Sitting inside one of the wagons, Lysbelle was breathing deeply, trying to calm herself. The previous night had been long, and she was still exhausted from it. Under Azmiyah’s guidance, she had attempted to understand her healing abilities, but, she found it even harder than consciously strengthening herself. The Îme, when it flowed through her body, was in a constant shift like an elusive current. Trying to direct it toward a wound or bruise seemed impossible. After many failed attempts, Azmiyah had declared they needed to sleep to be ready for today and had sent her back to her wagon. Of course, Lysbelle hadn’t listened. She continued practicing late into the night until she finally collapsed from exhaustion.

Waking up had been rough, and the morning even more so. Due to the storm, it had been much harder to search for the recognizable trail of the massive ship. The desert wind, far from being on their side, had unfortunately wiped everything clean. They had pressed on for most of the day without finding anything until Azmiyah returned with good news. The convoy’s tracks had appeared when the sun was high in the sky. The enormous ship was still heading toward the desert’s edge. With the convoy's tracks found, they had quickly swapped out the Rhiloos teams to allow them to pull the Caravan as fast as possible. The scouts had gone ahead to spot the convoy before it could spot them. For about fifteen hours, they followed its trail without catching sight of it, letting the rest of the day and part of the night slip by.

Only a few long minutes ago, had they finally caught up. In the dead of night, in the biting cold of the desert, far off atop a dune, the convoy had come to a stop. Seeing it made Lysbelle shiver, the hulking beast reminding her of the attack.

“Are you scared?”

Rayssa’s voice, more serious than usual, resonated in Lysbelle’s ears. The young woman looked at her trembling hands and clenched them.

“Yes, I’m terrified.”

She had never taken part in a battle. She hadn’t been raised as a warrior, and she had never killed. Those three reasons alone would have been enough to terrify her, but there were more. She feared she wouldn’t be good enough. She dreaded her next encounter with Kraast, and above all, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to free Azel from their grasp. So yes, Lysbelle’s hands were shaking uncontrollably, and fear was written all over her face.

“That reassures me a little, I have to say,” Rayssa replied. “Seeing you train every evening like a madwoman with the Phoenix, I’d never seen anyone do that. I was starting to wonder if you were even human.”

Lysbelle turned her head toward the warrior. She saw a smiling, yet tense face. A certain stiffness showed on her sun-kissed skin, as if she was forcing an expression that was hard to maintain. A few summers older than her, Rayssa had long dark hair, longer than hers. Her nomadic attire, that of a warrior, was slightly shorter to allow for more freedom of movement. A simple leather belt secured the outfit to keep it from billowing in the wind.

“Are you scared too?”

The woman responded without even glancing at her.

“Of course. Those who aren’t afraid when they risk their lives are either fools or reckless.”

Lysbelle mulled over the words for a moment—they were oddly comforting. They told her she wasn’t alone in feeling the stress and fear that knotted her stomach. Then a thought crossed her mind, and she asked her question aloud.

"Do you think the Phoenix is scared?"

The warrior gave a fleeting smile before answering.

"Of course, she's probably the most afraid of all of us. If she falls, we all fall with her. Her shoulders bear the weight of every life in the Caravan, as well as that of the prisoners."

"But she's strong. Stronger than any of us!"

Rayssa shifted in the wagon, maybe from stress or anticipation, but she hadn't been able to stay still, moving almost with every sentence since the conversation began.

"Still, she's far from the strongest. Even among the nomads, I've met people more skilled than her in many ways."

Lysbelle was stunned. More skilled than Azmiyah? Those people must have been monsters. She wanted to know more, but their conversation was cut short by a soft knock on the side of the wagon. The sound echoed inside, signaling the start of the plan. Almost immediately, Lysbelle forgot her question and focused all her attention on listening. At the next signal, they would have to go.

She wasn’t involved in the first part of the plan—the scouts would handle that. The second part, however, required the presence of all the warriors to finish it as soon as possible.

The plan was simple: the scouts would incapacitate the guards, allowing the Caravan to get closer without being detected. If that succeeded, the next step was to free the prisoners as quietly as possible before retreating in the opposite direction.

Lysbelle felt the Caravan pick up speed, the faithful birds gaining momentum in the middle of the night. Soon, a second knock echoed inside the wagon, and all the warriors moved as one to head outside. The first knock had signaled that they were joining the scouts, the second meant the next phase of the plan was underway. If everything had gone smoothly, all that remained was to free the prisoners quickly and quietly.

It was the cold that hit Lysbelle as she stepped outside. The extreme desert temperatures were particularly harsh, and they wouldn’t be able to stay long without the Caravan’s protection. She saw the convoy again, now only a few meters away, and everything was still.

The massive sandship rested like a sleeping giant on a large dune. The Oroxes, sensing their presence—or perhaps that of the Rhiloos—kept a silent watch on their Caravan.

Standing on the deck of the ship, silhouetted against the night sky, was Azmiyah, watching them disembark. She looked like a figure of inspiration, her presence a clear sign that the scouts had successfully dealt with the guards. As soon as she could, Lysbelle headed toward the back of the convoy, where the large cage holding the prisoners was located.

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The dim moonlight, in its waning phase, struggled to light the path of the warriors, and every second that passed felt like an eternity to Lysbelle. They had to move faster. If they could free everyone without alerting the rest of the convoy, it would be the best possible outcome. The Phoenix gave silent orders, signaling tasks with gestures and the urgency of time.

A few long seconds later, Lysbelle reached the cage with a few warriors. Inside, around thirty prisoners lay asleep. She stopped, searching for her younger brother among them. The other warriors with her moved toward the heavy iron door that separated them from the captives.

Her heart was racing, and Lysbelle hesitated for a moment before calling her brother's name. Only the absolute discretion they had been instructed to maintain held her back. The longer she searched without finding him, the more her worry grew. She scanned the prisoners once more, then paused. They were all asleep—without exception. Yet she knew from experience that the cold and wind made it difficult for most of them to get any proper rest. It wasn’t impossible that they were all exhausted, but something inside her told her something was wrong. Paying closer attention, she noticed more oddities. Some captives were piled on top of each other in completely uncomfortable positions, while others lay apart from the group with no blankets at all. A chill of unease ran down her spine, but she quickly reassured herself—the steady rise and fall of their chests confirmed they were alive. Still, her sense of unease persisted, though she couldn't quite pinpoint what was off. Uncertain, she decided to alert the others in the Caravan, starting with Azmiyah.

Lysbelle turned, searching for their leader. Azmiyah stood in the same place, watching the operation unfold. As if drawn by her movement, the Phoenix’s fiery gaze met hers. In the blink of an eye, Azmiyah was beside her. In a barely audible whisper, she asked,

“What’s going on?”

Lysbelle hesitated, unsure of what exactly she had noticed or how to explain it.

"The… the prisoners, something’s strange. I remember my nights here, and this isn’t right."

Azmiyah narrowed her eyes, looking at the captives. A second passed, then another, and a third before a look of surprise crossed her face. The next moment, she shouted a warning.

"Prepare for battle! They know we’re here!"

No sooner had she spoken than a bright blue light spread across the entire ship—a light Lysbelle recognized instantly. It was the same light used when she had been the bait. Every man and woman readied themselves for battle, waiting for an enemy they had yet to see. Tension gripped each warrior as they scanned their surroundings. Yet no one appeared. Instead, a deep, rumbling voice echoed around the ship, capturing their attention.

“Well, well, seeing is believing. The pest survived and found help. I must admit, your presence here is quite the surprise. If I’d known you’d survive the Reapers, I would have sent someone else to do the job.”

Lysbelle shuddered, her face contorting in anger as a sneer of hatred twisted her features. Kraast. Even as the voice droned on, Azmiyah was barking orders, searching for the source of the voice.

“But I should thank you, pest. I almost missed my quota. Thanks to you, this will be a perfect harvest. Unfortunately, you lot don't seem willing to cooperate. But don’t worry—my second has a way to settle you down.”

Suddenly, an electric charge surged through the air, visible to all. A massive ball of crackling energy hovered ten meters above the deck. Panic rippled through the warriors, and Lysbelle could only watch in horror as the sphere of energy began hurtling toward the nearest of them.

Azmiyah reacted in an instant. With a single step, she launched herself at impressive speed toward the ball of lightning. And with one swift motion, she summoned a magnificent blade of ice in her hands. Everything happened in a blur. The Phoenix let out a fierce cry as her blade intercepted the lightning, and with a resounding shockwave, the energy sphere dissipated upon contact with the sword.

Barely recovering from the shock, Lysbelle heard Kraast’s voice signal the attack. All over the deck, the convoy’s men appeared, emerging from hidden traps, concealed entrances, and indistinguishable hiding spots. In no time, a full-scale battle erupted on the ship’s deck.

Back against the cage, watching the fight unfold, Lysbelle froze in panic. The scene reminded her too much of the last moments of her Caravan. Fear gripped her, rooting her in place. A man charged toward her, shouting at the top of his lungs, wielding a large cleaver raised high above his head. He was about to strike when a slender blade pierced his side, slicing upward into his gut.

"Move! Move, or you’ll die!"

Rayssa’s shout snapped her out of her paralysis as she charged at another member of the convoy. The command hit Lysbelle like a jolt of electricity. She drew her weapon and began to move again, quickly scanning her surroundings to assess the situation. Though not gaining the upper hand, the desert warriors were holding their ground against the ambush with remarkable resilience. Each of them fought with the fierce technique and passion characteristic of their people. Unfortunately, their opponents were anything but weak. The convoy’s members were strong, their stature and build often far superior to the desert fighters.

In the midst of the chaotic fray stood Azmiyah, firmly planted in a defensive stance, facing two men. The first was a towering figure, at least two meters tall, with arms as thick as thighs: Kraast. The second, the convoy’s second-in-command, with short hair and a lean, muscular build, watched the Phoenix intently.

Lysbelle saw red. Kraast—the scum who had killed her mother in a cowardly ambush—was standing only a few meters away. She felt the power of the Îme flow from her mark, filling every part of her body. It was an overwhelming strength, something she had only felt a few times before. With a scream of fury, she charged.

People from both sides of the battle stood in her path, but she ignored them. One enemy tried to block her, only to be knocked aside like a ragdoll. As if anything else has disappeared, only Kraast remained in her sight

Azmiyah exhaled deeply—they had been expecting this. The prisoners had either been drugged or put to sleep using the Îme, and given the lightning ball she had just stopped, the latter seemed more likely. A real mess. In front of her stood the ones she assumed were the convoy’s leaders. The giant had the arrogant air typical of self-important chiefs. The other, leaner, watched her with an icy seriousness. If she had to bet on who the leader was, she would have put all her money on the second—he seemed far more dangerous. Yet it was the giant who spoke.

"The Phoenix, is it? Pleased to meet you. You’ve got quite the reputation, I hear."

"Shut up," Azmiyah snapped, her voice as sharp as a serpent’s bite. "If you want to live, call off your men and release the prisoners."

The man shrugged, a smug grin spreading across his face.

"You're dreaming, witch. You think I’d take orders from a cursed-mark bearer? You’re only good for dying under our swords."

Lost in his monologue, the man didn’t see Azmiyah’s blade slice toward him. The next moment, it was blocked. A thin arc of electricity had intercepted the ice blade just before it could cut the man’s throat. It was the second-in-command who spoke next.

"Focus, idiot. Next time, I’ll let you die. Even if she was maked by one of the cursed beasts she is still a Mark bearer"

Azmiyah clicked her tongue in frustration. She had been so close to finishing off one of them. As she adjusted her stance for another strike, a furious scream caught her attention. She glanced quickly to find its source, and to her surprise, it was Lysbelle.

"KRAAAAAST! You’re going to pay for this!"

The Phoenix couldn’t help but let a faint smile tug at the corner of her lips. Lysbelle, her jet-black hair billowing in the wind and her eyes dark with rage, was charging toward them. Even from where she stood, Azmiyah could feel the power radiating from the young woman’s mark. With a bit of luck, Lysbelle would hold her own long enough for Azmiyah to deal with the Îme master.