The command tent hummed with tension, its canvas walls trembling in the desert wind. Scattered across a weathered table, maps told their own story through a maze of sweeping lines and crimson circles that tracked the Dustend's predicted path. Nathan’s eyes scanned across them, a slight frown on his features. Kamil hunched over them, his scholar's robes dusted with sand, finger hovering over a stark ravine carved into the terrain.

They’d gone outside of the Soulbound Town—Nathan and the rest of the people who were needed to make the decisions for the coming battle. Kamil had needed to run some tests and everyone had agreed that they needed to be ready to move as soon as the tests were done.

"The Whispering Canyon," Kamil said. “The convergence of atmospheric pressure and the ancient tablet's readings are clear – the Dustend will manifest there."

Nathan's calloused finger followed the canyon's savage path, feeling the rough parchment beneath. “Will this complicate things?”

"Complicates?" Fuge laughed. "That canyon's a natural amplifier. The Dustend will feed off its walls, growing stronger with every league it travels."

From his perch on a three-legged stool, Gius tapped his fingers against a new walking stick. "The magical resonance alone will be unprecedented. The canyon will focus it like a lens focuses sunlight."

Zayen stepped forward. "We've committed everything to this moment. The potion is complete, thanks to our... creative procurement methods." He caught Nathan's eye, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

"Then I’ll execute this quickly and decisively,” Nathan said.

“‘I’?” Fuge raised an eyebrow.

"Yes,” Nathan said. “I’ll take care of this."

The tent fell silent save for the whisper of sand against canvas. Fuge straightened. "With respect, Nathan, that's foolhardy. You're proposing to face a magical tempest of unprecedented magnitude. Even with the potion's protection, the risk is extreme. As Marshal, I cannot and will not allow you to attempt this alone."

"I've survived worse," Nathan said.

“That’s not the point,” Fuge said. “Strategy demands we maximize our chances of success. My skills complement yours – I won't serve anyone by remaining behind."

Before Nathan could object, Zayen's voice cut through the tension. "The Second Circle may have granted you sanctuary, Nathan, but this is my homeland. I've spent my life training with Sandara's finest guardsmen." His cutlass materialized with a whisper of steel, catching the lamplight like liquid silver. "This kingdom is my birthright and my duty. I stand with you."

Omarn cleared his throat. “The Whispering Canyon... a fitting stage for our confrontation. Did you know it was the birthplace of an ocean? Before the desert claimed dominion?"

"An ocean? Here?"

"The evidence is conclusive," Kamil interjected, enthusiasm briefly overwhelming his anxiety. "The rock strata, the mineral deposits – they all speak of ancient waters."

Zayen's stared up at Nathan and gave him a nod. "Your burden is ours to share, whether you wish it or not. We face this together."

Nathan looked around the tent, reading the resolve in each face. The argument died before it reached his lips. "Very well," he said finally. "But we move fast and strike hard. No heroics. Agreed?"

Their responses came as one, united and unwavering.

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The tent emptied in a flurry of purposeful chaos – maps rolled and tucked away, weapons checked and double-checked, hushed conversations punctuated by the soft clink of equipment.

Zayen lingered behind, fidgeting with the hilt of his cutlass. "Nathan," he said, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. "Could you stay? Just for a moment?"

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Nathan dropped onto a nearby crate, its wooden slats creaking in protest. "What's on your mind?"

The young king's shoulders hunched, his usual regal bearing crumbling like sand. "I'm scared," he admitted, the words barely audible above the desert wind batting at the tent walls.

Nathan tilted his head. “Of the Dustend?"

"Yes. No." Zayen ran a hand through his hair. "Everything, really." He drew a shaky breath. "Before you came here, before everything fell apart... I was a figurehead. My advisors—they controlled everything. Every time I tried to take charge, to make real changes, they had this way of making me feel like a child playing at being king."

"They undermined you," Nathan said.

"Because I let them." Zayen sighed. "I questioned every decision, second-guessed every word. I was so afraid of making the wrong choice that I barely made any choices at all." He met Nathan's eyes. "How do you do it? How do you just... act? Without drowning in doubt?"

Nathan opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He was spectacularly unqualified for this conversation. Fighting? Sure. Surviving impossible odds? His specialty. But dispensing wisdom? He'd rather fight the Dustend blindfolded.

"Well," he started. “It's like... you know when you're really hungry? And you're thinking about food?" He immediately regretted this metaphor but was somehow unable to stop. "And sometimes you want, uh, bread. But maybe the bread isn't good bread? But you're still hungry, so..."

Zayen leaned forward intently.

"No, wait, that's not..." Nathan ran a hand down his face. "Look, sometimes you just have to do stuff. And maybe it works out, or maybe it doesn't, but at least you did the stuff. Like the bread. Which is important. For doing things."

Zayen's eyes widened with sudden understanding. "So you're saying... action, even imperfect action, is better than paralysis?"

"Uh... yes!" Nathan seized on this lifeline, nodding vigorously. "That's exactly what I was saying. With the bread. Which was definitely on purpose. Because that's how I teach things.”

Zayen nodded earnestly. "It makes perfect sense. The bread represents choice, and the hunger is the need to act—"

"Right! Yes! That's exactly what I meant." Nathan tugged at his collar, wondering when the tent had gotten so warm. "Because I am good at explaining things. With food. And metaphors. And... food metaphors."

"Thank you, Nathan." Zayen straightened, and though fear still lingered in his eyes, there was steel there too. "You always know exactly what to say."

Nathan coughed and stood quickly, desperately hoping to end this conversation before Zayen could attribute any more wisdom to his ramblings about bread. "Right. Well. Time to go do the Dustend thing?"

"Yes." Zayen's hand tightened on his cutlass, resolve settling over him like armor. "Time to act, even if the bread isn't perfect."

Nathan managed not to wince. He'd created a monster. "Yeah. Let's just go fight the magical storm. Much simpler."

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The Whispering Canyon earned its name with cruel poetry. Wind keened between towering walls of stone, carrying stinging clouds of sand and grit. Ancient rock formations reached toward the sky like petrified claws, their shadows writhing across the canyon floor in a macabre dance. The air itself felt wrong—heavy with a metallic taste that coated Nathan's tongue, while an endless drone vibrated through the bedrock beneath his feet.

Nathan's instincts screamed danger. Everything about this place set his nerves on edge. The unnatural quiet lurking beneath the wind's wail. The way the dust moved against the air currents. The oppressive weight of magic pressing down like a physical force.

"The potions," he said, turning to find Omarn already grinning at him. "Tell me we're ready."

"Oh, indeed." Omarn produced a rust-pitted bucket from the folds of his robes as if conjuring it from thin air. Inside, something thick and luminescent pulsed with sickly green light. His eyes gleamed with barely contained delight. "A most invigorating concoction."

Before anyone could step back, Omarn spun in a graceful pirouette, sending the potion arcing through the air. The liquid struck like ice against Nathan's skin, carrying the distinctive bouquet of stagnant pond water and singed hair.

“What the hell—!?” Nathan choked, scrubbing at his face. The potion clung to his skin with determined viscosity.

Omarn hummed a cheerful tune. "Proper saturation ensures optimal results."

The potion sank into Nathan's flesh, spreading warmth through his limbs like brandy on a cold night. Static electricity crackled across his skin, raising every hair on his body.

Nathan was about to cuss Omarn out when he paused.

Above them, the sky darkened to the color of a fresh tomator. Lightning split the clouds, followed by thunder that bounced between canyon walls like a trapped beast. The metallic tang in the air sharpened, joined by the knife-edge scent of ozone. Magic pressed harder against Nathan's senses, as tangible as a hand against his chest.

"It's here." Zayen's whisper barely carried over the rising wind. He stood at Nathan's shoulder, cutlass half-drawn, staring into the depths of the canyon.

The dust storm rolled toward them like a tidal wave of earth and shadow. The ground shuddered beneath their feet as the wind's keen became a banshee's shriek. Static electricity snapped between them in visible arcs, tasting of metal and magic. The stench of ozone burned Nathan's lungs with each breath.

Then, through the maelstrom of dust and lightning, Nathan saw them. Twin points of crimson light blazed like hot coals in the heart of the storm. Eyes. Ancient. Malevolent. Aware. The Dustend stared back at them with the patient hunger of a force that had devoured civilizations.

And it was no longer content to wait.