It was hot.

Maiz took the deep breath of one awakening from sleep, and coughed. There was something gritty his mouth. He spat, but his mouth was dry and it did little to remedy the problem. He continued coughing and attempting to spit for several seconds, until he decided it would be a good idea to sit up. It took more effort than usual to do so, but as he struggled he realized that he felt… good. Very good. Even the slight pain in his chest from the coughing had disappeared, replaced by a warmth that seemed comforting, somehow.

Then he opened his eyes, and winced before closing them again. Wherever he was, the light was so blinding he couldn’t see anything. It took a full minute of cracking his eyes open beneath the shade of his hand before he could survey his surroundings. When he finally saw where he was, a tight knot of fear began to form in his stomach. Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

The world was sand. Waves and mountains of reddish brown stretched as far as he could see, the occasional swirl of wind the only motion interrupting the perfect, silent stillness. Above the sky was a deep blue unmarred by clouds, and the sun shone with harsh brilliance beating down the world below it with intense heat. Maiz shifted the hand that was propping him up, and winced. The sand was hot enough to sting and redden his skin, though moments later, the pain vanished. He hardly cared. This was a nightmare. In fact, was it a nightmare? The last thing he remembered was the swirling chaos of two Masters fighting, a ridiculous scene of dragons and mages and sandstorms.

Absently, Maiz looked down and saw an unfamiliar band on his arm. It was tarnished silver, shimmering in the light of the sun, and a little too big for him. He lifted the arm, and as the bracelet settled, hot against his skin, its weight felt familiar. Hakim. Suddenly the last moments of the titanic struggle he had witnessed came back to him. The same instant that the Aeromancer had been stuck by one of the other mage’s spells, he had sent a massive wave of mana towards Maiz, completely overcoming the strange power that had prevented Hakim from teleporting Maiz away before. At the same moment, Maiz had felt the weight of this bracelet settle onto his arm. And then he had woken up in the desert.

The desert.

When Maiz was younger, he’d read a book about a young adventurer who journeyed into the desert, slaying dragons, stealing roc eggs, and exploring lost ruins of old. He’d been entranced by the tale and that night, asked his father if he’d ever ventured into the desert. His father’s face, already lighter than most from his hours indoors, had gone even paler. Maiz never forgot his face at that question, the plain fear and incredulity at the very thought of stepping into the place. Maiz had thought it was strange, living as they did so close to the biggest desert in the word, for his father to react in such a way. He had told Maiz that he had gone as far most men, when he was younger. Caelos was right at the edge of the kingdom, and there some tribes that lived just beyond it. Those tribes formed a network of trade which circled the desert and provided access to faraway goods. But even they stayed away from the heart of the Hankor Waste.

Maiz’s father had told him stories of nomad combatants who thought to challenge the Dungeons of the deep desert to grow strong. Those who went to the very edge of the known desert returned sometimes, emaciated skeletons without a drop of water in them and haunted eyes. Those who went further never came back. Of course, if one were a Journeyman or Adept level combatant with superhuman attributes and skills, such journeys were possible with the correct preparation. But a Novice dumped in the middle of the desert with nothing but a staff and a bracelet? He was as good as dead.

Smacking dry lips, Maiz took another look at his surroundings. He was on top of a relatively large sand dune. Considering that it was almost midday and even being exposed to direct sunlight at this time would shorten his expected lifespan from days to hours, he decided to get moving to some shade. Trudging down the dune was quite annoying, but even in Caelos there was enough sand that Maiz’s boots were meant to be used for walking over it, and he was quickly able to find a shaded spot at its base to sit. Here the sand was cool, to be expected considering that it rarely saw the light of the sun. He sat with a hud muted by the sand, and began to consider.

First he examined the bracelet Hakim had apparently given him. It was a completely smooth band of silver, save for the tarnish around the edges. Huh. Mana Sense. The world was awash in the faint white light of ambient mana, but the bracelet was lit with yellow, arranged in patterns not unlike those of Maiz’s Flaming Strike. The mana was running through the object, and underneath the outer layer he could see another running in the opposite direction, but beneath that the mana became too indistinct to see. Somehow Maiz suspected that the pattern was actually much more complex than that of his own spell, and he doubted that it was the work of a Spellsword. No this item was clearly enchanted, even though he couldn’t see any visible markings on it like he would have expected. Or maybe…

He unclasped it, and sure enough, the inside had a delicate swirl which looked something like the first and second layers of Maiz’s Flaming Strike. Well, Hakim had said that his spell created a matrix like the ones that Enchanters used. Maiz supposed he’d been working from personal experience. Of course, one would expect a Master mage to--

His thoughts cut off as he fixated on the word ‘Master.’ Master, like Juris the Illuminator, or Garthen the Beast-Hearted. Or well, pretty much every famous fighter from the stories. Except that Maiz had never even seen a Master of any sort in his life, and apparently he’d been learning from one for weeks! He wasn’t even that good of a teacher. Maiz immediately felt terrible about the errant thought. After all, the purple bolt striking Hakim just before he’d teleported Maiz away had likely killed the old man. And despite Maiz’s initial bad experience with him, the mage had been fair enough, if somewhat abrupt and overdramatic. Perhaps, in time, Maiz would have even grown to think of Hakim as a friend. Of course, what else could he really call someone who had saved his life?

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In the worst way possible. Maiz took a shuddering breath in, trying to dispel the magical landscape still burned into his mind--chaotic, swirling blue and purple, and gold around dragons, dragons. Come to think of it, those dragons were from this desert. Just one of the many dangers he had to avoid if he wanted to stand a chance of surviving this experience. Just then, he felt a slight movement by one of his hands buried in the sand and yelped, scrambling quickly to his feet. A trace of reddish brown chitin showed through the sand before disappearing, and Maiz cursed loudly, heart pounding. He wouldn’t need to worry about dragons--either the heat would get him or the scorpions would first.

*****************************

Shadar took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. Occasionally it felt good to practice the old mana exercises, even if he wasn’t truly a mage like they were intended for. Around him, the world was drowned in blood red, subtly shifting as the Dungeon’s magic adjusted to the movement of its denizens, or perhaps simply to the movement of his own mana. While he wasn’t particularly specialized in magic, his mana pool was that of a Master, and thus a significant source of power even in such an advanced Dungeon. Shadar enjoyed watching the little eddies and swirls, though he never admitted it. His brand of magical sight stemmed from the Mana Wyrm, the only other creature with such clear attunement to Massahn’s power. There were no human mages with a similar spell, and Shadar would never teach his own to another, even if such a thing were possible.

The Dungeon’s magic flowed in slightly, and Shadar opened his eyes.

“Yes.”

He made the word a statement, not a question. He knew why he was being interrupted.

“The attacks had mixed success. The one on the portal outpost was entirely successful, though I am not certain how much of a delay it will cause Corunti. The one on the desert garrison was a complete failure. Apparently having only one Master dragon with the strike force was insufficient. They had enough Adepts, or possibly a Master, that the force was routed and the Dungeon destroyed behind them.”

“The Desidomancer?” Shadar turned with the question, feeling an odd urge to groan despite the fact that he felt no real pain at the motion. He had simply been comfortable, sitting on his cushion. Digaratoth stood over Shadar in his customary red tunic, more intimidating than usual at this angle.

“I was getting to that. She was held up at the training grounds apparently. The Corunti decided to post a Master there, perhaps as an instructor.”

Shadar frowned. “Which one?” Few Masters got to be that way without becoming famous as a byproduct, unless they were hermits.

“The Sandstorm.”

“Ah. He was still alive, then? Or is he still?”

Most Masters had very grandiose titles ascribed to them. Eva was called the Grave Mistress for example, though she probably wouldn’t have earned it if not for her rather over-the-top persona when she managed her Dungeon. Shadar himself had no such ‘additional’ title, though he sincerely doubted anyone could think of anything more needlessly pompous than ‘The Dungeon King, God-Chosen of Massahn.’ But sometimes, the names made it easier to recall particularly skilled combatants.

Such as the Sandstorm. He’d been moderately well known a few decades ago, when Shadar was a young man. He was a wind mage from the desert, and unlike most, he’d earned most of his ranks in the Waste itself, from his youth up until he became a full Master. He’d done a number of impressive things, from fighting the Mother Roc alone to reaching the top room of the Temple of the Sands. And of course, he apparently created a good many sandstorms while doing those things. When Shadar was younger, there was speculation that the Sandstorm could reach Grandmaster--after all, the Waste was relatively unexplored, and there was already one Grandmaster living in it. If there were still a place to find many Master-level Dungeons, it would be there. But the wind mage had already been a century or so old by the time Shadar had heard of him, and no new stories had been added to the list since. Shadar had completely forgotten the man had ever existed.

“Dead, from what I gathered. Your mage was rather… incomprehensible. She’d apparently been in the area before and was quite pleased to have killed a local legend.”

That was only moderately interesting. As much as any place could have a glut of portals constructed, the Ulterion Empire did. Being a portal-capable enchanter in that nation made one a servant of the government by law. Virtually a moderately well treated slave, in fact. However, combined with the Empire’s willingness to throw large sums of money into portal construction, it meant that visiting other parts of the world was relatively easy for those in the west. Of course, the Ulterion Empire funded their transportation system by conquest, which in turn necessitated more portals. The inevitable result, whether after years or decades, was that the empire would collapse and its portals would go inert. It explained why ancient portal arches remained as the only remnants of many expansionist nations across the world.

Shadar turned his thoughts away from the history of portal construction, hoping Digaratoth hadn’t noticed his momentary lapse in concentration. He probably had, but he didn’t say anything, at least.

“Many of their Masters were killed.” Shadar didn’t quite know how to feel about that, considering his own association with dragons. “We should send another of ours.”

Digaratoth looked at him, tongue just peeking out beyond his lips. The Saurian equivalent of an expectant look. Did he think Shadar would go himself? No, not considering what Garth had said. No doubt other God-Chosen would be on the lookout for him, just as he was for them. He remembered what Jurai had told him, that day that he saw monsters for the first time. Never strike unless you are unexpected.