The desert stretched endlessly before Cyrillia, a sea of gold and shadow beneath the burning sun. Her escort from Drevas had been steadfast, their commander a stern but reliable guardian-until the spirit of the sands intervened.
On the second day, as the wind sang through the dunes, the desert itself seemed to stir. The commander halted, his eyes distant, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. With a solemn nod, he turned to Cyrillia. “Our duty ends here. The sands have claimed their due.” And just like that, he and the escort departed, leaving her alone-but not unprotected.
Under watching eyes
The spirit of the desert watched over her. Whispers curled around her at night, warding off the skittering horrors that lurked beyond the firelight. Monsters with jagged teeth and hollow eyes prowled the edges of her camp but never drew closer, as if repelled by an unseen hand.
By the time she reached the main route to the City of Akasia, Cyrillia knew she couldn’t enter alone. The city’s gates were guarded, and her true name carried weight-too much weight. Then, like a gift from the dunes themselves, a caravan appeared, its banners fluttering in the dry wind.
She approached with caution, spinning a tale of a merchant’s daughter fleeing bandits. They took her in, their leader-a grizzled trader named Harken-grinning beneath his scarf. “Stick with us, girl. Astor’s gates don’t ask too many questions if you’ve got the right friends.”
Under the name “Lira,” she passed into the city, the desert’s whispers fading behind her. But Cyrillia-no, Lira now-knew the spirit’s protection hadn’t truly ended. Some debts, after all, were paid in more than coin.
And the desert never forgets.
