Time seemed to freeze in a moment of apprehension. Seeing the dragon emblazoned on the convoy’s banners had stirred a fear in Lysbelle, one whose depth she was only now beginning to realize. She feared that Tyrell would panic upon seeing her tattoo. What if he abandoned her in the desert, or worse, decided to eliminate her? She instinctively wanted to cover her mark, but it was too late. Anxious, she looked up at her traveling companion. The man had stopped, a water flask and a piece of cloth in hand, ready to clean her wound. Lysbelle wanted to say something, to explain that she had had this mark for years, but her throat was dry.
Tyrell, as if his surprise only lasted a moment, resumed his actions. He moistened the cloth and cleaned the wound with practiced precision. She watched him work in silence, unsure of what to say. Once he was done, he tore off a large piece of his protective cape and wrapped it tightly around Lysbelle’s waist as a makeshift bandage. Task complete, he straightened and resumed his steady pace through the vast desert. Following close behind, Lysbelle still wondered if her fears had been unfounded.
Their journey continued for several more uninterrupted hours. With the burning sun overhead and fine sand beneath their feet, the walk was long and grueling. More than once, they had to be cautious of scorpions and other desert creatures that only their keen eyes could detect. Finally, after a day of marching under the blistering heat, the temperature and light began to ease.
Tyrell stopped, scanning the horizon for any landmarks or signs to guide them. Lysbelle, on the other hand, found herself drenched in sweat. Completely exhausted after a full day of walking without rest, she was dismayed to find her water flask empty. Sure, she was used to long nomadic treks, but even though those lasted much longer, she typically had access to plenty of water. The Caravan also allowed her to rest every three or four hours in the shade. Walking an entire day under the relentless sun was no small feat, even for someone accustomed to it. And that was without considering her injury and the lack of a decent meal for days.
As if reading her mind, Tyrell handed her his flask. "Two sips, no more."
She nodded in thanks and brought the water to her lips. To say it was easy to stop at two sips would have been a lie. As she pulled the flask away, she felt even thirstier than before. It was only Tyrell’s insistent gaze that stopped her from drinking more. He took the flask back and stowed it away before speaking to her again.
"We’re not far now. With a bit of luck and motivation, just a few more hours of walking. But we won’t march at night. We need to find shelter."
Without protest, Lysbelle nodded. Nights in the desert were far more dangerous than days.
"The area around Beryl’s Oasis is rockier. We should be able to find shelter there."
"Yes, but in that case, we need to pick up the pace. I’ll give us one more hour of walking; if we don’t reach it, we’ll have to dig in the sand."
At night, aside from the temperatures plummeting to extremes, there were far more dangers to watch out for than during the day. Unfortunately for Lysbelle, who loved the silver sheen of the sand under the moonlight, traveling without the protection of a Caravan in the dark was suicide. The nomadic Caravans were wonders of efficiency, unmatched in avoiding the dangers of the Exergue desert. Each one was built under the supervision of the finest Îme sculptors from the clans. Each infused with ancient magic designed to repel predators. While the enchantment was far from foolproof and had no effect on the Reapers, it would be madness to face the desert nights without their protection. For a long time, these deadly dangers had also served as a barrier, keeping outsiders from entering the desert. Yet, given recent events, that no longer seemed to be the case.
The two companions had been walking for about twenty minutes when the dunes gave way to rocks. Relieved not to have to trek through the sands any longer, they spent the next half-hour searching for a suitable spot to spend the night.
They finally found shelter beneath a large boulder. Split almost in two at the base, it allowed them to slip inside after checking that no animals had already claimed it as a refuge. The rock had retained the day's warmth, providing the perfect barrier against the freezing night winds.
Both of them settled down, hunger gnawing at their stomachs and thirst parching their lips. Soon, the silence of the last few days filled the air once more. For safety, Lysbelle checked her wound. The cut, though not dangerously deep, was still worrisome. Fortunately, Tyrell seemed to have a talent for makeshift bandages. The wound, tightly bound, had long stopped bleeding, and though she probably should have changed the bandage and cleaned the injury, it would have to wait until morning.
"For how long?"
The question caught her off guard mid-thought. She looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with confusion.
"For how long what?"
"The mark…"
Lysbelle shivered, unable to tell if his tone was his usual detachment or if there was suspicion in his voice. The night made it impossible to read his expression, and she couldn’t help but imagine the worst. Yet, perhaps out of instinct or in an excess of trust, something deep inside pushed her to tell the truth. Her voice started as a murmur, gradually gaining confidence, her gaze dropping to the ground as though in shame.
"I... I don’t really know... I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Even before my mother and I were taken in by the Caravan."
Terrified of the possible connection between her and the cursed convoy that had attacked them, she awaited Tyrell’s reaction with mounting dread. But there was only silence. Her fear was purely based on assumptions, a series of coincidences that had led her to expect the worst. Still, her encounter with the Dragon, still vivid in her mind, made her lean toward a less direct link than she had initially thought. Even so, she couldn’t shake her fear. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Tyrell finally responded.
"I see..."
The cryptic reply only heightened her anxiety. Lysbelle waited, tense and expectant. She anticipated more, growing even more uneasy, but no further explanation came. On the verge of losing her nerve, she finally looked up at Tyrell. The man seemed uninterested in pursuing the topic further, his eyes already closed. Then, after several minutes of silence, just as she wondered if he had fallen asleep, he spoke again.
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"You have no idea what it is, do you?"
"The mark? No, not really."
Far from naive, she had a few ideas. But in truth, they were only guesses. Of course, it was linked to her encounter; the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that it explained her superhuman strength against the Swarm and her rapid healing. Yet, she still didn’t know what it meant or how she had gotten it. The strangest part was why she hadn’t noticed any of these abilities before the Swarm. She had carried this tattoo at least since her ninth summer solstice. It made no sense that she hadn’t discovered its nature until now.
Tyrell sighed.
"I've never heard of a case like yours. However, among the nomadic tribes, you're far from the only one to bear such a mark. There aren’t many of you—maybe ten at most—but you’re not alone."
The revelation left Lysbelle speechless. Others? With the same tattoo as hers? The same mark that had been with her all her life?
"According to our customs, it is the protector of the desert who chooses who is worthy to bear one. And there has never been an exception to that rule. If you carry a mark, it means you've done an exceptional act that earned you the protector’s gaze."
Having no memory of ever accomplishing anything remarkable, Lysbelle opened her mouth to speak, but Tyrell silenced her with a simple, authoritative gesture.
"To be honest, I’ve never seen anyone with a mark representing a dragon. Of all the ones I’ve encountered, you’re the first to have it."
Unable to contain herself any longer, Lysbelle interrupted Tyrell’s monologue. Everything he was saying was overwhelming—maybe too much. Other marked people like her? But none with a dragon? Every word only raised more questions in her mind.
"Wait! I don’t understand. There are others with marks? How come I’ve never heard of this? Even if the nomadic tribes don’t often share information, I should have heard something! And this thing about an extraordinary act... I’ve had this mark for years and I’ve never done anything worthy of that description! And what about the connection between the Dragon and the convoy’s emblem? They're far too similar for it to be a coincidence."
Tyrell shook his head.
"I don’t have many answers for you. I can only speculate based on what you've told me. If you’ve never heard of the marks, despite having one yourself, then someone in your Caravan likely didn’t want you to know about them."
"But who could—"
"Stop. Let me finish. If you keep asking questions before I’ve answered the first ones, we’ll never get anywhere. As for the ‘extraordinary act,’ maybe you’ve never done one, or maybe you considered it insignificant and forgot about it. Either way, it doesn’t matter."
He paused to take a sip from his water flask.
"Finally, I know that outsiders revere what they call the Guides. They supposedly fought alongside their god long ago. One of these Guides is a dragon—a dragon some have made their emblem. A dragon that resembles your mark."
Tyrell glanced toward the desert. The night, long since fallen, had brought with it the freezing cold of the desert's darkness. Sheltered by the rock, they were fortunate to escape the worst of the chill.
"You’ll take the first watch. Wake me in some time, or if you see anything approaching."
With that, he lay down, ignoring Lysbelle’s stunned expression. The young woman was once again left with more questions than answers. But, as he had proven before, Tyrell wasn’t concerned. Within seconds, he was already asleep.
She smiled, letting out a sigh. At least the connection she had so dreaded between her and that cursed convoy was truly insignificant. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and a tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying melted away. Yet the questions still swirled in her mind. Who was the dragon? Who had kept her from learning the truth about her mark? Would she ever be able to use its powers? Was that even possible? How did Tyrell know all this? And the most important one: would she be able to save Azel?
Lost in thought, she gazed out toward the entrance of their hideout, scanning for any signs of danger or distraction that might help pass the time.
The night passed without incident. Fortunately, the nocturnal predators kept their distance, and no snakes or scorpions crept into their shelter. Tyrell and she had switched places twice, alternating their shifts to ensure one of them was always on guard. Despite her exhaustion, sleep had been slow to come. It took her a long while before she finally slipped into a much-needed rest.
At dawn, they resumed their journey in silence, heading toward the Beryl Oasis. The trek would be much shorter than the day before, a thought that brightened Lysbelle's spirits. Hunger had become a constant companion over the past several days, but there was nothing she could do about it. They had finished the last drop of water that morning, and they hoped to reach the oasis soon. Surprisingly, it was Tyrell who spoke first.
"You’re awfully quiet. After yesterday’s conversation, I expected you to pester me with questions the moment we woke up."
Lysbelle shrugged.
"I figured it’s not your favorite pastime, so I’ll mull them over until you're ready to answer."
A smile escaped from the man’s lips.
"Marks are a vast source of power…"
Lysbelle shot him a surprised glance. If he were starting to speak without her prompting, she might actually manage to hold a full conversation with him in a day or two. Tyrell must have noticed her look because he shook his head before continuing.
"The few bearers I’ve met were more powerful than Îme masters. From what they explained, you should think of the mark as a reservoir of energy, a true tool that makes the use of the Îme easier. Beyond that, it’s also a key. It grants permission to cross Mount Ardent and visit the protector of the desert."
Lysbelle, shocked, stopped in her tracks. She had expected a lot when he started talking about the mark, but not this. A way to shape the Îme? She had long given up on that idea after discovering her lack of talent for the craft. And then there was this talk about the protector of the desert. It was the second time he mentioned it, yet the only knowledge she had of it came from old legends her mother had told her long ago.
Tyrell, having said what he wanted, fell silent again. Lost in thought, reflecting. He shouldn’t have mentioned that last part. He had spoken without realizing it and let himself get carried away. It was a flaw that had often worked against him, one he had learned to combat with a determined silence. Unfortunately, Lysbelle’s persistent curiosity had finally loosened his tongue. Out of fear of scaring her, he had kept one final detail to himself: every mark bearer who had tried to reach Mount Ardent had died. What a shame. If he had the right and if circumstances were different, he would have loved to teach her the basics of Îme sculpting.
It was Lysbelle who spotted the oasis first, nestled in a rocky basin. The sight of it felt like a true blessing. The Beryl Oasis was named for the blue-green hue of its water, a unique mystery of the desert. She had visited it a few years back, and the place had captivated her. In fact, it was on the way to this oasis that the attack on her Caravan happened. Compared to the endless dunes of the vast desert, the rocky plateau that sheltered the oasis was a welcome change for their tired eyes.
"Finally! We can get some help!" she exclaimed.
Tyrell nodded. Though he didn’t show it openly, the relief of finding a place to rest after days of silent suffering was undeniable. He was at his wits' end and could not have made it through more. Now, they could only hope that one or more Caravans would be there.