In the dim light of dawn, they made final preparations.

Heror and Adjaash ate breakfast at the pavilion, and then they went to their horses. Following Adjaash’s lead, Heror made sure all of Shaadur’s straps and riding implements were secure. Then he ensured that the supply packs were securely fastened behind the saddle. As they worked, the sun started to rise in the east behind them. A clear blue sky, threatening unrelenting heat, was illuminated by the sun’s rays. The desert to the north was cast in a brazen golden light.

When he was finished going through his checks, Heror patted Shaadur on his side and gave the horse food to eat. It was then that he felt a hand tap his shoulder. He turned to his left to see Adjaash, who held out a rolled tan cowl for him to take.

“Put this on and tuck it over your neck,” she advised. “It’ll protect your face from the wind and sun if you need it.”

Heror nodded and took the cowl. He slipped it on over his hair and his face, then rolled it down around his tunic collar, as if a scarf. He fixed his hair, matting out new frizzes in the curls. Then he glanced at Adjaash – whose focus now turned to her horse Ashanji.

The day of the search had come, and Heror noticed that an air of seriousness had taken over Adjaash. She was not joking or jeering today. Her eyes carried a steady, almost grave focus, and as he watched her go through her own equipment checks, he saw the meticulous precision in her hands, and the stubborn thoroughness – sometimes checking straps two or three times before proceeding.

“Adjaash,” he started.

Adjaash looked at him, eyes and expression low.

“When Raldu was talking about the desert,” Heror went on. “‘Keep your eyes on the horizon, and your ears to the ground…’”

Adjaash eyed him.

“What did he mean by that?” Heror asked. “What was he warning us about?”

“Zhai Ghi.”

It was not Adjaash who answered, but the old Midan Nariyu. Heror turned to the right and saw the djauul tending to his horse Kauta. He stared at Heror with intense eyes, fear deep underneath.

“Demons,” Nariyu went on, a light quiver in his voice. “Eaters.”

Now Heror turned back to Adjaash, as if seeking clarification. Adjaash looked past Heror and gave Nariyu a stern look, then glanced back at Heror.

“I’ve only ever seen them once,” Adjaash reassured Heror. “From a distance. They’re just animals. As long as we stay alert and keep our strength in numbers, we’ll be fine. Focus on keeping yourself and your horse fueled and hydrated. Just as much danger lies there.”

Heror nodded, his brow creased.

“Once we enter the desert…” Adjaash went on, tightening one final strap on her horse. “… we’ll pick up our speed. We’ll rest only when we need to. We should be able to reach the temple before sundown.”

Now Adjaash glanced past Heror and Nariyu to the far end of the row, where the other three party members were readying their horses.

“Brocus,” she called, voice firm. “Are your straps tightened?”

“Yes, yes, they’re tightened,” Brocus mumbled dismissively.

Adjaash wasn’t convinced, but she paid no more mind to the scholar. She looked past him, to the other two Midan soldiers, who were fitted in light desert garbs.

“Yuryu! Khaliu!” she called again, raising her voice a bit more. “All of your equipment is secure? Straps are tight?”

The two Midans gave Adjaash statements of affirmation, and Adjaash nodded. She looked past all of them, to the eastern sun that had now risen above the trees. She cast her eyes north to the desert one last time, then took a stifled breath.

“Let’s mount then,” she exclaimed, pulling up her cowl. “And let’s be off.”

And so they untied their horses from their posts, mounted, and set off. Adjaash led the party to the western edge of the camp, where the path down the red rock flat wasn’t quite as steep. They ventured down the path – lined by shrubs, thin grasses, and cacti – and soon, the rocks rose around them. The path sank, and they found themselves in a small, narrow canyon.

In the canyon, the wind that had remained constant for days on end inside the camp was gone. The air was still, and the horses’ hooves – quickened to a canter – echoed in the silence of the corridor. But within minutes of travel inside the canyon, Heror – second in line behind Adjaash – heard the howl of the wind once again. And almost as soon as they descended within it, the canyon itself descended below the desert. The red rocks sank and disappeared, and from the northern mouth of the canyon crevice, they spilled out onto the sands.

From the red rock perched above, the desert had appeared endless to Heror. At ground level, it felt no smaller. Above, it was as if he had been gazing across an ocean from a cliff. Below, it was as if he was drowning in the waves.

Everywhere, there was sand. It blanketed the ground and the hill crests and troughs, and it floated in the air – kicked up like golden mist with each arid gust. It even dulled the sun – far from enough to give the riders shade, but enough to filter the blue sky with a thin haze.

In the desert, Adjaash quickened her horse’s pace to a gallop, and the others followed suit. Heror held the reins steady and hugged Shaadur’s sides with his shins, feet fastened inside the stirrups. With each trough, his sight was dominated by gold and brown dunes. And with each crest, the horizons upon horizons of the eternal desert ahead revealed themselves to him again. At one point, he glanced back over his right shoulder, and past the search party, he could see nothing but dunes. Back over his left, he could just barely make out the great orange plateau that had guided him in the steppes. When he turned his head a second time ten minutes later, it was gone.

They rode north for around an hour longer – until the sun was almost at their backs – and then they found a flat area in the sand to stop and rest. By now, even with the wind, the heat of the unobstructed sun had begun to billow and pool. It emanated off the glowing sands and lingered in the air, and as Heror lowered his cowl and took in a breath, he felt the husk of heavy heat fill his throat, and erupted into a short coughing fit. Shaadur whinnied lightly, shaking his ears, and Heror brought his hand to the horse’s mane, catching his breath.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “It’s alright, Shaadur. It’s alright.”

Ahead, Adjaash dismounted from her horse, and so Heror and the others did the same. Heror slid his right foot back over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He heard Brocus groan farther back, and as he looked, he saw the scholar glowering.

“How do I have sand in my boots already?” Brocus scoffed.

“Stop whining, boloh,” Adjaash crooned, holding a canteen of water to her horse’s snout.

“What does that mean?” Brocus scowled.

“It means ‘distinguished guest,’” Adjaash replied, stowing the canteen away.

Brocus glared – knowing full well that Torwan was a language he had no grasp on – and then he turned away. Adjaash now walked past Heror.

“That’s not what it means,” she whispered to Heror with a smirk, adjusting her bow over her shoulder.

Heror let out a small laugh. Adjaash turned her focus to the rest of the group.

“Five minutes!” she called out. “Eat, drink, tend to your horses. Whatever you need to do.”

She started to turn back the other way when she heard two of the Midan soldiers arguing at the edge of the dune. She passed Brocus and Nariyu to find Yuryu and Khaliu talking at each other in sharp voices. Yuryu – the younger one – met Khaliu with a quick shove, and then Adjaash pushed them apart before they continued.

“What is it?” she probed.

“This idiot was about to take a piss,” Yuryu admonished.

Adjaash shrugged, not seeing the issue: “Does he have to go?”

Now the Midans interjected over each other – “Yes, I have to go”, “He should’ve gone when we were at camp” – until the younger one said: “The Zhai Ghi will follow the scent!”

“If they want to follow that kind of scent, the horses will leave plenty behind for them anyway,” Adjaash reminded him.

Now Yuryu went silent. Adjaash gave him one last look before turning to Khaliu.

“Go take your piss,” she muttered with disinterest. “Kick some sand over it when you’re done.”

They took their five-minute rest and then – with thirsts quenched and bodies replenished – they set off to the north again at a gallop’s pace, with Adjaash at the lead. They carried on through the desert as the sun reached its apex and prepared its descent, until they came across a large, discarded stone structure half-buried in the sand. Perhaps it had once been a watchtower, but it had long since toppled over, leaving its height and grandeur behind. On one side, a worn pillar stood around fifteen feet tall, and from behind it, a wind-smoothened slab stretched out, covered in grains of dust and rock.

In front of the stone structure, the six party members slowed to a stop on their horses. Adjaash peered out into the desert waves beyond. Then she pulled a map from her pack and unrolled it, as her horse idled.

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“This landmark is roughly due north of camp. From here, we make a turn to the northwest. Around twenty more miles.”

In the mid-afternoon, the sun was at its hottest; there were no clouds in sight. Heror’s light-colored clothes helped, and the cowl protected his face. But the barrage of dry heat was starting to overwhelm. Heror’s skin felt pasty and sticky – as if he was sweating, but the sweat evaporated before it had a chance to cool him. His head was light and heavy all at once. He could feel himself starting to sway.

Under the sweltering heat, even the horses were starting to slow their pace. Up ahead, Heror watched Adjaash pour cool water on Ashanji’s coat as they went, and so he did the same for Shaadur. He grabbed one of his canteens from a bag pouch behind him, then let the water flow over his horse’s mane. Shaadur let out a quick neigh of appreciation. Heror smiled, and – now curious – he poured water on his own face. A cool, refreshing rush overcame him, and his focus returned, as droplets ran off his chin and fell to the sand below.

Some time passed, until – at the peak of another dune crest – Adjaash stopped and waited for the others to join her. Heror rode up alongside Adjaash, and he saw what she saw: A temple in the far distance.

From what Heror could see, it was exactly as Raldu had described it. It was around five miles away still, but even from where they stood, he could see a great marble dome peering above the low-sloping dunes, underlaid by marble pillars. It was an off-white kissed by sand-colored brown after thousands of years of wind exposure. It almost blended into the desert itself, but under the sun, the peak of the dome radiated with light in one last gasp of brilliance, announcing itself to the travelers.

“There’s the temple,” Adjaash declared, as a gust of wind rolled by. “We’ll take a quick rest here. And then we’ll close in.”

They stopped. They ate and drank and fed their horses. And then they started off again – the Midans shooting a quick glance behind them before departing.

On the way to the temple, the waves of sand rose and fell. And with each downswell, more eroded shrines, structures, and fortifications could be seen dotting the desert. On either side of the search party, worn columns and toppled marble walls sat sporadically, half-buried in the sand. Whatever things of substance they once contained were long gone; these were the barren bones of a civilization, and nothing more.

As they neared the temple, Brocus – perhaps unconsciously – quickened his pace and rode close behind Heror and Adjaash, while the three Midans made up the rear. The scholar’s eyes drifted from left to right, over the decayed stone remnants that lay scattered all around them. Next to one stone structure, a long-dead tree stood – nothing more than a warped, twisted strand of charcoal, blackened by the eternal sun. The horses slowed to a trot. The wind whistled and howled across a dead landscape.

“The legends say there was a time when the ground was fertile in the middle of the desert,” Brocus marveled. “In a grand oasis, with springs beneath, a great city stretched for miles on end, with legendary Caitans to rule it, and massive armies to guard it. It was the height of ancient civilization – a stronghold few dared to test. And when they did, they always failed.”

To the right, a run-down wooden chariot sat atop a mound of stone and dusted rubble. In the sunlight, a dented sword blinked with brightness.

“But time is a thing no man can best,” Brocus decried. “It is the enemy that always goes unseen… until it strikes.”

As they rode closer, Heror’s hand suddenly went to his shirt pocket, to make sure his kinship cloth was still there. His mind worked as he looked upon the scattered ruins. This was Pylantheum – the place from which he’d supposedly hailed. He knew there were cities that still existed beyond the desert. But if all of this greatness was gone and buried, he wondered how much could truly be left.

In minutes, they came upon one final dune, and as they crested it, the sands flattened in front of the temple bounds. Up ahead, the temple dome and pillars sat atop a short, wide marble staircase, which itself was half-buried by the desert. In front of the temple sat a dilapidated courtyard of sand and stone. Statues that might’ve once commemorated great warriors and philosophers now sat as distorted husks of browned, cracked, and patinated marble, their once-intricate details long erased by the unyielding wind.

On one statue, Heror could make out a faded flowering Sun symbol, on the hilt of a cracked and worn sword. The face of the statue’s warrior – once stoic – was now constricted and pained by erosion. As Heror observed the statue, Brocus walked up beside him on his horse, eyes thinning in the light.

“They began as God-worshippers,” Brocus observed. “Then they worshiped themselves. And then they were forgotten.”

Heror glanced at Brocus, who had already begun to wander ahead. The young man wondered if this journey was proof otherwise of Brocus’ claim. They, at least, had remembered ancient Pylantheum. But they were not here to honor. Only to scavenge.

Heror blinked and squinted beneath the bright afternoon sun, and then he too started forward, giving Shaadur a whisper and a light nudge of his heel.

The six slithered on horseback through the deserted courtyard, trailing through narrow pathways of stone ruin and sand mounds, until they all met again at the base of the wide marble staircase. At the foot of the temple, the wind rushed through and rose in tenor. Cloaks swayed in the breeze.

“Let’s dismount!” Adjaash shouted over the wind. “Secure your horses’ reins and we’ll lead them to shelter!”

Now the party members dismounted their horses. Once he landed and found his footing on the sand-blasted stone, Heror grabbed Shaadur’s reins. And then – following Adjaash’s lead – he led his horse up the low-sloping marble steps, along with the rest of the party. The upwelling wind seemed to spook the Midans; their wide eyes jumped at each gust. But as Heror peered back at the desert, he saw nothing but empty waves of sand gleaming in daylight, and the brown haze that floated above.

It wasn’t long before they reached the top of the staircase and slipped through the fluted stone columns, and the shade of the rotunda washed over them. It was lost on Heror how hot the outside had been until he made his way into the shade. Within seconds, he felt a chill run down his spine. But when the shock of the temperature change subsided, he felt relief, and he pulled down his cowl.

They made their way into the dome interior, and all at once, Heror was met with an awesome sight. Inside the domed temple rotunda, the marble walls were much better preserved. Up above, scaling the ceiling, he saw rows and rows of ornate murals – etched in deep, rich shades of orange and green and blue and red – a painted constellation of legends and tales. He saw mountains and waves and monsters and swords, and Pylanthean heroes made distinct by their brilliant forms. The waves, with their sprawling whitecaps and swirled currents, matched the ones on his kinship cloth.

Brocus, too, was transfixed by the sight above. The else craned his head and gaped, his eyes leaping from row to row, until they landed at the very top of the dome – perhaps thirty feet up – where a circular array of color sat: A perfect radius of shimmering purple and green and blue, brightened by a thick glass skylight above it.

“Look there,” Brocus said with astonishment, pointing up at the dome’s peak. “Those are the lights of the Painted Sea – where Nehlox meditated and communed with the Gods, and saw the vision for else-kind on the land of Kivveneth. That is where the history of the Pylanthean people on Kivveneth begins.”

His wide, focused eyes flowed outward from the dome’s center, and as he gazed up at the murals, more historic events revealed themselves to him.

“Nehlox’s dealings with the Ice God Knepfr,” the scholar reflected aloud. “The Cyngoth Civil War begins at Aunusal. The three-days duel – the haakhruun of Nehlox and Rund… Nehlox declaring Kivveneth the haven of men. The expeditions and exploits of the great wanderer Kuorn –”

“We’ll have plenty of time to drool over these drawings, Brocus. Pace yourself,” Adjaash teased, cowl drawn around her neck. “First, let’s get set up.”

Brocus lowered his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, then grumbled to himself as he led his horse aside.

The group’s members lined up their horses – all of which were ready to rest after the long journey north – along the southern wall. Adjaash gathered a linen blanket from her pack, which she then unrolled and spread out on the stone floor. Ashanji stepped onto the blanket, and Adjaash patted her horse and whispered to her before giving food and water.

The others followed suit. Heror unrolled his blanket, and Shaadur – not used to traveling on sand – quickly sat down to rest. Heror knelt down to grab food and water from his pack. Shaadur whinnied lightly and nestled Heror’s face. Heror smiled and let out a small, breathful laugh.

“I don’t mind the shade, either.”

Heror wiped a thin layer of dust off his forehead, then reached into his pack and took out a canteen of water and a jar of apples. As he tipped the canteen for Shaadur to drink, his eyes drifted to the wall. He saw dull, carved markings running across the length of the room, in rows that stacked from floor to ceiling. Some markings appeared to be vaguely linked to Kivvenean language, but at first glance, Heror could not decipher it.

Heror was entranced by the markings for a moment – before the sound of water slopping against the stone floor broke his focus. Shaadur had finished drinking, and Heror had unwittingly poured out some of his drinking water. He uttered a small curse to himself, then pulled the canteen up and started to close the lid – when he heard Brocus’ voice to his right.

“Bvleievm.”

Heror turned and saw that Brocus too was now entranced by the markings on the wall. The scholar leaned in close to the marble, his hands and eyes tracing one of the lower rows. Brocus glanced to the left and saw that he had Heror’s attention, and he turned his gaze back to the etchings.

“It seems as though these markings near the entryway detail the exploits of the Caitans – the Pylanthean word for ‘Kings’ – as the Kingdom came to be,” Brocus explained. “This one here talks about Bvleievm – modernized in Kivvenean as Beuleium.”

“Beuleium?” Heror echoed.

“The Battle of Beuleium,” Brocus said with a nod, eyes running along the wall. “Nehlox was the Caitan who began the royal line in Pylantheum. Much like Ardys and most other Kingdoms – where the Kcirun is deemed the vessel of the divine blood – so too were direct descendants of Nehlox, Sparhh-Kin. Nehlox was a great King, and so the many generations that succeeded him were named after him. But none of his descendents could match this greatness, and Nehlox IX was driven mad by the expectations brought upon him by his ancestor. Nehlox IX was the eldest heir of his father, but he soon wrought chaos and terror upon the Kingdom with his paranoia and ruthless ruling fist. He had eight brothers. Some aligned themselves with Nehlox IX, while others remained neutral, but one – the youngest, humble and soft-spoken Dain – saw what was happening, and summoned the courage to challenge his brother. And so the loyalists and the rebels met in the dry plains outside the city of Beuleium, and fought for the crown.”

“What happened?” Heror prodded, invested in the story.

“The battle was ferocious, and lasted for weeks,” Brocus went on. “Some brothers later shifted allegiances and joined Dain. Others were cut down. But in the end, Dain dueled Nehlox IX and won. Nehlox’s divine descendancy continued, but no Caitan was ever named after the first King again, from that point onward.”

Brocus’ hand drifted, until he came to what appeared to be a small break in the glyphs and texts.

“The ancient Pylantheans were incredible storytellers. And Beuleium was a story with several other stories within. They were not immune to sensationalizing things. They understood that part of what keeps a story alive is how it’s told. But most of their stories were indeed rooted in truth, and they provided valuable lessons for the Kingdom’s families to pass down.”

Heror pondered aloud: “What was the lesson here?”

“There are several, to my eye,” Brocus replied. “Some are more easily discernible. The shadow of past glory can be overwhelming. Things like loyalty and honor must be earned by Caitans, regardless of their bloodright. They can be earned with humility, independence and thoughtfulness, and taking action for what is right, for the common good of all. And perhaps there is another. Family has always been one of the central values of Pylanthean culture. Family is sacred to them; Pylantheans will wear their family name proudly, and celebrate their heirs. But as sacred as family is, not even it stands above morality, if family and morality are put at odds.”

Brocus looked at the glyphs for a moment longer, then let out a short, gruff chuckle that startled Heror.

“There are more than a few instances across Pylanthean history where they could have used their own advice,” he remarked, with his own air of pride. “But there was some wisdom here.”

Brocus paused. Outside, a gust of wind blew by the dome’s entrance. Then he spoke again.

“So wise and grandiose was this Kingdom of men… and yet here we stand, among the bones.”

Now Brocus turned away, but Heror remained, standing beside his horse. Deep in thought, he snuck the kinship cloth from his shirt pocket. He unrolled it and started to read the name ‘Heran’ off the stitchings, as he’d done so many times before – when his thoughts were disrupted by a voice behind him.

“All of you, to the center of the room!” Adjaash called, her voice echoing across the dome walls. “It’s time to go over the plan.”