I awoke in a bed of sand. The faint sound of the waves slowly became unclouded as I pushed myself up, unclogging my ears with seawater. My white robes were now soiled with wet sand, and my hand found itself holding the necklace of the Nine Haloes. Where am I? How am I alive? A miracle? Did a god save me? Which one? These questions would not find an answer so soon.

I glared at the necklace that symbolized the religion that I was forced to serve in. I remember the abuse and the death that I suffered, as well as the hollowness and lies of my tenure in the Temple of Ovespuerte. I put all my rage and regret into a throw and saw that sordid necklace sink into the foamy waves, leaving it all behind.

Soon, I found myself walking on the beach, my feet sinking into the moist sand. When my feet touched dry sand, my eyes beheld an unbelievable sight I had only heard about in far-off tales. The beach extended towards the horizon, the tiny curving patterns of the beach growing into vast hills and mountains of dry sand, clouds of them being shaven off by the wind. Is this the savage desert of the southern continent I heard spoken about by the other priests of Ovespuerte?

I turned west and saw a lone stone structure surrounded by dozens of tents, forming a round village. My clothes were drying as I walked in this heat, hotter than the land I escaped from. Without my sandals, my feet burned with each step as I trek to that settlement.

I saw figures emerging from the tents. Many were humans with blonde hair that I had only seen north of my former homeland and skin darker than mine, painted with swirling patterns of white and blue. Other foreign people with thick grey skin, heavyset bodies, and two horns jutting out of their snouts were accompanying them. Another breed of Beastkin living with humans? It was an odd sight I never even imagined. This confirms that I was somewhere in the Land of Beasts, which travelers call either Lemuria or Eimize, south of the land I once called home.

One of the humans called to me, yet I didn’t understand the guttural, consonant-heavy tongue that she spoke. From far away, I saw she was taller than most of the women in the camp. I raised my hands in surrender, hoping they won't see me as a threat. Instead of throwing their spears at me, they welcomed me in. I was invited to stay in one of their spare tents, where they put their jars and other supplies, sheltering myself from the sun. The one who welcomed me to the camp seemed to ask me questions about where I came from. In an attempt to answer his question, I pointed to the sea to communicate that I came from a land beyond here.

Despite the barrier of different tongues between us, they gave me a metal plate of fried fish and a clay cup of water, which I ate with gusto. My stomach was full from this meal, and my throat was finally damped with fresh water. I stayed in my tent in the afternoon, deliberating what to do. I cannot trust them. I must not trust them. From the crusaders to the temple priests, to Sacre, whom I once thought to be selfless ever since he rescued me and the others, everyone wanted to use me for their own gain.

That night, the same woman gave me a metal plate of roasted fish for dinner with a ceramic cup of water. Hesitantly, I partake in the food and drink. She left me alone in the tent to give me space. When the noises from the village had ceased, I took it as a sign that they were now asleep. Without making a noise, I snuck out of the camp. I desperately searched for another settlement among the sands—a city where I could find work, disappear into the crowd, assume a new identity, and live peacefully. I had climbed three dunes, and I had found nothing. I looked back towards the shore, and the village became a tiny mote on the beach. I did not want to risk getting lost in an unfamiliar land, so I snuck back into the tent village.

I lay down on the tent’s hammock and contemplated what to do. I reflected back on the past and wondered how I gained the unnatural strength to break free from my captors and how I safely washed ashore in one piece. There is but one explanation for this: that I have been blessed somehow.

In the morning, I hobbled towards the stone structure that was the center of their camp. With each step closer to the cylindrical building, half-sunken in the sand, I realized it was a temple constructed with foreign architecture. Its white and yellow paint on the stone remained, but its stone dome bore a glaring hole with a crumbling stub that might had held a grand, ornamental finial worthy of such a temple.

The locals surrounding the ruin didn’t stop me from entering their temple. It was a sight so unfamiliar yet nostalgic. The silent halls of the temple were gently lit by the grand broken glass window depicting a mighty horned golden figure: the god Ultormminus, the patron god of civilization—the mortal emperor of the world, once the ruler of the Six Lands, who ascended to godhood. Shining upon it is a newer idol, a figure dressed in tattered robes hewn from wicker and rope. This vague figure in a pose suggests that this obscure prophet or god is handing out the fish bones from its basket, and wide clam shells surround it.

The austere silence emanated by this place compelled me to stay still. This takes me back to the altar of my home village when my parents conducted rituals at the makeshift shrine of Kazadorn. My knees fell in the spiritual reverie, and I silently prayed without empty words and hollow hymns when I was playing a role as a priest of the Divine Decree in the temple of Ovespuerte. A generous deity, whether or not this idol, Kazadorn, or anyone outside of the Divine Decree’s pantheon and deities beyond my knowledge, had given me a new life.

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I heard footsteps behind me. Upon turning around, I saw the woman who first welcomed me here. She walked beside me and prayed towards the wicker idol. I did not understand her but was invited to the communal breakfast. This time, they were eating some kind of shellfish stew with flatbread. I stood stiff, unused to this kind of hospitality, sitting away from the circle that gathered around the firepit. The strange, grey, and heavy Beastkin were happily chattering with the Humans of this place in a tongue unknown to me.

And after that, I was left with nothing to do. I saw the Beastkin and Human villagers go in groups to do their tasks. They harvested the fish and crabs in sunken cages made of wood and net cages while the children, supervised by adults, harvested wide sheets of seaweed washed along the shore and dried them on elevated wicker racks facing the sun. I smelled the jars of fermented fish being brought to a wide tent covering a circle of solid stools and tall sandstone mortar and cudgel-like pestles that the strong Beastkin used to squash the fermented fish into an acrid paste that made my nostrils tingle.

Idling around the tent village reminded me that in my childhood as a slave to the crusaders, being idle during the day and afternoon would earn me a beating. I used to preach to the people of Ovespuerte that laziness is tantamount to sin, allowing chaos to invade the spirit of society. Still, I knew I was merely mimicking the words of the book of the Divine Decree.

The same woman who visited me at the temple spoke a greeting that eludes my understanding. Upon a closer look, she had a gaiety that fluttered the heart and made the sun brighter and warmer. What does she want from me, I wonder?

I was surprised that she pulled my arm towards one of the tents and spoke:

“Khayma.” She said.

“What?” I asked, still confused.

“Khayma!” She repeated, jabbing her finger in the direction of the tent.

“Khayma,” I spoke, realizing she was trying to teach me their language in the simplest way possible. She enthusiastically clapped her hands when I learned my first word.

“Chamri.” She pointed at herself.

“Chamri.” I pointed my fingers at her. “Your name?”

She smiled in approval. Why did she start to teach me their language? If they have ulterior motives like the crusaders of the Bladed Devotion, who wanted bodies to fill their ranks, or Sacre, who wanted my corpse for a ritual, then the last thing on their minds was to teach me their language, if they spoke a foreign tongue. If they have an ulterior motive, then it is illogical that they would teach me their language if they wanted to hide something from me.

Night soon arrived, and I found myself sitting alone in my tent. I watched the villagers huddled around the campfire, eating their catch from the day. The same woman who tried to teach me their language pulled me to the campfire, inviting me to join them for dinner. I felt out of place in this crowd of humans and Beastkin, yet they seemed to sense that I wanted seconds. They gave me another serving of roasted fish, and I can’t deny their hospitality. I didn’t understand most of their chatter, but they made me feel welcome despite being a foreigner.

The next day, they asked me to help them fish, but they had to teach me how to use the net. I have no experience fishing, having only been a farmhand in the past. Yet, despite the language barrier, I could understand the basics. I must stay still not to startle the fish who gather around the buried net. It took me a while to realize this, yet they were patient. At the end of the day, we caught fewer than expected.

Chamri and I walked along the beach in the afternoon, teaching me new words. She pointed at the sea, the clouds, the shells lying around, the fish that swam in the shallow waters, the pebbles half-buried within the wet sands, and the birds flying overhead as she taught me the words for them.

Still, I waited for that moment. That moment where this is all but a dream, and I wake up as a slave of the crusaders. That moment when she and the rest of the villagers will carve me for some inexplicable ritual or sell me as a slave.

I spent my days waiting for that inevitable betrayal. Day by day, the chances of that happening had shaved away as Chamri taught me more about their language. The rest of the villagers trusted me by allowing me to help with the chores to sustain the village. My reservations about the commune disappeared when I learned many of the villager’s names and histories. I measured the time I spent here by the growth of my facial hair. I lost count of how many days had passed since I washed ashore here. My stubbles had now grown into a wispy beard.

One day, we saw a ship from the horizon sailing on the dunes, its triangular sail spread proudly; a novel sight I had never seen before. The villagers beside me aren’t surprised by the sight, however. I never knew that ships could sail on sand.

Soon, the wooden ship parked next to the village. Chamri stepped forward and talked to the trader, a bipedal wolf-person with brown fur, wearing an eyepatch for his right eye. I saw the villagers carrying the jars of fermented fish and the wrapped sheets of dried seaweed to the boat, assisted by the crew of the sand ship.

“I know you yearn for your people.” Chamri turned to me. “Come with Trader Akrad on his ship to the nearest port and go home.”

All along, Chamri and the rest of the village had no ulterior motive. All along, I had been imprisoned by the paranoia of my past. Day by day, spending time in this village made me realize that I had found home again.

“I will not leave,” I said. “This is my home, and I’ll stay with you and everyone.”