"Get back up."

Lysbelle, knees and hands buried in the sand, did not rise. She couldn’t even muster a response. Her lungs were burning, her stomach was trying to reject what little remained in it and her head felt as if it would explode.

They had been on the move for two days. The first one passed without issue, but everything changed once they stopped for the night. At first, she thought the evening would be like the rest of her day, helping out with various tasks in the caravan. But her hopes soon faded when the Phoenix approached her with a wide smile. Using a voice that didn’t suit her, Azmiyah sweetly asked Lysbelle to follow her a bit further into the desert. They stopped just beyond the camp. As she turned to face her, Azmiyah's silhouette, outlined against the setting sun, might have looked angelic. But her predatory grin revealed her true intentions.

"Now, we train. It's not often that I get a sparring partner with a bit of a fight in them."

That phrase, spoken in Azmiyah’s rough voice, marked the beginning of her ordeal. Motivated by the helplessness she’d felt in recent days, Lysbelle had agreed.

Now, she cursed herself.

That first night, she spent at least four or five straight hours fighting the Phoenix—or more accurately, being her punching bag. She took blow after blow, without reprieve. The worst part was realizing how little chance she stood against Azmiyah. The Phoenix had a knack for provoking her and used it to the fullest. Each time Lysbelle gave up, each time her strength left her, the Caravan chief found some mocking remark or insult that rekindled her anger and pushed her back into the fight.

That night ended only when she collapsed from exhaustion.

The next day, she didn’t wake up until the sun was already high in the sky. Bruises covered her body, and her head throbbed as if someone was crushing it in a vice. She couldn’t move the entire next day.

Then, some hours ago, Azmiyah came to her again. Sitting cross-legged in front of her, the Phoenix’s fiery gaze pierced through her.

"Well, you’re going to have to get up—we’ve still got work to do."

Lysbelle found the statement absurd. If she had been able to get up, she would’ve done so long ago. Yet, here she was again, face down in the sand, listening to Azmiyah’s taunts.

Once more, a surge of strength spread through her, and she forced herself to stand. Barely on her feet, she saw the Phoenix already preparing her next move.

Standing before the young woman, Azmiyah’s arms were literally aflame with a freezing blue fire. The slightest contact would inflict excruciating pain.

"You better dodge this one, or you won’t stand again."

It was then, perhaps for the first time, that Lysbelle wondered if she wasn't just completely insane. With a swift motion, Azmiyah kicked up a spray of sand into her face and launched herself forward. Lysbelle raised an arm, deflecting most of the sand with her nomad garment. At the same moment, sensing her opponent’s intent, she stepped back, trying to avoid the charge. As her arm lowered, she only had time to mutter a curse before diving to the ground. Azmiyah’s blazing arm missed her head by inches, but a sharp kick slammed into her ribs. Lysbelle cried out in pain, curling up in agony.

"Stand up. Stop throwing yourself on the ground to dodge."

Lysbelle got back up. Another attack, another blow, another fall.

"Stop taking the hits head-on, it's foolish. Come on, get up, we’re not done."

She stood once more. Another attempt, another failure, and again, a mouthful of sand.

"Are you wearing a Mark just for show, or does it actually mean something? Get up, or I'll make you."

Clenching her fists, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to rise again. A roundhouse kick missed her by a hair’s breadth. The frozen flame scorched her cheek. A punch to the back knocked the wind out of her lungs and sent her sprawling.

"Stop running around like a fool. At least think about what you're doing. You’ve got three seconds to get back on your feet."

Lysbelle let out a cry of rage as she stood. Her right leg throbbed with excruciating pain, and only by drawing on the energy coursing through her body did she avoid collapsing again. In a sheer act of will, she lunged at Azmiyah. Her fist swung through empty air. A quick leg sweep brought her crashing down.

"If you waste Îme one more time, I’ll really hurt you. Get up and try again."

It made no sense—how was she supposed to avoid wasting something she didn’t even know how to use?

The sand, now cooled by the night, felt so comfortable that she was tempted to just stay down. Lysbelle had no idea how much time had passed, but it was dark. Illuminated only by the moon and the campfire, the two fighters stood a few meters from the wagons. Some of the warriors, amused by the spectacle, cheered them on, but most had already gone to sleep.

"Get up, or you’ll be staying behind when we attack the convoy."

Lysbelle got back up. Her eyes glazed over, bruised and battered; she was a sorry sight. With trembling, exhausted hands, she raised her fists in a weak attempt to stand her ground, only to fall right back into the sand.

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Azmiyah clicked her tongue in frustration before sitting down beside her. She ran her right hand across her opposite shoulder and leaned slightly toward Lysbelle.

"I’ll give you a hint because we’re not getting anywhere. The Mark isn’t something that works on its own. If you don’t know how to use it, it’s nearly useless to you. So think about it, and tomorrow, show me what you can do with it."

On that note, the Phoenix returned to her wagon, leaving Lysbelle alone under the night sky. Slowly, she felt the cold begin to bite at her skin. With great difficulty, she sat up. The sand glistened with a silvery hue, and a soft wind blew over the vast desert dunes. Last night, she had been too exhausted to notice. But she shouldn't have been able to stay out this long without protection in the freezing night of the Great Desert. After all, even the cage that had imprisoned her included special protections against the cold, though they were far from enough.

Yet, even as she felt the cold bite into her skin, it seemed weakened. Or perhaps was it the other way around? She turned her face toward the Caravan, her dark hair lifting in the combined force of her movement and a gust. As if to confirm her suspicion, all the Caravan warriors had retreated inside. Even the Rhiloos, usually indifferent to the temperature, were huddling together for warmth.

Lysbelle stood up, a pulse of energy giving her just enough strength to do so. Her entire body ached, but she pushed through the pain. Half-conscious, she made her way to the wagon that served as her sleeping quarters. Exhausted from what Azmiyah called training, she collapsed and fell asleep in seconds.

Waking up was even worse than before. This time, she wasn’t allowed to spend the day recovering. Orders were flying from the early morning, and the entire Caravan was bustling with labor. Alarmed by the shouting, Lysbelle forced a wave of Îme to surge through her body, grimacing as she rose. Everyone else in the wagon was already outside, and she was the only one left. Her muscles hurt, though less than the day before, but her injuries still lingered, even if they seemed less severe. She froze in place.

What had she just done?

With effort, she ignored the commotion outside and focused on herself. If it were urgent, someone would have come to get her. She had wanted to stand up, despite knowing she didn’t have the strength. A broad smile spread across her face. Her body radiated a familiar energy. It was the same power that had kept her going through her training with the Phoenix. The difference was, this morning, she had used it consciously. Now, she needed to remember how she’d done it. Lysbelle focused, directing all her attention to the source of her power, her Mark.

As always, she felt the energy flow from the tattoo and spread through her body. But this time, she searched deeper. The tattoo, as Azmiyah had said, didn’t work quite on its own. Every time she’d needed more power, the Mark had provided it. She wasn’t foolish enough not to realize that her accelerated healing likely had something to do with it, too.

Closing her eyes, Lysbelle envisioned the flow of power through her body—she could feel it as well. With a little more effort, she was sure she could learn to control it.

Unfortunately, the shouts outside were growing more insistent, and worry gnawed at her. Cursing her bad timing, she shook her head and left the wagon.

As soon as she stepped outside, she understood the source of the commotion. Everyone bustled around the wagons, and an obvious reason delayed the preparations for departure. Far ahead of them, a towering wall of sand and wind loomed—a massive storm. It stretched across the sky like a colossus, marching relentlessly in their direction.

One of the Caravan members, a warrior named Sabil, ran past her. Spotting her, he barked an order.

"Bring the two Rhiloos from your wagon to the lead one; I’ll handle the next!"

Lysbelle didn't have time to respond before he dashed off. In a leap, she sprang into action. From the chaos and her instructions, it was clear they were reconfiguring the Caravan. She ran toward the two Rhiloos, who were already screeching in agitation. The two large birds, exceptionally well-trained, seemed to understand exactly what she was trying to do. Yet, their excitement, fueled by the storm’s approach and the general chaos, made it difficult for her to untether them. One of the birds kept pecking at her, as if urging her to hurry, while the other tugged at its reins, desperate to move as soon as possible.

A beak jabbed past her cheek, missing her eye by a hair's breadth, and the other bird’s screech distracted her yet again.

"Calm down, or I'll get angry!"

Lysbelle shifted her position, finding a way to access the large knot holding them in place. Her hand slid under the ropes, searching for the right one to untie. Just as she was making progress, the first bird turned and pecked her in the back, the sharp pain making her lose her grip. As if that weren’t enough, the second one scraped the ground again, trying to rush off, sending a spray of sand into her face. Lysbelle felt her temper rising. Unlike the Rhiloos she was used to handling in her Caravan, these two seemed determined to make things difficult. Unfortunately for them, her lack of sleep and exhaustion from training didn’t mix well with their stubbornness.

"That’s enough!"

Lysbelle felt energy course through her body again, but this time, she didn’t focus on it. The Îme seeped through her skin, enveloping her completely, before extending out to the animals. In the next moment, the birds calmed down, and the aura dissipated. Even though she had seen it all unfold, she didn’t dwell on it. She preyed on the momentary peace to untie the birds and lead them to the first wagon. She’d think about what had happened later, when she had more time.

As soon as she reached the front of the Caravan, someone took the Rhiloos’ reins from her and ordered her to help at the rear. She sprinted toward the last wagon, where about ten warriors were busy working. A woman saw her approaching and shouted for her to check the straps at the back.

The more effort they poured into preparations, the less Lysbelle understood. During a storm, there were always procedures, but rarely this extensive. Having finished checking the straps, she called out to one of the Caravan members.

"What’s going on? Why all the extra preparation?"

The man turned to her, looking almost surprised by the question. Then, recognizing who had asked, he chuckled.

"You're in luck. You’ll get to see how the Phoenix handles storms. Now go make sure the ropes are secure—I’ll take care of this one."

Still not entirely sure what was happening, Lysbelle shook her head and followed the order. She double-checked the connections between the wagons and soon found herself back at the lead one.

There, standing on the wagon, her nomadic clothing billowing in the wind, was Azmiyah. Her silhouette stood out against the desert sands, radiating a force and a palpable aura. The Phoenix watched the preparations with a stern gaze.

When she spotted Lysbelle, she leaped from the wagon, landing with grace beside her.

"Oh, you’re awake?" she said, a wide grin on her face. "Perfect. We’re ready to move out."

The next moment, she whistled with so much strength that Lysbelle had to cover her ears. With everyone’s attention on her, Azmiyah barked her orders.

"Everyone to your posts! It’s time to face the Vast Sands Devil!"

Lysbelle swallowed hard. There was no longer any doubt—Azmiyah was absolutely, undeniably insane.