In the scorching heat of the barren lands of Kastar, a boy pushed a heavy cart forward. His head was shaved, and his body was wasted to the bone, ribs poked through his tattered, ragged clothes. A slave mark marred his chest: a single eye enclosed in a circle. Around his neck was a Brax collar, and rusty iron shackles bound his limbs, biting into his cracked skin.

The boy had no name.

His only purpose was to push the carts.

His back ached, each step sending sharp pain through his bloodied feet. The shackles seared his wrists, peeling off skin with every movement.

Yet the boy kept pushing.

“Move faster, you worthless maggots. The great Zaras’th won’t wait for your sloth.” barked the overseer, his leather whip cracking against the barren earth. “We don’t have all day.”

The boy flinched instinctively at the sharp crack, though it wasn’t meant for him. He kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the cracked ground beneath him.

Ahead of him, the dirty, bloodied feet of another slave trudged forward, leaving streaks of deep red across the white sand. The man ahead dragged the cart with a pained grunt. 

The whip cracked again, this time followed by a scream of agony.

The boy didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

His stomach growled, loud and hollow. The last time he had eaten was two days ago. Water was also scarce. All his parched, cracked lips could taste was the sandy, fiery breeze of Kastar—a kingdom in the great desert of Zaras’th.

He pushed and pushed until the cart finally stopped in front of a long, flat stone platform. With great struggle, they turned the creaking wooden cart’s back to face the stone platform. The man ahead released the blood-stained handles as the boy quickly stepped out of the way. 

The cart’s handle shot upward as the stone tablets crashed to the hard ground.

At the sound of the crashing stone tablets, dozens of hollow-eyed slaves shuffled forward. With their bleeding hands, they lifted up the stone tablets, hauling them on their bony backs. They moved like lifeless dolls towards the center to reinforce the second foundation of the monument.

The grueling exploitation was part of the grand undertaking—the construction of a monument dedicated to the Zaras’th—the patron deity of the kingdom’s dominant religion. With the festival in Thal’rasha fast approaching, the noble ruling the city demanded the completion of the monument before the festival, no matter the cost.

The boy finally lifted his head, stealing a glance as they trudged back to load more stone tablets, his eyes briefly catching the sight of the soldiers. Around the stone platforms, three scores of Kastar soldiers stood watch. Half a dozen overseers roamed the platform, their leather whips cracking sharply.

A splatter followed by a loud bang rang in the boy’s ears. He looked up, confused, only to see the man ahead of him collapse. 

His head was missing. A jet of red viscous liquid spurted from his neck, staining the white sand crimson. 

It was too sudden. 

The boy froze, his wide eyes locked on the headless body. Then another rock flew past, grazing his cheek before striking a soldier behind him. The rock tore through the man’s chest, leaving a gaping hole as his organs spilled onto the ground.

Chaos erupted.

“Bone-eaters!” bellowed the captain. “Regroup!”

Slaves scrambled for cover, some tripping over their own shackles. The soldiers formed a defensive line, their shields raised just as another volley of rocks hurtled toward them.

But to their horror, a massive boulder was hurled at them, easily piercing through their shield wall. Three soldiers were crushed by the impact. Yet the soldiers regrouped, with their shields dented but raised.

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The captain looked horrified at the sight of a scarlet eye peering through the dust clouds. 

It vanished.  

“Good Lord. An Elder bone-eater.” 

The captain’s voice quivered in fear. He quickly ducked and whispered urgently to a soldier at the rear. “Fetch Sir Rakel—NOW!” 

The soldier nodded and darted away from the back line amidst the chaos.  

Trembling, the boy crouched behind the wooden cart. Blood trickled down his cheek from the graze. His limbs shook as he propped himself. His breath came in shallow gasps as he clung to the wheel, peering out from behind the wooden frame to see the battle.

Another barrage of small rocks hurtled toward the shield wall. The swirling dust made it nearly impossible to locate the attackers.

“Hold your line.” Barked the captain, scanning the horizon with sharp eyes “Damn those sand-crawling monsters.” 

The bone-eaters, with their camouflaged fur and powerful rock-hurling arms that touched the ground, were deadly predators of the desert of Zaras’th. They could launch projectiles with lightning precision.

A boulder tore through the swirling dust, crashing into the shield wall. Soldiers at the front crumpled under its weight, while shards from splintered shields pierced those behind. 

“Damn it to Zaras’th!” 

The captain’s gaze locked onto the Elder bone-eater, grinning from ear to ear, its single scarlet eye twitching with excitement.

Then it vanished again by the dust clouds. 

“What a tiresome chore,” a voice drawled.

The boy turned to see a man approaching. He wore a straw hat tilted over his face and lightweight armor that shimmered in the sun. His hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword.

“Sir Rakel!!” exclaimed the captain, relief washing over his face.

A boulder tore through dust clouds again and hurtled towards Rakel. Before it could reach him, the boulder cleanly split into two with a single motion of his sword. The pieces crashed to the ground as Rakel yawned, unfazed.

Turning his blade, Rakel swung it forward. The dust clouds parted as a massive shock wave surged through, severing the heads of the bone-eaters in it’s path. Their bloodied carcasses fell.

The Elder bone-eater, however, survived. Deep wounds marred it’s side, but it stood firm.

“Oh! An Elder?” 

The bloodied creature let out a guttural screech, its single eye fixed on Rakel. Gathering the mangled flesh of it’s fallen kin. It compressed them into a grotesques spherical mass of flesh and bone.

With a mighty roar, the elder hurled the macabre sphere at Rakel. 

Unimpressed, Rakel swung his sword downwards. The sphere split apart, raining blood and viscera onto the sands.

In the blink of an eye, Rakel closed the distance between himself and the creature. His blade struck, piercing the elder bone-eater’s heart. 

The Elder Bone-Eater stumbled back, its remaining heart pulsing erratically. As Rakel closed the distance, it lashed out with sharp claws, its arm slicing through the air toward him.

Rakel sidestepped with ease, his blade flashing in an upward arc. The strike severed the creature's wrist cleanly, sending the clawed hand spiraling away.

A screech of agony tore from the bone eater as it recoiled, its gaze fixed on the twitching stump where its hand had been.

Rage replaced pain in an instant. It roared and swung again, a wild, furious strike.

“First step,” Rakel murmured.

He vanished, reappearing behind the creature in a blur of motion.

For a moment, silence hung in the air—then a crimson line spread across the bone-eater’s neck. Its head tumbled to the ground as blood erupted from the gaping wound, drenching the sand.

“Weak,” Rakel muttered, flicking his blade clean of blood before sheathing it. He knelt, inspecting the severed head and touching it’s sharp canines and sides of the eye.

“Barely an Elder,” he said. “Seems like it ascended only days ago. No wonder it was so pathetic.”

“A proper elder wouldn’t fight like that.” He muttered. 

The captain approached cautiously, bowing deeply. “Thank you, Sir Rakel!”

“Right,” Rakel yawned. “I’m going to sleep now.” Without another word, he turned and strode back toward his tent.

“Understood,” the captain saluted. Watching Rakel’s retreating figure, he muttered under his breath, “Squires are different.”

The nameless boy’s jaw dropped after witnessing the fight. It was the first time he had seen a squire or a knight-apprentice fight. The display was mesmerizing, enough that he forgot about his own wounds for a moment.

For the first time, a flicker of something stirred within him. Not hope, but a strange curiosity—a longing to understand the power he had just seen.

The captain turned to the remaining soldiers and overseers. “Stop the work for now!” he warned sternly. “Clear this mess and investigate.”

“Yes, Captain,” the remaining soldiers saluted.

The boy’s gaze lingered on the fallen bodies of the bone-eaters and the lifeless slaves strewn across the platform. The bodies of dead soldiers were carefully carried away, but those of the slaves were discarded into a pile and burned outside the platform. From afar, the boy watched as the man who had shared his labor was consumed by flames.

“Move, you wretches,” bellowed the overseer. “You are dismissed for the day.”

Yet, no relief graced the faces of those who had survived the attack or those who had watched the carnage from afar. There was no joy, no celebration at the overseer’s words—only empty stares and broken spirits.

The crack of leather whips tore through the silence, forcing the slaves to shuffle back toward their quarters—a cramped, suffocating space packed with far more bodies than it was ever meant to hold.

The boy stayed for a moment, casting a final glance at the smoldering pile of bodies. The stench of burnt flesh and organs clawed at his nostrils, turning his stomach.

Without a word, he turned and joined the others.

That day, the boy was reminded of the cruel reality: life was fragile, a flickering flame that could be snuffed out without warning.