"Step aside, Fallen. If the girl is looking for a fight, she knocked on the right door."

Without understanding why, Lysbelle felt a surge of anger rising within her. Maybe it was Azmiyah’s actions, or perhaps it was Tyrell’s revelations that she couldn’t quite accept. Or maybe she was fed up. The past few days had been grueling: little rest, scarce food, and endless problems. Just when she had finally found familiar faces and hoped for help in rescuing her brother, she was once again confronted with events beyond her control. Whatever the reason, the mix of emotions left only an inexplicable fury in its wake.

In front of her, Azmiyah stood with her blade pointed at Lysbelle’s throat, while Tyrell positioned himself between them, his gaze locked on the warrior.

Lysbelle’s voice snapped, sharp and unrecognizable.

"Tyrell, step back."

She was seething. Without understanding the true source of her state, Lysbelle felt every muscle in her body surge with strength flowing from her mark. Each breath sent waves of power through her, and she seemed as though she was overflowing with energy.

"She’s right, Tyrell," Azmiyah laughed coldly. "Step back, or I’ll cut you down with her."

The two women’s eyes remained locked, one filled with fury, the other with icy disdain. A second stretched into an eternity before Tyrell finally relented and stepped back.

"Fine. Do as you wish, but don’t be surprised by the consequences."

Azmiyah turned her head toward him.

"Do you really think you have the right to talk to me about consequences?"

Lysbelle charged.

She lunged forward, ducking to dodge the blade before swinging her fist up toward her opponent’s face. Though surprised, Azmiyah managed to sidestep the attack. A moment later, the blade slashed toward Lysbelle. A cry of rage escaped her lips. The anger had fully consumed her, an irrational fury that she almost observed from a distance. Lysbelle dodged at the last moment, feeling the icy blade graze her arm, leaving a thin cut. Pushed by her momentum, she twisted her body and thrust a hand toward Azmiyah. Though clumsy, the move was powered by the overwhelming energy surging through her body. With surprising speed, Lysbelle grabbed Azmiyah’s arm, which the warrior had lifted to defend herself.

Lysbelle could feel every fiber of her muscles pulsating with immense power, the same strength that had once allowed her to tear a Reaper’s jaw with her bare hands. Without even realizing what she was doing, she pulled.

Nothing happened.

Then, in one swift, brutal motion, Azmiyah broke free from Lysbelle’s grip and grabbed her arm in return. The flat of the blade slammed into Lysbelle’s ribs, followed by the pommel smashing into her face. Stunned and injured, the young woman couldn’t react. The ice blade disappeared from her opponent’s hand, and the next moment, Lysbelle felt the warrior’s palm strike her stomach. She barely had time to notice the flames burning in Azmiyah’s eyes before being violently thrown out of the wagon.

The landing was anything but gentle; she scraped along the ground for about ten meters before crashing into something. Pain replaced anger, and she didn’t notice Azmiyah approaching. The woman grabbed her by the collar, lifting her as if she were picking up a handful of sand.

"You’re lucky, Mark-Bearer. Anyone else would be dead by now. But that was entertaining, so I won’t kill you."

With those words, Azmiyah hurled Lysbelle toward the oasis with such force that she flew in a wide arc, landing in the water.

_________________________________________________________

Tyrell sat cross-legged, having tried to prevent the fight, but Lysbelle’s surprising fury, combined with Azmiyah’s personality, hadn’t mixed well. He sighed. At least there was little chance Azmiyah would kill her. He glanced at the Elder and the second-in-command. Neither had spoken a word since the conflict began. On the plus side, Sadris’s disapproval had shifted from him to the Phoenix. When she finally returned to the lead wagon, Tyrell thought he detected a fleeting smile, gone in a flash. Still concerned, he stepped forward.

"Is she alive?"

"Of course. I just sent her to cool off."

That was all the answer he got. As if Azmiyah had all of a sudden remembered who she was talking to, she averted her gaze and headed toward the Elder. Before she could speak, she was interrupted. Sadris stepped forward.

"Bearer of the Phoenix Mark, Caravan Leader Azmiyah Ghazal, your disrespect toward our Caravan is disappointing. Consider this your warning. By nomad code, I command you to cease these affronts and present yourself before our leader."

The Phoenix gave him a disdainful look before sitting in front of the Elder. A moment later, Sadris’s attention turned back to Tyrell.

"And as for you, Fallen, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Announcing the Call, especially with your status, is not something to joke about. By the nomad code you’ve violated, I command you to explain yourself to the Elder."

Surprised by his words, Azmiyah turned to Tyrell.

"You did what? You—"

"SILENCE!"

The Elder’s voice boomed with enough force to make an Orox bend. The intended effect achieved, he turned to his second.

"Sadris, go check on young Lysbelle. I believe you know her, so make sure she’s alright. I still have a few questions for her."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Sadris nodded and left.

_________________________________________________________

Lysbelle sat soaking wet, leaning against one of the many fruit trees surrounding the oasis, stewing in her thoughts. Her ribs ached, and so did her jaw. If the woman had wanted to kill her, she’d be dead before she even saw it coming.

The forced bath had washed away her anger, and she tried to figure out what had pushed her into such a state. At first, she thought Tyrell’s revelation had been the trigger, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was as if she had lost control of her emotions for a moment.

Honestly, she was tired of it all. Usually a fighter, she now felt like every effort was pulling her deeper into quicksand. In truth, she only wanted one thing: to find her brother. But every step seemed to take her further away from him.

She turned her head toward the second Caravan, marked by the colors of the Phoenix, which was beginning to settle in. The first had expanded the half-circle around the oasis, making room for the second and mixing the groups together. Even though each belonged to a different clan, nomads were ultimately one large family.

A saddened voice broke through her thoughts.

"I'm really sorry about your mother and your Caravan. If there's anything I can do for you, you know I'm here, alright?"

She turned to the one speaking to her. Sadris was looking at her with a sad smile and a thoughtful expression.

"Silvya was an exceptional person. I'm deeply saddened by her loss."

The man sat down beside her, struggling to do so. He let out a long sigh and stared into the oasis.

"You weren’t hurt too badly, were you? The Phoenix can be quite aggressive, and your reaction surprised all of us."

"I'm fine..."

She could still feel the pommel's blow on her cheek, the strike of the blade against her ribs, and the force with which she had been thrown, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the growing sense of helplessness that was creeping over her.

"Sadris, do you think my brother is okay?"

The man paused, searching for the right words.

"I think so... From what you’ve told us, they’re capturing as many nomads as possible, so your brother is likely still alive."

Lysbelle sighed. Even if he was alive, she couldn’t shake the image of his terrified face—the last look he had given her when she had seen him.

"I need to go free him. If they leave the desert, it will be too late."

"You’re just like your mother," Sadris said, shaking his head. "Always running toward danger to protect others."

He fell silent for a moment, glancing at her before struggling to stand up.

"Though maybe that’s what made her strong... and so remarkable."

He took a few steps away, then stopped.

"Lysbelle, know this: if the Elder approves the Fallen’s request. The Call will take place in a month at the foot of Mount Ardent. But that will be far too late to catch up with the convoy and your brother before they leave the desert."

With that, he slowly walked away. Lysbelle stared into the blue-green water, lost in thought.

Later, as night fell and the reunion meal between the two Caravans was in full swing around the large fire, someone approached her. A bowl filled to the brim in one hand and a large cup of water in the other.

"Here, I brought you something to eat."

Surprised, Lysbelle turned toward the speaker. It was Mayssa, the one who had treated her injury when she arrived. With a big smile and a gentle face, she had brought a generous portion of food.

"Thank you, and sorry for making you come all the way here."

"Oh no, don’t worry about it. I insisted on bringing it to you. I don’t like doing nothing when someone’s feeling down."

The woman smiled kindly before continuing.

"I’m not great at much, but at least I can tell when something’s bothering someone. Though, I must admit, with you, it wasn’t hard to notice. You’ve spent the entire afternoon leaning against that poor fig tree."

Lysbelle couldn’t help but smile at the remark. She thanked Mayssa before taking the bowl of food and starting her meal. Mayssa remained quiet for a moment, letting her eat in peace, but as she turned to leave, she added:

"You know, there’s nothing more satisfying than giving a hot meal to someone who’s hungry."

After a few more bites, Lysbelle paused, staring down at her bowl. Her mind was made up. The Call, as Sadris said, would take far too long. Even if she had to go alone, she would have to free her brother before then. If anyone had been watching, they might have seen a new determination gleam in her eyes.

As she finished her meal, she heard a bell ringing near the fire. That bell only rang when a Caravan leader had an important announcement to make. Curious, she turned her head toward the center of the half-circle. There, supported by a staff, the Elder stood with his back to the fire. Beside him was the woman who had soundly beaten her, standing tall with a look of anger on her face. A little farther away, Sadris and Tyrell observed in silence. The Elder’s voice broke through the stillness.

"My friends, I apologize for interrupting these joyful reunions. Unfortunately, I bring bad news. At least two of our Caravans have been attacked."

A murmur of concern rippled through the crowd before the Phoenix raised her hand to silence them. The Elder continued.

"While alarming, this news only confirms the rumors of the disappearances over the past months. Therefore, despite his status as a Fallen, Tyrell has announced his intention to request the Call."

This time, the murmurs were of shock. And strangely, Azmiyah shot a glare at Tyrell. It was only then that Lysbelle realized what this meant. If Tyrell requested the Call while he was a Fallen... He would put his life on the line! According to the nomads' code, a Fallen invoking the Call was, without exception, exiled into the countless dangers of Mount Ardent. She gritted her teeth—of course, he would risk his life again.

"We will hold the Call ceremony tomorrow at first light."

With those words, the Elder went to sit down, and Sadris brought him a cup of water. The discussions resumed, but the atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty. Tyrell made his way to the healer's wagon to rest, while the Phoenix retreated to her own.

Lysbelle hesitated for a moment, then headed in the same direction as the leader of the second Caravan. A few steps later, she stood before the large front wagon. Intimidating, a phoenix symbol stood proudly over the entrance. She shook her head and stepped forward, carefully parting the drape.

Inside, dimly lit yet warm, the atmosphere was comforting. Some wagons were enchanted to maintain a pleasant temperature throughout the night, often used as sleeping or living quarters. Azmiyah’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Ah, the impudent one. Lysbelle, right? What do you want? A rematch? Though I suspect your cheek is still sore."

Her voice, slightly rough, reminded Lysbelle of the bruise that appeared where the pommel hit her. A twinge of irritation flared in her chest, and once again, she felt her anger rise irrationally. Somehow, the Phoenix had a knack for getting under her skin. She swallowed a sharp retort and replied.

"No, I’m here to ask for a favor."

Intrigued, Azmiyah turned toward her. She had shed her protective cloak, now dressed in something much more relaxed. Her light shirt revealed her upper arms, which were dotted with dozens of small scars, as if she had faced countless blades.

"A favor? Really?"

"I want you to help me free the two captured Caravans. If we wait for the Call, it will be too late. If we leave now, we have a good chance of catching them before they leave the desert."

Silence filled the room, an uncomfortable pause that made Lysbelle uneasy. Then, with a slow, almost unsettling movement, a wide grin spread across the Phoenix’s lips.

"I’ve changed my mind, Lysbelle. I think I appreciate you."