly closed, leaving a faint pink scar.
"Are you hurt?" Ravon asked, studying her arm.
"I was hurt," Lyra corrected, wiping the lingering blood from her sleeve. She looked away, her voice softening just a fraction. "Thank you for asking."
Ravon sat down on the bench opposite the children. The boy driving the cart looked over his shoulder, a brave, determined expression on his face. The other boy, calm and observant, sat next to a girl who glared fiercely at the back of the wagon, completely unfazed by the violence.
"Thank you for saving us," the calm boy said. "I am Evan. This is Lia. And the one driving is our captain, Leo."
"I am Ravon," he smiled warmly. "And this is Lyra. How did you get captured out here?"
"Our village pond is drying up," Evan explained quietly. "Captain Leo decided we needed to go find a new water source. We were searching the dunes when those people ambushed us."
Lyra capped her empty vial. "What is the name of your village?"
"Duneveil," Evan said.
Lyra raised an eyebrow, looking at Ravon. "That was our next destination anyway."
Ravon grinned, the exhaustion of the fight fading. "Great. We will drop you back at the village, and then we'll keep moving toward Mount Cryostone."