Marisol took one step off the fairy shrimp and nearly toppled over instantly.
The open sea was, indeed, the very definition of a ‘storm’. The waves were as violent as ever, the cracks of thunder as fierce as ever, but if she didn’t move now, she’d never smell fresh soil ever again.
She hurtled forward with a leap before she could get cold feet, and a massive wave swallowed the shrimp behind her the moment she did, dragging it down into the abyss. That would be her if she ever slowed down and refused to ride a wave out to its very end.
Maintain your balance, Marisol!
Focus like you’ve never focused before!
The speed was unreal. She tasted salt on her lips, felt the icy sting of rain on her face. The roar of the winds, the crack of thunder, and the constant, relentless pounding of the sea; it was a natural, primal world. She felt tiny and vulnerable skating across, her glaives slicing through the froth. Her breaths came in short gasps as she fought to keep her balance, muscles already burning with effort ten seconds in—how long would she have to do this for again?
[Antonio Saranno last sailed by this strait three months ago, and his navigation data shows there is one landmass between three to four kilometres out,] the Archive said, its voice ringing even harder than the storm in her ears. [At your speed, it should take you no less than ten minutes, but no more than twenty.]
Ten minutes. Ten minutes of this. Heart pounding, teetering on the tip of her glaives, arms swishing back and forth for balance. The taste of fear was sharp and metallic on her tongue, but… when the next massive wave came and she had to skate to the side of it, she gritted her teeth and forced out a brilliant, toothy grin.
Nobody would see it, but despite the risk, she launched off the crest of the wave and twirled through the air with her legs crossed—before landing wobbly on the next wave, spreading her arms out as she unfurled her fingers one by one.
Not perfect.
She had to try again–
[And what in the Great Maker’s names are you doing?] the Archive snapped. [Do not waste your energy, Marisol! Focus! Your chances of failure are already high enough as they are, and now you decide to start launching off waves? Please prioritise your safety! Flashy moves can come once you are on solid ground–]
If you can project yourself as a little water skater on my shoulder, can you also project something else into my eyes?
[... Like?]
You can read my mind, can’t you? she thought, clenching her throat as she approached the next massive wave. Put her in front of me. Please.
[...]
And just before she was going to start skating up the wave, the shadow of a Sand-Dancer shimmered into existence fifteen metres in front of her, the lady’s long cloak fluttering behind her like a pair of broken wings.
The shadow didn’t so much as turn around and glance at her even once, but when the shadow launched off the wave and spun, she did the same a few seconds later—doing her best to mimic the amount of turns, the amount of speed, and the amount of firmness in the landing. She succeeded a little, but her landing was still wobbly and her glaives were cutting through the froth unevenly. She could do better than that.
[... How can you even remain so cheery and hopeful in a situation like this?] the Archive muttered, so quiet she almost thought it wasn’t supposed to say that aloud. [You have a ninety-five percent chance of dying in the storm. You are untrained in the strengths of an Insect-Blooded. You can still turn around and have a safer, easier journey back to the shoreline, but… why is it that you can smile like this?]
[Whether it is for your mother or not, are you simply not afraid of death, Marisol Vellamira?]
She didn’t answer immediately.
But she did chuckle immediately.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
… Do you know the ‘Chariot’s Sandstorm Dance’, Archive? she thought, reeling when a ball of water splashed into her face and she practically skated through the tiny wave, approaching the base of a third massive wave. Legends have it that when the first Sand-Dancers rose from the graves of those who died in the desert, they were the lords of the wind! They were the guardian deities of caravaneers and travelling merchants alike! You couldn’t cross the desert without at least one Sand-Dancer in your caravan, because when a sandstorm hits and threatens to swallow you whole, it is only the Sand-Dancer who can single-handedly draw the storm’s attention away with their beautiful, graceful dance!
The minutes that followed came as a blur. Lightning streaked the sky, painting it in ephemeral flashes of blue and purple. Cold rain changed directions as frequently as the winds were fickle, and the mountains of waves seemed endless—but she followed in the shadow’s footsteps, remembering fondly what it looked like as she watched, from that little bed next to the window, her mama outrunning a sandstorm for the first time in her life.
People may be stronger now, aye! Caravaneers may have tools that can anchor their carriages to the ground when a sandstorm blows, and there may be more Insect-Blooded warriors with magical abilities to gawk at now than ever, but a Sand-Dancer lives their entire lives on the edge! All day, all night long, on the blistering hot sands where the very ground can melt the skin off our feet—it’s hot and painful and sometimes we’ll feel like falling over and never getting up again, but that just won’t do!
A Sand-Dancer must be graceful no matter what, and do you know why?
Because the Swarm that attacks humanity are without gravity. They are colossal bugs whose wings can conquer the sky. One stride of theirs is a hundred strides for us. They are stronger, faster, and bigger than us in every regard—but when Sand-Dancers are eternally graceful on the edge, we show humanity that we, too, are in no way inferior to the Swarm.
She was a swirl of motion and sensation as she hurtled past wave after wave, soaring over froths of fury beneath her gleaming glaives. Draining stamina be damned, her breaths coming in ragged gasps be damned—her fingertips brushed across the surface of the sea as she saw a glimmer of sunlight past what looked like the edge of the storm.
There was just one last wave standing in her way, and it was gigantic: twenty metres tall, moving so fast it was already about to curl over itself, and it dwarfed any hill or building she’d ever seen in her little desert town.
This was the outside world, and her mama’s shadow didn’t hesitate to skate up the side of the final wave, determined to outrun it before it could collapse on her.
Just like the Swarm! she thought, gritting her teeth, her eyes glowing with thrill alongside a grin that grew even wider. Sand-Dancers. Can. Fly!
She turned, raising one glaive from the surface. She bent her knee, coiled her waist, and tensed every muscle in her body. She felt the wind catching beneath her cloak, giving her speed, and with a powerful push—just before the massive wave could collapse on her, crushing her under the sea’s weight—she launched.
Arms crossing over her torso.
Defying gravity.
For a good few seconds, she felt suspended mid-air—then, with a twist and a snap, she spun a graceful pirouette high above the seas as she soared out the edge of the storm, her glaives a glittering flash of sunlight.
She was out.
For the brief few seconds she hung a dozen metres mid-air, she was completely blinded by the sun in a cloudless blue sky. She couldn’t see a thing, and that… made her giggle. It made her laugh. The wind that was still on her face, the rain that was still clung onto her skin, all of it—the exhilaration of having outrun a living storm made her tear up, and she landed gracefully on relatively flat waves like a snowflake settling on ice.
Now, her mama’s shadow was gone, and she could clearly see the outline of an island a good few kilometres out in the distance.
… I may not make a lot of money sand-dancing, and mama may have forgotten why she started dancing, she thought, smiling softly as she resumed her skating pace forward. But I remember seeing her dance for the first time, outrunning a storm, and it’s something I’ve dedicated my life to. It’s a noble job where I get to entertain a crowd, buy my own bread, soar through the sky, and… guess what? It just so happens to be fun as well.
Then she glanced down at the little water skater on her shoulder, shooting it a small, tired, teasing smile.
I may have chosen it, but you were the one who still agreed to give me the water strider class.
I’ll have you take responsibility and guide me forward until the very end.
----------------------------------------
[Objective #2 Completed: Skate out of the storm and head towards the unidentified landmass]
[Reward: Survival]
----------------------------------------
[... The landmass is closer than Antonio Saranno’s navigation data suggested,] the Archive said, sounding just the slightest bit amused as it turned to look out at the open sea. [Keep at your current pace, and you will arrive within five minutes, but do be warned—you are still far from civilization, and there is no telling what will await you on that unidentified landmass.]
She groaned, rolling her eyes in jest. Come on, just be positive for a bit. Say something good about me.
[You would make a good bug-slayer. You have talent. Why not turn around and return to the continent, where you can then take the Hasharana Entrance Exam to become a registered bug-slayer?]
No can do, Archive.
It’s still a race against the ailment getting worse.
I’m going to the Whirlpool City, getting my vial of healing seawater, and going home to mama.