Deep within the heart of the cave, where the walls bled shadow and the air shimmered with faint pulses of unseen energy, Mashahl stood before a great map of threads—an ancient lattice of golden light stretching and shifting in mid-air. The map pulsed, its intricate weave revealing new fractures. One particular point flickered, red and angry, like a fresh wound.
"It's time," Mashahl murmured, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Henry, standing a short distance away, raised his head. His eyes, tired but sharp with a peculiar gleam, met Mashahl's hidden gaze. He didn't need to ask. He already knew.
"The third fragment," Mashahl said, turning fully to him. "Retrieve it. You know the path."
Henry gave a short, clipped nod. He strapped on his talisman, a piece of dark obsidian, bowed slightly, and turned to leave.
With a sound like air being pulled through a narrow throat, the cave opened its mouth to a new path—one carved from black stone and scorching wind. Henry walked into it without hesitation, his form swallowed by the rushing darkness, and in moments, he was gone.
The desert hit him like a curse. A great and breathless furnace, wide and endless, stretched out in all directions. The sun hung overhead like a flaming brand, its merciless light stripping the world bare. The sand beneath Henry's boots seemed determined to swallow him whole, each step sinking him deeper into its burning embrace.
There was no sign of life. No sound but the endless, whispering hiss of wind dragging grit across dunes that towered and collapsed like breathing giants, their peaks dissolving into shimmering heat hazes.
Time lost meaning. He walked until he could no longer tell if hours or days had passed. His throat burned, raw and parched. His skin blistered beneath the protective layers of his cloak, cracking and peeling. The fine, pervasive sand found its way into every fold, every crease, chafing against his raw skin. Each step took more effort than the last, his muscles screaming in protest.
By midday, his feet bled inside his boots, the soles hot enough to scald. He stumbled over the shifting dunes, barely able to hold himself upright as the world tilted around him. His hands trembled from dehydration, and his vision blurred, the landscape warping into distorted mirages. He found no rocks, no meager shade, no hint of vegetation. Only sand. Sand that glittered like countless shards of glass, mocking his misery with every blinding reflection.
Henry fell once. Twice. The third time, he remained on his knees, panting, gulping at the scorching air. His body screamed for rest, a desperate, guttural plea, but his mind, sharp and relentless, whispered reminders of what failure meant, of Mashahl's unspoken displeasure. He dragged himself forward, one painful inch at a time.
The talisman around his neck pulsed faintly, a cold, indifferent heartbeat, offering no comfort, no relief. He pressed it to his parched lips, muttering words that he himself no longer believed. It was not prayer. It was raw, animal desperation.
Then, the storm came.
It arrived without warning, a sudden, violent upheaval. The sky, once a blinding white, turned a furious copper. The wind screamed like a wounded beast, a banshee wail that tore at the air, and the sand rose like monstrous waves on a violent, churning sea. Henry dropped to his knees, pulling his cloak tightly over his face, burying himself within its meager protection. He turned his back against the gale, covering his eyes with his forearms, bracing for the inevitable.
The storm swallowed the world whole.
Grains of sand tore at his exposed skin like tiny, furious teeth, filled his ears with an agonizing roar, lodged themselves into every fiber of his clothes. The world vanished into a roaring, blinding void. He could feel his body being pushed sideways, dragged, could barely stay grounded against the immense force. His nose bled, the metallic tang stark against the dust. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached with a dull, throbbing pain.
He didn't know how long the storm lasted. It could have been minutes, stretched into an eternity. It could have been a lifetime, compressed into a single, brutal moment.
Then—silence.
Henry opened his eyes.
The world had stilled. The sand lay smooth, like untouched silk, sculpted into perfect, unblemished dunes. The sky had softened into a pale, ethereal lavender, the harshness drained from its depths. The sun, now hanging low, bathed the desert in strange, honeyed light, casting long, impossling shadows.
And before him, bathed in that twilight glow, stood a woman.
She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, though time seemed not to touch her. Her skin was golden-brown, flawless and smooth, her hair loose and wild like a storm barely held in check, streaked with unseen light. Her robes shimmered faintly, colored with shifting hues of desert twilight—purples and deep blues blending into muted oranges. She smiled, a soft, ancient curve of her lips, but her eyes were knowing—far too knowing, holding the weight of countless ages, filled with a serene power that eclipsed even Mashahl's.
Henry staggered backward, a ragged breath escaping his lungs. His parched lips parted, but no words came. His body shook—not from cold or exhaustion, but from the overwhelming pressure of her presence, a fundamental force that left him awestruck and utterly vulnerable. The woman was calm, perfectly still, as if she had been waiting for him all along, woven into the very fabric of this silent, newborn landscape.
She did not speak.
He blinked, and the desert vanished.
He was back in the cave.
Mashahl towered above him, his presence a sudden, sharp tension that filled the chamber. "Where is the fragment?" he demanded, his voiceless words laced with an unnerving edge.
Henry, still breathing heavily, didn't speak at first. His hands trembled, not from weakness, but from the aftershock of what he had witnessed.
"She was there," he finally whispered, his voice thin and raw.
Mashahl's veiled face seemed to frown, though no feature moved. "Who?"
"The keeper," Henry said, the name a tremor on his tongue. "I saw her. She didn't speak. But I know. She's on her way to the forest."
For the first time in a long time, Mashahl's face paled, the subtle sheen of his skin dimming with a chilling dread.
A silence filled the chamber. Heavy. Dense. Suffocating.
"Are you sure?" Mashahl asked, his voice now a mere whisper, though he already knew the answer, the cold certainty of it settling between them.
Henry simply nodded, his eyes wide and haunted.
Mashahl turned away, his long, unhuman hand clenching slowly into a fist, crushing unseen air. "Then we are no longer hunting," he said, the words resonating with a terrible finality.
"We are being hunted."
The golden map behind him shifted violently, its luminous threads snapping and reweaving into a new, terrifying pattern. A single, furious path flared into life—one that pointed straight toward the heart of the forest.
And the cave grew colder, as if the very air recoiled from the revelation.