He found the oasis like salvation—palm trees swaying gently, their green fronds shocking against endless beige, and beneath them, the impossible glint of water.
Marel stumbled down the dune, throat parched despite the dragon's scale pulsing warmly inside him. The pool was real—crystalline water nestled between ancient palms, small fish darting beneath the surface.
He dropped to his knees and drank deeply. The water was cold, shockingly sweet, washing away hours of desert grit. When his thirst was satisfied, hunger roared to life. He gathered dates from the palms and purple berries from nearby bushes.
Marel sat in the shade, feet dangling in cool water, studying the Aetherblade across his lap.
[The Aetherblade is a living weapon, bonded to your essence,] the Soul of the World said. [It will grow as you grow.]
The young swordsman closed his eyes, letting himself rest. The oasis was peaceful—gentle water sounds, rustling leaves. It felt safe.
Perhaps too safe.
His eyes snapped open. The birds had stopped singing. The fish had vanished. Even the wind held its breath.
Blue text flared before his eyes:
[WARNING: HOSTILE ENTITIES DETECTED]
[ENEMY TYPE: DESERT GOBLINS - PACK HUNTERS]
[QUANTITY: 7]
Then the laughter started—a chittering, grating sound like metal scraping bone. Shapes materialized from shimmering air as concealment magic broke.
The goblins were small, barely waist-high, but menacing. Sand-colored skin, mottled like lizard scales. Yellow eyes glowing. Mouths too wide, revealing needle-sharp teeth. They carried crude weapons—obsidian blades, bone clubs, one wielding a glass-studded femur.
They emerged from seven directions, encircling the oasis. The largest wore a necklace of finger bones and stepped forward, lips peeling back in a humorless grin.
This wasn't Karak's courteous challenge. These creatures were there to kill him.
[Your first true battle begins now, Marel,] the Soul of the World said gravely. [Prove yourself a warrior.]
The goblins attacked.
The first lunged from his left. Marel brought the Aetherblade up in a clumsy arc. Metal met stone with a jarring crack. The goblin's blade shattered. The Aetherblade cut through flesh and bone like paper.
Dark blood pooled in sand. His stomach lurched.
[FOCUS, MAREL!]
Two more closed in. A bone club grazed his ribs. A blade aimed for his exposed back.
[LEFT! NOW!]
Marel threw himself sideways. The blade whispered past where his spine had been. He rolled, coming up in a crouch.
The pack leader barked orders. The goblins spread wider, hunting smart. One darted behind him—a feint. The real attack scored his calf. He cried out.
They were wearing him down.
[You're fighting like prey. Use your power!]
"I don't know how!"
[The scale. Feel it. Channel it!]
Marel pressed his hand to his chest, feeling for that warmth humming inside him. There—like a coal waiting to ignite.
Two goblins rushed simultaneously. Marel reached for the warmth desperately. Heat exploded outward.
Steam erupted from his skin in a scalding wave. The goblins shrieked, skin blistering. The others skittered backward, yellow eyes wide with fear.
But Marel's legs shook—that burst had drained something vital.
[Stamina. You're learning power's cost. But you have enough to finish this!]
The pack leader snarled, regrouping his burned forces. Marel stood straighter despite trembling hands. He was hurt and exhausted—but still standing.
The leader charged, wielding the glass-studded femur. It feinted high, swept low for his legs.
Marel jumped forward and up, using a boulder as springboard. The Aetherblade came down.
The leader tried to block. Its weapon shattered. The blade continued.
The goblin's head rolled. Its body collapsed.
The remaining goblins stared, then broke, fleeing over dunes in panic.
Blue text appeared:
[COMBAT COMPLETE]
[ENEMIES DEFEATED: 2 KILLED, 5 ROUTED]
[LEVEL UP! YOU ARE NOW LEVEL 2]
Marel stumbled to the pool's edge, hands shaking. He'd killed. Actually killed living creatures.
"I killed them," he whispered.
[You survived,] the Soul of the World corrected gently. [They came to kill you. That is survival, not murder.]
"It doesn't feel like I thought it would."
[Because most stories lie. They sanitize death. But this is real. The weight you feel? That's your humanity. Don't lose it—but don't let it paralyze you. In Ardaron, hesitation kills.]
"I won't forget this," he said quietly. "I won't let killing become easy."
[Good. That you feel this weight means you still have a soul worth saving.]
He treated his wounds with water and torn cloth, then allocated his stat points: two to Agility, two to Endurance, one to Strength. The change was immediate—muscles denser, breathing easier.
"Why is my Charisma so low?" he asked, checking his stats.
[You're covered in blood, sand, and goblin viscera, wearing rags, talking to a voice in your head. What were you expecting?]
Despite everything, Marel laughed. The absurdity released tension coiled in his chest.
The sun lowered, painting dunes amber and gold. As stamina regenerated and wounds closed with unnatural speed, he pondered larger questions. Why was he brought here? What was his purpose?
[Those answers will come. For now, focus on survival.]
Above, unfamiliar stars emerged. Tomorrow he would continue into the unknown. But tonight, he would rest.
[Sleep well, swordsman.]
-----
Marel woke to light.
Not the harsh desert sun, but something softer—ethereal, like moonlight filtered through water. He blinked, disoriented, his hand instinctively reaching for the Aetherblade.
Then he saw her. She stood at the pool's edge—a woman of ethereal beauty with silver hair that flowed like liquid starlight, skin holding the faint luminescence of pearl. She wore robes that shifted between shades of blue and violet.
But the wings gave her away. They extended from her back like living sculptures of pure energy—translucent, shimmering with nameless colors, constantly shifting form. They pulsed gently, each beat sending ripples of light through the air.
She was looking directly at him, her eyes the color of deep forest pools.
Marel scrambled to his feet, gripping the Aetherblade defensively.
"Peace, young warrior." Her voice was like wind chimes and distant thunder. "I mean you no harm."
"Who are you?" Marel demanded.
"I am Lyra, Herald of the Fae Courts." She inclined her head. "And you, Marel the Acknowledged, have become a person of considerable interest."
The way she said his title sent a shiver down his spine.
[She speaks truth. The Fae are ancient. Listen, but be cautious.]
"What do you want?"
Her wings shimmered. "Word travels quickly when one bears the blessing of Karak, the Steam Dragon. It is not often the Old Guard deem a newcomer worthy of their scale."
"You came to tell me that?"
"No." Her smile widened. "I came to extend an invitation. The Fae Courts wish to meet you. To offer sanctuary, knowledge, and perhaps answers to questions you don't yet know to ask."
An invitation to the Fae realm. Wonder or disaster in equal measure.
"Why would your courts care about me?"
"You bear a dragon's blessing, wield a living blade, chosen by the Soul of the World itself. The Old Guard do not choose lightly. When Karak grants his scale, he has seen something—a thread in fate's tapestry. The Fae have learned to pay attention to such signs."
Every instinct warned him that accepting help from magical beings came with strings attached.
"What would accepting entail?"
"You would come as honored guest to Moonwood. Under our protection. In exchange, share your story. No binding oaths, no permanent obligations."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I wish you well, and you won't see me again." She glanced toward the horizon. "But the desert is vast and unforgiving. And word of your presence spreads to those far less hospitable than the Fae."
The goblins that had fled—of course they would carry tales.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't. That is trust's nature—always a leap into uncertainty." Her wings dimmed. "But if the Fae wished you harm, would I have announced myself?"
[The Fae honor their word. What other entanglements may arise… that is another matter.]
"If I come, I want your word that I can leave whenever I choose."
Lyra's eyes gleamed with respect. "You have it. I, Lyra, Herald of the Fae Courts, give you my word: you may leave Moonwood whenever you wish. This I swear upon the ancient accords."
Her wings flared brilliant, and Marel felt a pulse of magic sealing the oath.
"Then I accept."
Lyra smiled. "Excellent." She extended her hand. "Come then, Marel the Acknowledged. Let us leave this desert behind."
Marel hesitated only a moment before taking her hand. The moment their hands connected, her wings blazed with brilliant light, expanding outward in a corona that engulfed them both.
The oasis, the desert… all dissolved into radiance. And Marel felt himself being pulled forward, toward a realm of ancient magic. The last thing he heard was the Soul of the World's whisper:
[Be careful, young warrior. The Fae keep their promises… but they are masters of what is left unsaid.]
Then there was only light, motion, and the sensation of crossing some invisible threshold between worlds.
One more step of his journey had begun.