When Heror woke, his hand instinctively went to his belt, where no weapon resided. After a moment of grasping, he opened his eyes and sat up in a rush. He felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder when he moved, and as he clasped with his right hand, he realized that the arrowhead was no longer embedded in his skin. His wound was bandaged. His Ardysan cuirass was gone – replaced by a soft blue tunic.

Confused, Heror’s eyes rose. He was on a crude straw bed, in a small tent – tall and narrow, with light brown walls of jute and burlap canvas, and a cloth floor that overlaid flat dirt ground. He could feel a slight breeze sneaking into the tent. A Midan soldier stood guard at the entrance.

When the Midan soldier saw Heror sit up, he turned and made his way to the corner, where a small wooden table sat. On the table was a wooden tray, holding what looked like a mix of beef, rice, and corn, and a small clay cup of water. The Midan soldier carried the tray to Heror’s bedside, then knelt down and placed it beside Heror. Then the Midan stood.

“Eat. Drink,” he said, his Kivvenean rough, voice heavy with an accent.

Heror eyed the guard, still confused – but his empty stomach howled, and soon, he dug into the meal, scarfing down forkfuls of meat, grain, and vegetable until it was all gone. The water, he soon drank.

When he finished and looked up again, the guard had left, leaving him alone. Brow lowered, he sat up straight. He stretched out his sore legs, and as he did so, he realized that something was missing.

Suddenly in a rush, Heror reached inside his tunic and confirmed his suspicion: His kinship cloth was gone. His breath shortened, and he started to rise to his feet, when the tent flaps opened again, and the Midan guard returned with another man at his side. The man was a thin djauul with gray aging skin, loose black hair, and a thin beard that had been shaved and fashioned below his cheeks. He was clad in light leather armor, but also wore a dark brown cloak, hood down.

“Where is it??” Heror snapped.

The man did not answer his question. Instead, he motioned outside with a nod.

“He wants to see you,” the man said simply.

Heror thought to resist, but at the sight of the armed guard, his mind relented. Silently, he rose to his feet. The man held the flap open for him, letting the sunlight shine through. Heror stepped out into the open, and after his eyes adjusted to the midday light, he took in his surroundings.

He was at the northern edge of what appeared to be a Midan camp. Rows of burlap tents – with their openings facing east – stretched to the south, east, and west. Farther east, past a tall wooden pavilion, he could see a row of wooden posts where horses were tied by ropes. Far in the distance, a small river halted at the camp’s edge, and appeared to stretch from the southeast. To the south, he could see a slight red cliff face past the boundary of the camp, with a green forest lying overtop it – the forest he’d entered before losing consciousness.

Now Heror turned to the north, and his jaw dropped, frozen in awe, as a gust of dry wind met his face.

The Midan camp was situated on a flat of rock and red dirt that sloped downward. And less than a hundred yards out, to the north, that red rock – dotted by shrubs and ball-shaped cacti – gave way to an endless sea of sloping sands. Billions of golden grains splayed across the northern landscape to form a field of waves and swells, horizons upon horizons, molded by millennia of wind – and all underneath a rich royal blue sky just as ageless.

Sparhha. The Great Desert of Pylantheum.

He had made it.

“Ser Heran.”

Startled at the sound of the name on his kinship cloth, Heror turned and looked at the man, who gestured to the south.

“This way,” the man said.

Heror followed the man to the south, walking past rows of tents in silence. Every now and then, a Midan djauul guard passed by Heror and gave him a look, but no words were spoken. In minutes, they reached the southern end of the camp, and the man led Heror to a taller burlap tent nestled at the base of the red rock cliff face. The man brushed open the flap and went in without hesitation. Heror followed.

Inside the tent, strands of stray sunlight peeked through the burlap stitchings, but most of the light came from strange keatuu runes on the ceiling, washing the tent interior and the cloth floor in a golden hue. This tent was larger inside – not as big as the Ardysan longhouse, but large enough to store a small dining table, wooden chairs, and what appeared to be a war council table at the far end. At the council table, another man – lean and slightly taller than the average djauul – stood with his back turned. But at the sound of the tent flap opening, he turned and gave the man a smile.

“Ah – thank you my friend.”

Now Heror saw the taller man’s face. He was older, but there was a youthful glint in his purple eyes, which stared ahead with a full – almost startling – focus. Both his hair and his skin were a mix of silver and gold. His face was sharp, angular – but in all the best ways, and his smile was quaint, modest – enveloped by a thin silver fuzz that covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a dark, dull garment, without any capes or colored cloth linings or intricate patches – only a deep blue desert scarf that hugged his neck and hung over his shoulders.

“Is there anything else?” The guide asked.

“No, Shaail. Thank you again,” the man at the table replied, his voice rich and sharp, and his Kivvenean pronunciation clear. “You may go.”

The dark-haired man departed, leaving Heror alone with the other man inside the tent walls. As Heror observed him, the man reached for something on the council table and turned back toward Heror. He approached and held out an item: Heror’s kinship cloth, rolled up neatly.

“I believe this is yours,” the man offered.

Heror eyed him for a moment longer, then took the kinship cloth and stowed it beneath his tunic. The man went back to the table and now grabbed an object that rested against it. He turned back around, and Heror saw that he was carrying the sword Kerit.

“And this,” the man added.

Heror blinked, still confused. Then he took the Midan sword and slid it back underneath his belt. The man turned again, gesturing to the tent ceiling as he walked to the council table.

“I apologize about the illumination runes. I know they can be a little unnerving at first,” he chatted. “But something about the smell of smoke just doesn’t sit well with me.”

The man grabbed an empty wooden chair from the corner and carried it over to the council table. As he set it down, he started to speak again.

“‘Heran,’” he echoed. “A Pylanthean name. And yet…”

He glanced at Heror.

“… you are a half-blood.”

Heror felt a tinge of anger at the sound of this term. His brow furrowed. His nose curled. The man wasn’t fazed.

“Relax,” the man said, with the smallest of smirks. “We can say it when we’re referring to ourselves.”

Now Heror narrowed his eyes and observed the man again, and new connections began to form. The golden hue of the skin. The rich, radiant pigment of the irises. The angled ears, and the golden blonde in his hair. This man – like Heror – was half-Opelite. Half-Ardysan.

The man had now walked back to the other end of the council table, and he stood behind it. He placed one hand on the wood. And with the other, he gestured to the chair now placed on the other side.

“You may sit, if you’d like.”

“Why would I need to sit?” Heror protested.

“You can stand as well – if you’d prefer that.”

“Why can’t I just leave?”

Now the man was silent for a moment. His brow creased, and he gave a slight, calculating smile.

“My men saw your Ardysan armor and thought you to be a spy. They captured you alive with the intent of bringing you back here, and learning what you knew about our operations. But I saw the wound beneath your right arm. We gave you a clean bandage. The cut was too thin to be made by any Midan weapon. It’s the cut of an Ardysan longsword.”

Heror said nothing. The man continued.

“I saw your armor – dirty, disheveled, cloths tattered, pieces missing. Your skin, bruised and covered in dried blood. Your empty bag – made from Midan cow leather, not from Ardysan reed fletchings. A Midan map in your possession, with a path drawn out from Ardys to Pylantheum.”

Still, Heror said nothing. The man nodded to himself.

“You were surviving. Not spying,” he deduced.

“What does it matter to you?” Heror growled.

“Well… I’m impressed,” the man answered. “You traveled over two-hundred miles on foot from the Ardysan border. It looks like you crossed through to the east of the Mides, and traveled up the western side of Lake Llalur. With barely any food and water, you made your way through the steppes. And you would’ve kept going – perhaps to your own peril – if we hadn’t stopped you.”

“What’s your point?” Heror grumbled. “What do you want from me?”

The man gave Heror another look, then stood up straight. He crossed his arms and smiled.

“You seem very distrusting by nature,” he chimed.

As soon as he said this, however, his expression darkened. And suddenly, his clever smile gave way to a grave frown – a turn that surprised even Heror.

“I can’t say I’d blame you,” the man continued, with intentful eyes. “You’re not the first person they’ve cast aside.”

At this, Heror’s expression began to change. There was still that severity in his gaze – but now he listened and leaned in ever so slightly. The man saw this change.

“The way I see it,” the man went on, “we saved your life when we brought you here. What you do when this conversation ends is your choice. But if we hadn’t stopped you, you would’ve carried on into the Pylanthean desert. And you would’ve died of thirst and starvation. The closest city isn’t for another two-hundred and fifty miles. You never would have made it on your own.”

The man took a deep breath, then leaned forward again, resting his hands on the table.

“You ask what I want from you,” he acknowledged. “I want to have a conversation with you. I think you owe me that much. Nothing more at the moment, and nothing less. We’ll see where it leads. And maybe when it’s over… I can help you reach your destination.”

Now the man looked on at Heror, with eyes sharp as daggers, frozen in focus – eyes that commanded Heror’s attention. And at this point, he had it. Heror thought for a moment longer, then stepped forward. He sat in the chair the man had provided for him. The man nodded.

“Now…” the man said. “My name is Raldu Ruhun. And yours?”

The young one was silent for a moment. Then he answered, his voice small.

“Heror.”

The tent walls danced in the wind from outside – a subtle sway that caused ripples in the light.

“Heror Heran… what do you believe in?”

From the trees far above, Heror heard a songbird call.

“I’m just trying to find my family,” Heror muttered.

“So you believe in family then?” Raldu posited. “And love?”

Heror opened his mouth as if to give an answer, but he realized he didn’t have one.

“Do you believe in the Gods?” Raldu asked.

Again, Heror didn’t have an answer.

“The Divine Consortium,” Raldu went on. “The spiritual hierarchy that almost the entirety of the Nine Kingdoms of Kivveneth swears by. Do you believe in them?”

Heror stayed silent for a moment, thoughts starting to run. Then he shook his head and mustered a reply – one he’d given before.

“I’ve never had a reason to believe in the Gods.”

Raldu watched him, as if waiting for more.

Heror added: “Some people say the Gods have spoken to them. Some people say the Gods have given them things they prayed for. That never happened for me.”

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Now Raldu asked: “Did you come from Pylantheum originally?”

Heror shook his head. Raldu raised an eyebrow.

“So you have a kinship cloth from Pylantheum – donning the Kingdom’s great mountains and a clan name – but you yourself are not from there?”

“All I remember is when I was a child,” Heror told him. “I grew up on the docks in Cephragon. I was taken in by… by some people. If I was ever in Pylantheum, I was too young to remember it.”

“Cephragon,” Raldu repeated, an air of familiarity in his voice. “The Jeweled City. If there was ever such an ironic title.”

Heror looked at him. Raldu dropped his eyes for a moment, deep in thought. Then his focus returned, and he met Heror’s stare.

“You were orphaned then – as a half-blood, in the Jeweled City,” he deduced. “And judging by your armor, you were conscripted into the army. Then you ran away.”

Heror nodded, withholding a few details. Raldu continued.

“And you were on your way to Pylantheum – to try and find your real family. Do you worry that you’d never find them, even if you made it across?”

After a small, silent moment, Heror gave a solemn nod, his eyes sinking to the floor.

“So then what do you believe in?” Raldu asked again, standing up straight.

Heror was quiet, lost in thought. A part of him did not understand the question. A part of him did. And another part of him longed to avoid it entirely. And after another long moment of silence, he carelessly shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.

“Nothing, then,” Raldu concluded.

Heror didn’t acknowledge the old man. Something about this answer made him sad. He did not know why.

“You believe in nothing.”

Heror sank his head. Another gust of wind caused the tent walls to swell, ever so softly – like an ocean tide. Lifting and receding.

“I was like you once, Heror Heran,” Raldu examined. “The world is inundated with divine references. Belief is an expectation. It can be suffocating. But there are so many who are forgotten. Neglected. Abused. Mistreated by those who deem themselves superior, more worthy, or closer to the Gods by birthright. I know you understand that feeling. Why should those who are forgotten believe? Why can’t they question things? And why don’t the Gods stop the unjust, if they are so noble, and if they have the power to do so?”

Raldu paced to the end of the table, aligning himself with Heror.

“I was like you,” the man went on. “There were times when I was in need. And I prayed. And I too heard no answer. I had nothing to believe in. So I decided to believe in something else.”

He paused, and waited for Heror to lift up his head again – to make sure Heror saw his eyes.

“Free will.”

Now Heror’s eyes did meet Raldu’s. And what had once been uneasy acquiescence was now attentive curiosity. He sat back up in his seat.

“Do you know of the Midans’ plight?” Raldu inquired.

Heror shook his head.

“The Midans – the elinjii, the servesi, the brahman – all of the tribes and clans and races, save for the djauuls, who came from the jungles of Jandoa – are descendants from a continent far to the east, called Akintar. A terrible place. They first sailed west over four thousand years ago, hoping to find a better life. They arrived before any elves or else had inhabited the lands of Mide, and they made the lands their own. They settled far south past the location of the wall today. Then the djauuls came, driven east by the Opelites, made peace with the ancient Akintari descendants, and lived among them.

“But then the Opelites came from the south, and the Pylanjuun Cyngoths came from the north. And they flushed the Midans from their homes and fought for the land. Whole centuries went by with the Midans subjected to Opelite or Pylanthean rule, and centuries more went by with the Midans enslaved. They were labeled the ‘beastfolk’, branded and treated as animals, and some tribes were eradicated entirely. Under the guise of worship for Opela – the God of Beauty – and Sparhh – the God of Courage – the elves and elsish did ugly and cowardly things, and performed acts of great cruelty.

“At the end of the Mygratium Eoh – over 4,000 years ago – the Midans won their freedom and at last became a sovereign Kingdom, but it came at a cost. The Kingdom was fractured and weak, and years of fighting and strained allegiances turned tribes against one another. Pylantheum’s army never remained as strong as it had been in ancient times – and so it was no longer strong enough to brave the desert – but the Opelites made several attempts at invading Mide from the south, until they grew tired of our resistance, and erected a border wall to protect themselves. And then they told their children stories about our lands – to scare them and make them hate us and brand us as monsters, while they – rotten to the core by hubris – do monstrous things to their others. They’re not the only ones. The Midans’ is not the only story across the Nine Kingdoms – and all the while, the Al-Ra have done nothing.

“A select few Gods have not forsaken us. But I believe most of the Gods are not what they are made to be. I believe most of them are fickle beings – not as powerful or as noble or as close to us as many would lead us to believe. If they were, we would not have been abandoned for so long. And I believe that this is our realm, and we have the free will to make changes on our own, if we don’t believe in their ability to do so. That is what we – the Midans – aim to do, now that we have the strength to do it. To tear the Divine Consortium from its fundaments, shift the divine order, and refute the divine providence that Kingdoms claim as their own and wield as a weapon against those they oppress.”

Raldu paused. Heror was still listening. Raldu walked around the edge of the table and drew closer.

“I know you can sympathize with what the Midans have gone through,” he continued. “And I offer you the chance to join us. To believe in something, and live for something. Make a change you know this world needs.”

Raldu paused again, waiting for an answer. Heror’s mind went back to so many things. The days, weeks, and months at the docks in Cephragon. Coming back to the mahallas bruised, battered, bloody, and weak. Every day, wondering if he’d be the dying worker who was tossed overboard. The insults thrown his way in the market and on the way to the wharf. Watching families in the Royal Oval just miles away living comfortably, while he starved each day.

He thought back to Kraana’s Pass. The three-horned bull. Nihlukei. The slaughter of siephalls. The Midans had done the killing, but it was Ardys’ carelessness that set it in motion. And in the aftermath, there was no remorse. They cared more about putting Heror in his place than righting their wrongs, or pondering their mistakes. He thought about his fight with Oranthei, and the things the siekangh had said. And later, when Heror ran away, it was an elinji who helped him survive, when he least expected it.

But then Heror thought about Thaeolai and Ucankacei. And the flaring conviction in his eyes died out. He shook his head and stood from his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have friends in Ardys. I can’t fight against them.”

He expected this answer to disappoint Raldu, but instead, Raldu nodded and took a step toward Heror. His expression was understanding but stern, and after a short silence, he spoke.

“Then fight to save them.”

Heror went outside to think – back to the northern edge of the camp, where he could look upon the expanse of the great desert, and feel the wind as it sloped up the rock cliffs and flats. The sun was starting to fall in the west. To the east, closer to the river that bordered the camp, Heror could hear shouts and laughter. As he looked on, he could see three Midan soldiers in the distance, kicking an animal hide ball in a circle. Soldiers walked about the camp behind him. Some talked amongst themselves, some sat around fire pits and ate their meals, while others sat and meditated. All seemed relaxed.

Now Heror turned toward the desert again, and he leaned against a wooden tent post, crossing his arms. Ever since he left Ardys, he hadn’t had time to think like this. And as he thought, he realized something: He’d never been able to choose what he fought for.

He was conscripted into the Ardysan army. There, Nihlukei had told him to fight for his pack – but just days later, they were gone. Raldu had been convincing, but Heror felt apprehensive at another person telling him what to fight for. He’d never been able to truly make the choice for himself.

But then he thought about Thaeolai and Ucankacei, and all the others who’d suffered with him in the mahallas. As bad as his life had been in Cephragon, he hadn’t gotten close to the worst of it. If he ever had the choice to fight for something, wouldn’t this be his choice? The freedom of others from a Kingdom and a cruelty he knew all too well? This felt right. This felt righteous.

For a fleeting moment, he thought about what Ucankacei might think. Or what Nihlukei would have thought. But Ucankacei didn’t know any better, Heror told himself. He’d had this conversation with Ucankacei far too many times – trying to show him how little he meant to Ardys, and Ucankacei brushing him off each time. And when Heror needed Ucankacei’s support, Ucankacei chose his Kingdom over him. Ucankacei turned his back.

Heror sighed and shook his head. It didn’t matter what Ucankacei would think about this decision. He had no reason to care about what Ucankacei thought. Ucankacei – and everything else – was in the past. This decision was Heror’s.

He had dropped his eyes, but now they returned to the desert. Raldu had said it was two-hundred and fifty miles across to the next city. Looking at it from where he stood, Heror wouldn’t have been surprised if it was even farther. The desert stretched on for what felt like eternity. The sheer scale of it was a sobering sight. And as he watched the sand breeze into the air from the tops of the dunes, forming a golden haze in the evening sunlight, Heror’s thoughts ran again.

He’d been traveling north to find his family – a family he knew might not exist anymore. His stubborn persistence would have carried him into the desert to his death. And looking at the desert now, he was as close as he’d ever been – but his dreams of finding anything but death in the sands beyond felt more and more distant.

Perhaps he’d have a chance to find his family someday. Maybe now wasn’t the right time.

The sun grew lower. The sky turned red. And soon, Raldu came out to meet him, greeting a pair of Midan soldiers as they walked past. The half-elf stepped next to Heror and slid his hands behind his back, taking a deep breath as he too gazed out at the desert.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” he remarked.

Heror said nothing, his eyes scaling the waves of sand that rolled beneath a now starry deep blue sky.

“In ancient times, the early Cyngoth Kings – the Caitans – of Pylantheum built great temples and cities in the sands, and used these temples as a bastion when the Opelites tried to stretch their empire north. But in their arrogance, they underestimated the power of the sands and the power of time, and all of their temples and oases were swallowed up – like ships in a storm. No civilization has tested Sparhha since, and creatures have taken their place among the dunes.”

He paused.

“Smaller parties can reach farther inside the wastes,” Raldu went on. “But even then, the way is dangerous. The heat during the day can be overwhelming, and supplies run low quickly. Most who hope to travel north – to the northern city of Pylantheus – travel up the eastern coastline. But the waters are treacherous, and the cliffs farther north are jagged and sharp.”

Raldu glanced at Heror.

“You need not make a decision today,” he pressed on. “But if you decide to keep heading north, I want you to know what you–”

“No.”

Heror blinked and took a deep breath, then nodded to himself. His eyes left the desert to the north, and he looked at Raldu.

“I’ve decided,” he said. “I’ll stay. I’ll fight.”

Raldu was silent. Heror nodded to himself again, and then his eyes returned to the sands.

“I have a choice. This is my choice.”

Raldu eyed him for a moment, then nodded, a slight smile forming on his face. He patted Heror on the back with his right hand, and his eyes went to the desert as well.

“Welcome,” he said simply.

A spell of quiet fell on the pair, and for a moment, there was no sound other than the wind, racing up the rock flats and flowing into the camp.

“In truth, you may experience a break in the fighting here – though I think you’d welcome a rest,” Raldu spoke. “This camp is of more strategic importance. It’s where instructions from myself and my generals flow southward, through Mote and to the border. But it also gives us a view of the north, and gives us a foothold into the desert, for another strategic objective in our sights.”

“So you’re the leader?” Heror surmised.

“So they say,” Raldu said with a sigh. “The elinji and the Tekhal riders call me Aktaku. The djauuls of the Mire Lands call me Perixilach. I prefer no titles. I only want what my people deserve. I do make commands – but my leadership is just as much of the spiritual variety.”

He paused, then glanced at Heror.

“To that end, I do have a task for you.”

Heror met Raldu’s glance.

“The placement of this camp is no coincidence,” Raldu began. “Yes, it is an ideal strategic location. Visibility to the north, a supply of water, and protection to the south from distance and land features. But we are also searching for something in the desert. A perilous endeavor – but one that is absolutely necessary for our cause.”

“What are you searching for?” Heror asked.

“I assume you’ve never heard of the Divine Artifacts,” Raldu commented.

Heror shook his head. Raldu nodded, squinting in the sharp amber light of the sunset, as his golden-silver hair rustled in the breeze.

“The divines have intertwined themselves with this world, enough to leave remnants and traces in the form of objects and tools, often for mortal use,” Raldu explained. “The most powerful Divine Artifacts, according to ancient texts and legends, are the Boons of the Divine Consortium. Supposedly given to the elesvium in times of great need. Whether or not they truly exist in their mortal forms, even I could not tell you for certain. But we know where one might be. It goes by many names: The Sword of Sparhh, the Divinium Diaphanae. Wingtooth. Spharhhox. It is one of the most powerful swords ever forged. In the wrong hands – perhaps in the possession of the Ardysan Kcirun and high society – you know what this Sword could do.

“Almost a month ago, we found a library in the desert – approximately 2,500 years old – its entrance partially exposed by sandstorms. And inside that library, we found ancient Pylanthean texts and scrolls that hinted toward the existence of this weapon. We’ve been able to narrow down our search area, and we’ve identified several sunken temples that might house the Sword. But a trip to even one of them is a dangerous, days-long journey that requires horses, manpower, and supplies. And I cannot afford to leave camp for long periods of time.

“You’ve already proven your survival skills, so with better supplies, I have no doubt you’d be ready. My task for you, Heror: Help us pinpoint the location of the Sword and recover it, so we can ensure that it never falls into the hands of those who would use it to do harm.”

Heror nodded. Raldu reciprocated the gesture with a glance, and then turned back to the desert, upon which night was beginning to fall.

“You’ll start in the morning,” he affirmed. “Your tent is right here – the same one you had this morning. Come find me in the tall tent at dawn. I’ll lead you to the mess hall and introduce you to Adjaash, the leader of our search team – and Brocus Elius, our linguistics expert. Once you all have been acquainted, you can begin assisting with their work.”

Heror nodded one last time, and Raldu turned away, soon disappearing among the many tents farther inside the camp.

Heror turned his eyes back to the desert, and he saw that the sun had almost completely set. To the west, the afterglow he’d grown familiar with hugged the horizon, and the sun itself was a mere half-ellipse of red, drowning in the land. Nestled between the scarlet sunset and the constellation fields above, the golden waves of the desert rolled and rolled, casting a dark shadow as they went farther east.

It was then that Heror’s mind went back to Nihlukei. The few times they’d spoken about battle and life, it was at sunset. He wondered how Nihlukei would feel about him fighting for the Midans. For a moment, his expression darkened, and he felt worry – but soon enough, he brushed the worries away and took a deep breath.

He would understand, he thought to himself. He would understand.

But it was not something he knew. It was only a hope.

Once the sun disappeared behind the sands and the rocks, and the wind and the air was all left in darkness, Heror turned and retired for the night. The stars spun ever so slowly up above.