The desert stretched endlessly before him, like a canvas the gods had forgotten to finish.
Sand danced in spirals. Rocks whispered in the wind. And the sky—pale blue and soulless—watched in silence.
The Traveler walked without pause. His boots knew the rhythm. Step, breath, silence. Step, breath, silence. Each footfall was a note in the long song of his exile.
His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade. Not from fear, but instinct.
The world was never truly still anymore.
"Four days," he muttered, voice dry and cracking. "No towns. No signs. No rain…"
The orb in his coat pulsed faintly—once, then dimmed. The one he had kept. Not all orbs were meant for others. Some… were meant to remember.
The Traveler stopped.
He felt it.
A pressure.A wrongness.
The air shifted.The temperature dropped.
He slowly turned his head.
There—at the edge of the dunes—a shape. Small. Human.
A boy.
Staggering. Alone.
The Traveler blinked, unsure. Hallucinations were common out here. The desert had a cruel sense of humor.
But then he heard it.
The boy's cry.
"Help…"
It wasn't loud. It wasn't desperate. It was… tired. Too tired for fear.
The Traveler moved.
Faster now. Across the sand, toward the boy—who collapsed just as he reached him.
The child was no older than nine. Clothes shredded. Skin burned and bruised. His lips cracked, and his eyes half-shut.
The Traveler knelt, placing a canteen to the boy's lips.
"Drink," he ordered.
The boy coughed, sputtered, then drank greedily.
After a moment, he whispered, "They took her…"
The Traveler's brow furrowed. "Who?"
"…My sister. The men with the masks… They came from the storm…"
The Traveler's eyes snapped to the horizon.
There it was now—rolling in from the east.
A storm.
But not natural.
The clouds were too dark. Too fast. Lightning flashed within them—but it wasn't light. It was crimson. Pulsing.
He stood.
The boy grabbed his coat weakly. "Please… you have to save her. They said they'd offer her to the god of smoke."
The Traveler's face didn't change. But something in his posture did.
A stillness. Like the moment before a blade is drawn.
"Stay here," he said.
"No! You don't understand! If they call him—"
The wind howled suddenly.
A voice echoed from the dunes.
"You should not be here, stranger."
The Traveler turned, slowly.
Three figures emerged from the storm's edge.
Each wore a rusted mask—long-nosed, ancient. Robes of black and ash. Symbols etched in dried blood. One held a staff. Another, a chain. The third… a bleeding lantern.
Cultists.
Stormcallers.
The Traveler stepped forward, placing the boy gently behind him.
"Step aside," said the one with the lantern. "This is sacred ground. We offer only what the god demands."
"I'm not here for gods," the Traveler replied.
"Then you will become part of the offering."
The air cracked.
Chains snapped.
The lantern glowed—its light unnatural, warping the sand into shadow.
The Traveler exhaled.
He drew the sword.
It didn't sing.It didn't shine.
It howled.
The blade tore through the air like it hated the world.
The staff-wielder lunged.
Too slow.
A flash—then silence.
The cultist dropped. Eyes wide. No wound.
His body simply forgot how to be alive.
The others hesitated.
"You…" one whispered. "That blade… that sigil…"
The Traveler stepped forward.
"I'm only going to say this once."
The sky growled.
His blade pulsed like a heart long dead.
"Let. The girl. Go.