Beneath the blue sky and the sinking afternoon sun, they went on their way, bearing north-northeast. In the clean air, the horses ran faster. And in an hour’s time, more ruins revealed themselves to the group.

They were traveling to the east of the dome now. None of the structures were as large as the dome had been, but they were more numerous farther north. Worn courtyards and empty gardens with sparse desert vegetation sat idle in the sands, and in the troughs, remnants of cratered cobble roads peeked out from beneath the dust. At one point, they passed a dried-up well. Later, they rode past a more intact watchtower. Adjaash dismounted and checked it for supplies. She found none, and they carried on.

As they went, more temples began to appear, many of them half-buried and darkened by sun exposure – with their fluted stone columns lining half-collapsed entrances. Strewn about in the sands were clumps and piles of cracked and dusted rubble. As they passed by one temple, Heror saw an armored bridle glinting in the sunlight, resting on the skull of a bare horse skeleton.

They crested another high dune, and Adjaash stopped to survey the landscape. In the distance, in each and every direction, temples and stone remnants jutted out from the sands and overlapping dunes. Heror could see watchtowers and theatres and judicious shrines, but to the north-northeast, the density was greater. Atop the dunes in that direction, he could see rows of small, broken stone houses, with low rectangular cornices and triangular pediments roofing overtop. Had he not known any better, he would’ve imagined it was a city. But it had no surviving walls from what he could see. A ghostly air of silence hovered above it.

“Dyugan is that way,” Adjaash said, as her eyes fell on the distant ghost town. “We’re getting closer. Around 20 miles out, I’d say. We’ll rest here for a few minutes, then make our final advance.”

As the Midans dismounted in the sand, Brocus rode up alongside Adjaash and Heror. He too had his eyes fixated on the ghost town in the distance, and as he traced the horizon with his gaze, his brow began to crease.

“I recognize some of these structures,” the scholar said as he glanced to the west. “From the map wall in the dome.”

“Can you see Dyugan?” Adjaash asked, peering through the light haze.

“Not from here,” Brocus replied, shaking his head. “We’re still too far away, I think. But we know what to look for. On the map wall, the temple at Dyugan was preceded by a cylindrical wayshrine of sorts. The fact that so many houses are visible is a positive sign. Leaves a greater chance that our target is above ground, and not buried in sand.”

“Let’s hope,” Adjaash muttered.

As they rested, Heror watched the sands, eyes searching for any kind of activity. He hadn’t seen or felt a trace of the creatures yet, but he couldn’t let his guard down. It had been just as quiet on their last trip into the desert.

But for the moment, there was nothing but the wind and the sand. And after the group ate food, drank water, and tended to their horses, they started up again, riding toward the ghost village in the distance. Down this dune, up another, and down one more, until they descended into a dried riverbed, cracked with drought-stricken dirt and grainy sediment. They followed the sand-strewn riverbed until they came to the edge of the ghost town, around fifteen minutes later.

It was only once they reached the ghost town that Heror saw how deserted it was. From a distance, the houses had appeared strong. But up close, it was a graveyard. Atop a long stone foundation and cobble path that itself rose and sank below drifts of sand, there stood rows and rows of half-buried lodging structures – their pediment roofs cratered and collapsed, and their stone walls worn, wind-blown, and blotched. Every now and then, Heror would see a relic of past life discarded on the ground – a hammer, a small clay cup, a stitched children’s doll – but the life that made it was long gone.

The ground was level inside the dead village, and Adjaash slowed the group’s pace, fading to a trot as they sauntered past the ruins, cutting through the dunes. One of the Midans in the back of the group peeled off – perhaps to search for loot – but Adjaash heard the chatter amongst the Midans, and she turned on her horse, shaking her head.

“There’s no more worthwhile loot here. Stay on target. We need to reach Dyugan before nightfall.”

Adjaash started to turn back ahead, tugging the reins left – when she saw Brocus riding slowly toward one of the house’s outer walls, eyes intent as he scanned the surface.

“What is it?” Adjaash asked.

“This stone…” Brocus observed, leaning in toward the wall from the top of his horse. “It’s not as worn or as dark as some of the stone walls we saw when we entered the village. Not nearly as much wind erosion.”

Brocus lifted a hand from his reins and ran it across the wall. Then he glanced back at Adjaash.

“Some of this was unburied recently,” he explained. “It might’ve even been the sandstorm we saw earlier today.”

“What does that mean for Dyugan?” Heror wondered.

Brocus frowned: “I don’t know.”

They carried on through the ghost town, and as soon as the houses had appeared, they started to sink back below the sands. And soon enough, the riders were surrounded by dunes once more. The sun was starting to fall to the west, and so they sped to a gallop again – drifting in and out of slope-borne shadows, in a sea of gold.

More minutes passed, and at first, there was nothing past the ghost village. But on one last crest, Adjaash and Heror saw – not far in the distance – in a flattened area of sand, a cylindrical wayshrine with light-colored fluted columns and a smooth slab ceiling, catching the fiery light of the sun. Just past the wayshrine, a larger temple sat with its foundational edges dredged out of the desert – a rectangular structure again lined with magnificent pillars, shade pooling underneath it.

Brocus rode up next to Adjaash and Heror shortly after they stopped at the peak of the dune. It didn’t take long for his eyes to follow theirs to the temple ahead. Once they did, he let out a short, intentful breath and nodded to himself.

“There it is,” the scholar declared, voice thick with anticipation.

Adjaash glanced at Heror, then turned her gaze ahead, her hair rustling in the breeze.

“Let’s close in,” she said.

They rode down the dune and into the flat where the temple lay. Where the last temple had furnished a great courtyard in front, this one was buried on all sides – as if the desert had flooded the grounds and left only the tallest parts standing. As they walked by the cylindrical wayshrine, Heror saw that the interior beneath the roof was blanketed by sand. Whatever monument to the Gods that might have been there was now gone from sight.

“This stone is lighter, too… and not worn much at all,” Brocus observed. “You can still see some of the chisel marks from when these were first made. This must have also been uncovered very recently.”

The six left the wayshrine behind and now approached the temple. It was smaller and less grandiose than the dome had been, with no staircase leading up to its halls. As they strode forward with their horses and fell under the shade of the roof, the horses’ hooves still trudged in sand. They proceeded through the fluted columns, and at last came to a wide stone staircase just several steps high, which lifted them out of the sand and onto a wide, flat stone concourse. In the shelter of the temple, the heat dissipated. The breeze calmed. The riders stopped and looked around.

From the left, golden-orange sunlight trickled inside through the columns, washing the marble floor in light. But the light faded as it cast from left to right on the stone floor, and the flat ceiling – carved with crude and colorless reliefs of warriors and gods – was bathed in shadow. Both side walls were open and lined by columns, but at the far end of the temple, the back wall was adorned in another massive and intricate carved relief, that stretched from side to side.

“Incredible…” Brocus managed, gazing up at the ceiling.

“You always say that,” Adjaash muttered with a roll of her eyes.

“Where is the Sword?” Heror asked.

The others looked around again, and they realized that the entire temple was comprised of only one open-walled room. There was no Sword on the back wall, and there was no place for a Sword to be held or be hidden – so it seemed.

“This is Dyugan. We’re in the right place,” Brocus insisted. “I remember the wayshrine on the map wall, and the rectangular temple behind it. This is where the hidden imprint led us.”

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Contemplating, Adjaash pursed her lips as she peered at the far wall. Then she turned to the rest of the group with a tug of her reins. Outside, the wind beckoned.

“Let’s dismount,” she decided. “Baalu, Ezunsa, Eaehnu – you three stay back and keep an eye on the horses while they rest. Give them food and water. Brocus, Heror, and I will approach the wall and see what we can find.”

And so they all dismounted. Heror, Brocus, and Adjaash led their horses to the southern end of the temple bounds, then laid down blankets for them to rest on. Once the horses were situated under the Midans’ care, Adjaash and Heror started toward the back wall of the temple, with Brocus close behind them.

As they approached the temple wall, a ray of orange sunlight cast across it, and the stone carving’s details revealed themselves to Heror. They told a story from end to end – images of God-like beings extracting essence and creating the first humans. Humans traveling by boat, from an island with a sprawling tree and spring to a mountainous land. Images of a warrior band scaling a cliffside, rolling over snowy plains. Images of a masked warlock commanding ice and fire within the palms of its hands. And at the center, a grand depiction of a hero in gilded armor, with the emblem of a roaring wolf sprawling off his back – raising a sword high into the air, as the flaming wings of a phoenix spread from the dual edges of the blade.

In beams of gold and amber sunset, the emblem of the wolf and the wings of the phoenix both caught the light, and the smooth, sharp carvings were set ablaze as if fire. And at the sight, Heror froze in awe.

“Now this… this truly is incredible,” Brocus marveled, shooting an excited grin in Adjaash’s direction.

Brocus walked past Heror and made his way to the left end of the wall, and his eyes traced the images in the carvings, from left to right. As he analyzed the Pylanethean carvings, what had once been wonder in the scholar’s eyes evolved into profound realization.

“It’s the origin story,” Brocus said, almost in a gasp. “This is the origin story of the Pylanjuun Cyngoths…”

Dumbfounded, Brocus’ eyes scattered from left to right, then back to left.

“There are readings on the Pylanjuun origin stories that I studied in Peranon, but many of the tomes are incomplete, or left up to interpretation. I’ve never… never seen a carving this thorough.”

Brocus let out an impulsive, hearty laugh. With a wide smile, he turned to Heror.

“Heror! This is the story of your kind! Isn’t this amazing?”

Now Brocus turned back to the wall, while Heror looked on. Adjaash stepped forward and glanced at Heror, and she saw his conflicted, contemplating look return. This had been Heror’s kind no more than the Opelites.

While Heror and Adjaash stood in silence, Brocus carried on with his observations, starting again from the left.

“The creation of the elesvium,” Brocus narrated as he viewed the first carving. “These are the early divines, arranged in a circle around their sacred creation – each extracting part of their essence to create humankind. Bor – instilling the elesvium with his wisdom and all-sight. Sim – instilling the elesvium with power, will, and ambition. Rheb, the Architect – forging the inner workings and mortal mechanics. Kyr, the Life Mother – assimilating the elesvium into the natural world. Ynd – establishing the pursuit of the noble purpose. Opela – blessing the elesvium with beauty. And Lleg, the Soul Keeper – binding the spirit of the elesvium to the realm of Aelyum.”

Heror and Adjaash remained silent while Brocus moved on to the next carving.

“The second elsish peoples sailing from the sacred island of Ceordola,” the scholar observed. “Finding salvation from the jealous Par-va in the cold tundra of Cyngoth. The Cyngoths roaming the wintry plains…”

His hand traced farther right, until it fell on the mask of the warlock – an ominous visor with a stern brow and an expressionless stare.

“This must be Laghix,” he said, his voice darker. “The Tyrant Lord. A precursor to the Great Scourge of the second Eoh. He was a great whyzard who used the gift of keatuu to gain power and take control – then conspired with the Par-va to hold dominion over the elesvium, and committed atrocities against those who opposed him. The first of the three known Shadow Sages throughout history…”

And then Brocus’ hand traced to the center of the carved relief, where the armored hero caught the light of the setting sun. He let his fingers graze over the armor – fritted and frilled with intricate detail – and then over the wings of the phoenix spreading off the Sword in fiery glory.

For a moment, Brocus stood silent. Then he let out a breathless gasp.

“This is Him…” Brocus said simply.

“Who is that?” Heror asked.

Brocus glanced back at the young man, then turned back to the carving.

“This is Sparhh,” he answered, barely above a whisper. “The First Warrior. One Who Ascended. The one who became divine… in the primeval days of human history. Long before the Kingdoms. Long before the migration to Kivveneth.”

Heror took a step forward, and a feeling of astonishment washed over him. Brocus nodded to himself.

“This is Sparhh, holding the Divinium Diaphanae,” the scholar confirmed. “The wolf emblem flaring up behind Him – His totem. And look at the Sword, unfurling the wings of the phoenix – the totem of the God of Hope, Alundrial. It was with these divine implements that Sparhh was able to defeat Laghix the Tyrant’s armies and machinations, save the human race from destruction, and lead them on the path forward. Sparhh would then ascend to divinity and join the Consortium, as the true manifestation of Courage.”

It fell silent for a moment. Heror at first looked on in awe – but then his awe turned to uncertainty. He remembered the phoenix in his vision, flying over plumes of fire and smoke. Brocus looked to the right, as his eyes fell on more carvings.

“What are these? I’ve never seen this before…”

“This is utterly fascinating,” Adjaash interrupted, with the smallest hint of sarcasm. “But we came here to find the Sword. What does any of this have to do with the Sword’s location? Are there any hints that it might be here? Anything at all?”

Brocus heard the reason in Adjaash’s words, and he turned back to the wall with this question in mind. He glowered for a moment – deep in thought – and his eyes soon came back to the carving of Sparhh at the wall’s center. He leaned in closer, carefully studying the details as he had the map inside the dome. And as he searched the carvings – his nose just inches from the wall – he found something.

“On the carving of the Sword…” he realized. “Below the groove of the blade… there’s an inscription in ancient Pylanthean…”

He read the inscription silently several times. Then the scholar read it aloud.

“‘Continue… if you are courageous. Courage appears when shadows mask Bor’s light.’”

Then his eyes went from the blade to the hilt, and at the center of the Sword’s hilt, he saw the ancient symbol commemorating the divines – the flowering Sun of Bor. He pressed down on the circular symbol ever so slightly, and he felt it give a bit. Then he palmed the symbol and pressed it down fully, and the flowering Sun retracted into the wall.

There was the sound of stone stirring at the press of the hidden button, and all at once, a section of the floor fell away right at Brocus’ feet. Brocus quickly leapt away to avoid falling, and the three watched as blocks of stone descended. A staircase downward revealed itself, leading to a hidden passageway below the carved relief.

“I thought you said they weren’t fond of traps and tricks to guard their sacred items,” Adjaash said to Brocus.

“They must have felt this was worth protecting,” Brocus replied with a grin.

Now Heror stepped toward the passageway and observed it. It was a narrow stone corridor with wide, steep stairs, that descended into shadow and darkness at the foot of the wall. He could only see so far down it, before the blackness smothered everything in its touch.

“We’ll need the torches for this one,” Heror muttered.

Adjaash turned and shouted to the Midans at the other end of the temple.

“Eaehnu!” she yelled. “Bring us the torch supplies!”

In less than a minute, the Midan djauul arrived at the head of the passageway with a supply bag in hand. As soon as he set it down, Adjaash dug through it until she found three staves. She took out the staves, along with a jar of whale oil and cloth. Then she dipped the cloth in the oil, wrapped each stave end in cloth, and used a flint and steel to light the torches ablaze. She handed a torch to Brocus, and as soon as he took it, he was bounding down the steps, into the dark.

Adjaash looked on for a moment as Brocus disappeared down the way, then held out a torch for Heror to take. Heror grabbed hold, and then Adjaash stood with the final torch in hand. She took a step toward the edge of the staircase, peering down into the shadows. And then she glanced at Heror, a glint in her eye.

“Feeling courageous?” she chimed with a smirk.

With that, Adjaash started down the darkened staircase. After taking a breath, Heror followed.