A sharp metallic clang echoed in Stark’s head, growing louder and more unbearable with each passing moment.

It was the accursed morning bell.

Grumbling at the grating noise, Stark reluctantly opened his eyes, cramped in the suffocating corner of the overcrowded tent where he had battled the merciless cold all night. He sat up straight, gripping against the tent's canvas as he struggled to stand. Brax collar clinked as he moved, and his wrists burned where the shackles bit into his skin.

A slave’s day began early, with only a few precious hours of rest allowed during the night. The desert was still cool from the lingering night breeze as they stirred, the sun yet to rise over the distant horizon.

Emerging from the tent, Stark was greeted by the distant screams of the overseers.

“Line up, you godless bastards!”

The slaves shuffled forward, forming several parallel lines. Stark followed the others and found himself at the front of the line. Ahead, a group of overseers stood flanked by several armored Kastar soldiers.

Stark saw a familiar straw hat peeking from behind the soldiers and overseers. He turned his neck to get a better view. He saw a man leisurely sipping drink from his leather skin bag.

Stark recognized him.

It was him—the man that killed those monsters.

Beside him stood two figures, a man and a woman clad in similar armor.

Rakel—I think was his name.

As for others, Stark had no idea.

Beyond the tents, Ish’raks shifted restlessly. These bipedal creatures, with their grayish scales and elongated necks, bore maws lined with sharp canines. Their muscular legs were built for speed, and atop their heads gleamed a single white horn.

“The ones I point at, step forward and move to the separate line!” barked an overseer, snapping his leather whip.

The slaves complied in silence, their faces blank with resignation. Overseers moved through the rows, pointing at individuals to separate them.

“You,” one of them snarled, pointing at him.

Stark hesitated only for a moment before shuffling meekly to the end of the new line. Most of those selected were uninjured slaves. Stark’s stood at the back among them, but he knew why they were separated.

Another caravan?

He wasn’t a stranger to slave caravans—this would be his second. The Kastar rulers frequently transported and traded slaves across the kingdom.

The Ish’rak carried goods and overseers, but the slaves themselves had to walk, enduring the burning heat of the Zaras’th desert. The longer the journey, the more punishing it became.

Stark had survived before, but it wasn’t uncommon for slaves to collapse and be discarded along the way.

“You bastards are being transported to the Canyon of Dzeth!” one overseer roared. “Prepare to depart!”

Chains clinked as the slaves were shackled into a single file.

Stark cast one final glance at the camp as the overseers prodded him forward. He spotted Rakel mounting an Ish’rak alongside other senior soldiers and overseers, each astride their own beast.

More than two scores of soldiers stood ready to lead the caravan, armed with spears and curved swords at their waists. Stark’s eyes wandered to the piles of supplies strapped to the sides of the Ish’raks. It was clear this journey would be a long one.

The Canyon of Dzeth.

Stark had never heard of the place. Its name stirred a vague sense of unease, but there was no time to dwell on it. His hands tightened around the cold chain connecting him to the shifty man muttering ahead, forming an unbroken line of prisoners.

“Devil… Death… Devil… Death…” he muttered endlessly.

The sun began to rise minutes into the journey. Stark’s eyes followed the sparse rays as they painted the dunes, turning the cold sand warm beneath his feet. Soldiers on either side kept the slaves in check.

Ahead, the desert stretched endlessly. Stark shielded his face against the dusty breeze, his eyes narrowing as the wind threatened to blind him.

Dust storms were frequent in Kastar, swirling tempests that reduced visibility to nothing and brush the skin like needles. Stark had heard of a notorious cluster of these storms along the route to Evont Pass.

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Time dragged on. The sun climbed higher. Stark’s feet burned against the sand, his soles red. Skin peeled, blood seeped, yet he held tightly to the hot metal chain.

Survive.

It was the only thought in his mind, louder than the clinking chains. He refused to be discarded, another nameless body left for the desert beasts.

His blurred vision caught glimpses of the overseers and Rakel riding their Ish’raks, untouched by the heat. A wave of anger swelled in him, only to be beaten back by his powerlessness.

I survived last time. I won’t die.

Suddenly, the collar around his neck pulled him back, yanking him off balance. He stumbled and fell onto a sweaty body, narrowly avoiding the scorching sand. The line of slaves had come to an abrupt halt.

He glanced down. The slave beneath him had collapsed under the sun's merciless heat. Stark staggered upright, his fellow slaves watching his huffing figure with wide eyes.

The overseer, noticing the halt, marched forward. Soldiers yanked Stark aside, shoving him roughly into place as they unbuckled the chain from the collapsed man’s Brax collar. Without a word, they connected the chain to the next slave.

“Remove all his shackles and collar,” the overseer ordered coldly. “Toss that filth aside. Let the beasts feast.”

The body was discarded, left for the beasts to feast on. Even in death, cruelty remained for them. Stark’s gaze lingered on the lifeless form before the chain yanked him forward.

There was no trace of remorse in the overseers’ cold eyes. The soldiers were equally indifferent, and the squire didn’t even spare a glance at the commotion.

Above, the sun’s flaming disk began its descent westward. The sky, though not night, grew dark with gathering shadows. Winds picked up, fierce, their gusts strong enough to shove the slaves backward. Swirling dust obscured the horizon.

“Stay close!” Rakel roared. “We’re entering the Evont Cluster!”

The slave chain hugged and followed close to the Ish’raks of the overseers. The soldiers closed in on both sides forming a bold line. Stark and the slaves behind him, left dangling like a tail in the back.

Stark shielded his face with both hands, his eyes narrowing against the swirling dust.

Squinting ahead, he caught faint glimpses of towering sandstorms spiraling into the sky. Lightning crackled through it, leaving streaks of blue, illuminating the churning walls of brown. The air was dense with floating sand grains, stinging his skin. The storms howled, drowning all sound and swallowing the dim light.

The Evont Cluster lived up to its reputation—a graveyard for both people and goods. Skeletal remains poked out from the shifting sands, while shattered crates lay half-buried, forgotten relics of doomed caravans.

“The Devil….is…..responsible..Death……” The man muttered. His voice faintly audible in the roars of the sandstorms.

Devil? Death? What is he saying? Stark wondered.

After entering the Evont Cluster, the caravan pressed onward. Thanks to the Squire's exceptional navigation, they managed to avoid the raging sandstorms.

But the cluster seemed endless. Stark squinted into the swirling darkness, unable to see any sign of an exit. The sandstorms devoured the remaining light, plunging their surroundings into an suffocating gloom.

“Light the lamps,” Rakel commanded, his voice cutting through the howls. “The Eye is up ahead.”

The sky turned pitch black, an abyss devoid of sparse rays of the sun. Stark could only hear the roars of the storms and the crackling streaks of lightning that occasionally lit the surroundings.

One by one, small flames flickered to life. Soldiers carried lamps, their light pushing back against the encroaching void. A larger flame lit the path ahead, illuminating the Squire leading the caravan.

The flames... they're not being snuffed out by the wind? His thoughts lingered on the unnatural sight.

Unease gripped Stark’s mind, his body trembling despite the warmth. His heart pounded heavily, his thoughts a chaotic blur of survival. He clutched the chains tightly with skeletal hands turning his knuckles white.

Death loomed close, its scythe at his throat, ready to claim his soul. Cold sweat trickled down his dusty forehead, leaving a bitter taste on his cracked lips.

“We are close,” Rakel roared. “Don’t get caught by the storms.”

Stark’s eyes darted forward. A faint golden light pierced the void of the Eye. It shone brightly, growing stronger with each passing moment, breaking through the darkness.

Exit! We are safe. He thought—a faint glimmer of hope.

But his relief was short-lived. Stark suddenly felt his feet lift off the ground. His body floated, weightless, as a deafening roar erupted behind him. Screams filled the air.

He turned to see the tail of the slave line being pulled into a swirling storm. The winds howled and closed in, tearing everything in their path.

“Help me!” cried the slave directly behind him, clutching at the chains desperately. “I don’t want to die!”

The line ahead of him began to rise as well, drawn toward the storm’s cavernous maw. Soldiers shouted in panic. Chaos spread through the ranks, but none could find a solution.

Stark’s gaze shifted forward. Rakel, near the exit of the Eye, stood motionless atop his Ish’rak. The beast’s scaly legs held firm against the storm. Rakel’s straw hat flew off, revealing his windswept brown hair.

What is he doing? Is he going to abandon us?

Then, in an instant, Rakel vanished.

Hope left his eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. His mind displayed vivid images: A skeletal figure of death with a wide grin pressed it’s scythe against his throat.

A sharp metallic clang echoed through the storm, followed by a roar. Suddenly, Stark felt the ground beneath him once more.

Dazed, he opened his eyes to see Rakel standing atop him. The chain behind him was severed, cut cleanly by a blade. The slaves further down the line screamed as they were sucked into the storm, their voices fading into despair. Stark’s eye wide with horror as he witnessed one of them being torn to shreds by the raging winds.

“Run to the exit!” Rakel shouted.

The panicked soldiers and slaves ran forward towards the exit, Stark was dragged along the sands, giving him no time to stand up.

The remaining soldiers and slaves bolted forward, driven by fear. Stark was dragged along the sands by the momentum, the rough ground scraping against his skin. He had no time to stand—survival was all that mattered now.

Everyone remaining stumbled out of the Eye, collapsing in exhaustion. Stark was thrown face-first into the white sand, the gritty grains filling his mouth and choking his breath. He coughed violently, spitting out the sand as his hands fumbled to rub the sand from his eyes. His body was battered and bruised, covered in fresh wounds—but he was alive.

He had survived the Eye.