The Dune Sea.

The Blood Country.

Savath, the land of war, prosperity, and prosperity through war. An intense land whose beauty was as sharp and deadly as blade. A land of passion and magic, where the stars were close enough to taunt the ambitious but only gave their favor to their chosen.

Akeem, son of Aman, wasn’t loved by the stars. He was born to the Red Cobras, a small warband that roamed the Aysun Dunes, named for the pitifully small oasis between them. Wandering the northeastern boundary of the desert, they were far from official authority but also far from any resources. The life of a small band was harsh. They were poor and what little they did have, they had to defend from dozens of other bands in their same dire circumstances.

He had the luck of being born of the chief’s blood, the fifth son born of the Cobra’s favorite wife. His position meant he got more than most, including proper instruction from experienced raiders, warriors accustomed to battle on the burning sands.

On his fifteenth birthday, the Cobra gifted him a sword. The metal was rusted, and the leather grip needed rewrapping, but it could hold an edge. When most young men went to war with knives of sharpened bone and leather slings, the simple weapon was a treasure. He was determined to prove himself worthy of it.

In his first battle, a surprise raid on a band even smaller than their own, he claimed two lives. There was no reason for the attack, no instigating event anyone could point to as the start of the conflict. Proximity and opportunity brought together could spark a tragedy. Such was the way of life for raiders. One less beating heart meant one less mouth consuming the scarce resources of the desert. From the time the first people of Savath dared to venture into the endless dunes, they survived by spilling blood, both of beasts and men.

When Akeem was seventeen, rather than compete for leadership of the Red Cobras, he packed his meagre belongings and ventured deeper into the Dune Sea, hungering for a greater destiny. The closer one got to the heart of the desert, the more prolific oases became, some of them large enough to support settlements. The warbands that moved between them were larger and richer, but no less savage. The chiefs were less nomadic and more territorial, collecting tribute from those within the borders they claimed rather than slaughtering anything that crossed their paths.

He joined a band with a sizable territory and were known to treat their raiders well, the Scorched. They gave him a better weapon, decent leather armor, and taught him to ride a gekaby, the large lizards the favored mounts for crossing the desert.

Surviving several border skirmishes earned his chief’s recognition. Leading a successful raid against one of the “feast with teeth”, what the Scorched called the settlements by the oases, earned him the chief’s favor.

By the time he was twenty-three, he commanded a team of five men and had married his first wife, a sensible if not the most attractive girl, one of the chief’s nieces. He was proud, strong, and in the prime of his life. It seemed the stars had great things planned for him.

A delusion.

He wasn’t special and one day, his lifetime of good fortune came to an end. In what should have been another routine border skirmish, he lost an eye when a dying man attacked him with a last burst of desperate strength. He could have retired his blade then. Turned his experience to teaching or taken up a profession.

Akeem abhorred the idea. Couldn’t stand the idea of being a simple laborer. A band needed men from all walks of life to flourish but the Scorched, like many other bands, admired those of the martial path. He was an accomplished warrior, not a legendary one. Without enough glory to carry him to his deathbed, he would be overlooked until he was eventually ignored. Dismissed, like another grain of sand, his only purpose to ease the menial burdens of men chasing glory and power.

At the time, Akeem couldn’t imagine a worse fate. He trained hard, convinced strength and speed could make up for his weakness. It worked. For a while.

The next time he was injured, he lost his hand.

Without his sword hand, fighting was out of the question. Simple tasks became trials as he had to rethink how to do them. It was a struggle to even care for himself and the harder he tried, the more others sneered at his efforts. Soon, he was regarded worse than the slaves, people made to serve the band to pay off debts, incurred through either gold or blood.

It took eight short months for his wife to leave him. Normally, such a shameful act would see the woman stoned and exiled, but he was a man that could not provide. They had no children and the chief supported her, in part responsible for her dissatisfaction as he’d matched them.

Soon after, the chief brokered a large trade with another band. In the agreement, the Scorched signed over several slaves for weapons and food. As a free man, Akeem could not be sold with them, but it was made clear that he wouldn’t survive long if he stayed where he wasn’t wanted.

His freedom also didn’t protect him in his new home. They worked him hard, hard as any slave, in the most odious jobs. It was a cruel fate, and only crueler ones awaited him once he left in hopes of escaping their indifference.

In scant years, his face was starting to wrinkle, his bronze-skin was riddled with sunkisses, and his once full, dark hair became thin, a small bald patch appearing in the middle of his head. His large, powerful muscles became wiry eating poor meals on an infrequent schedule. Pain and weakness settled into his bones, becoming a part of him.

They used him until they could use him no more, leaving Akeem a shadow of himself.

His spirit shriveled as much as the rest of him but a trace of hope, a grain of the tenacious soldier of the past, stubbornly held on. A part that refused to be buried by the sand, as the drunken raiders that carried him into the desert intended. His tongue that hadn’t had a bite of a proper meal in years still remembered the taste of victory. The sweet nectar of power.

Its memory lent him the strength to climb to his feet and walk. His direction, the heart of the desert. He needed a miracle, so he traveled to the most miraculous place he could think of.

All who lived within the Dune Sea knew the story of the Falling Star. That there was one place in Savath where life was abundant, and scarcity was a scary story told to children. A place that overflowed with so much wealth and prosperity, there might be enough for a tired cripple.

The Celestial City.

A small piece of the infinite heavens on the mortal plane, a gleaming city of white stone built on an oasis so large it was offensive to compare it to any other, surrounded by fertile soil instead of lifeless sand. The hope of every soul led astray by the desert’s mirages.

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It was a harrowing journey, one that took years as Akeem struggled to ride the whims of fate. The day he spotted the walls of the city in the distance, he cried. The stories he’d heard weren’t exaggerated. They didn’t do it justice. It was everything he could have hoped for…except welcoming.

Overflowing abundance did not equate to overflowing compassion. The grand city and its khan, the ruler of all Savath, had no more time for him than any other chief. The walls of the Celestial City could house a million souls but his kind, outsiders and refugees, weren’t welcome. He wasn’t even allowed to set foot on the life-giving earth his father had called “brown gold”.

His epic journey culminated in a cramped tent in the slums outside the city that couldn’t keep out the wind and had to be shared with three other souls just as sorry as himself. He still did hard, demeaning work for just enough to survive but his environment made it so much worse. Imagining his “betters” feasting and living in comfort every time he caught a glimpse of the city while he subsisted off scraps was maddening, made all the worse by his undying hope he would join them one day.

His dream was like Ayley, the moon. She was entrancing and enthralling, her gentle light like the attentions of a beautiful woman. And, like many a cold beauty, no gesture could sway her heart, just as Akeem couldn’t cross the gleaming white walls that had captivated his imagination.

Yet, he continued to dream. Year after year, he sought a way forward only for his advances to be scorned.

But tonight would be different.

It was his ninth year in the slums and the Night of Falling Stars. Every year, a grand festival was held to celebrate the first khan who united the desert. Normally, the closest someone like Akeem could get to the festivities was watching the brilliant displays of light above the palace but, tonight, his perseverance would finally be rewarded.

A rumor had been circling for months that an official of the Celestial Court, the administrative body of Savath, would be visiting. And not just any official but a minister, the highest office, second only in power to the khan.

It was a mystery why someone of such stature would dirty his boots mingling amongst the unfortunate. To improve his reputation by doing good work for the “pitiable” or for an unsavory desire, the reason didn’t matter. All that mattered to Akeem was access. The word of an official was one of the few ways through the walls of the Celestial City.

The minister was organizing a ceremony to honor the royal family. One where numbers mattered, creating an opportunity for the residents of the slum. Most were drawn by their stomachs, as the rumors spoke of a free meal. Some came out of loyalty to the blessed family, foolishly believing that those who had everything would care about their pitiful worship.

Akeem wanted the certainty the city offered. He didn’t have a lot to offer but he also didn’t want much. There had to be at least one unsavory burden the residents needed taken off their delicate hands. Surely, he deserved that much.

That single thought propelled him through his day, fueling him with uncommon energy. He completed his work with efficiency and enthusiasm that defied the nature of his duties, the old warrior humming marching songs as he shoveled shit and sorted trash.

When night fell, he felt even more alive. As the faintest notes of the music in the city spread through the slums, the oppressive desperation in the air that made it hard to breathe most days was diluted by excitement. He had to step between people dancing along the dirt paths they jokingly called roads and playing children. By the time he reached his tent, there was a rare smile on his face.

It was a hassle getting ready, as his work crew prepared for the ceremony alongside him. They couldn’t afford to bathe properly and there wasn’t one proper set of clothes between the four of them, but they did what they could. Akeem wiped himself down with hot water, leaving him refreshed. His hair was concentrated along the sides of his head and there was nothing he could do make it look flattering, but he still borrowed a comb missing a third of its teeth to put what remained in order. He also borrowed a knife to do the same with his beard. When everyone was ready, they left together, joining a sizable procession outside that continued to grow.

Even without the thousands of congregating souls, it would have been easy to find the site of the ceremony. Outside the eastern boundary of the slums, a large circle of sand was marked by a dozen gleaming white stone pillars and thick braids of rope with no signs of fraying. In the center was a stage constructed of precious wood, tall enough that a man standing at its base would remember being a boy. All of it was brightly illuminated by numerous standing torches, most ringing the outside of the circle with four more at the stage’s corners.

Standing in a loose crescent before the stage were the reasons the wood hadn’t been stolen during the stage’s construction throughout the week before. Real warriors, leagues beyond the savage raiders that rode the dunes wielding makeshift weapons. Those who made shedding blood an art.

Akeem felt an intense envy as he observed the men’s powerful physiques and their weapons, spears with metal shafts and ornate heads, tools as beautiful as they were deadly. Their confidence in their ability to hold back the riffraff of the slums was visible as they didn’t bother with armor, wearing only loose pants. Their bare chests were decorated with golden chains and their faces were covered by white cloths, uniting them in anonymity.

They reminded him of his glory days and it sparked a bitter longing. But Akeem was accustomed to such feelings. Years suppressing them meant his face barely twitched as he ducked beneath the rope, finding a place in the outermost ring of the crowd surrounding the stage.

His bad mood didn’t have a chance to take root. The crowd was excited as the reward most came for could be smelled, the mixture of fresh bread, roasting meat, and spices making Akeem’s mouth water. He was thankful the organizers kept the food out of sight. Otherwise, he’d worry the crowd would forget themselves in the thrall of hunger and ruin his chances.

As the night aged, the crowd expanded until it contracted, the people forced uncomfortably close together to afford space for one more soul. Warriors patrolled the outside of the ring, shooing away those that lingered beyond the rope barrier. Akeem didn’t begrudge them. He simply wished he was surrounded by beautiful, fragrant women instead of sweaty men. His nose was too accustomed to filth to be overly bothered by the smell but that didn’t make the experience close to enjoyable.

Just as his legs were beginning to resent carrying him, there was movement on the stage. Four guards stepped onto it before taking places at its four corners. They banged the butts of their spears on the stage hard enough that Akeem wondered if they might have broken the wood, despite its thickness. The noise drew the attention of the crowd. When all were watching, a man stepped between them.

Everything about him separated him from the motley crowd shuffling about beneath his feet, from his lofty height to the fine fabric of his blue robes, down to his polished leather boots. His arms didn’t have the defined muscles of the warriors but neither did they carry the weight of privilege, a sign that he wasn’t a man who used his power to indulge. Dark eyes stared out of a handsome face, sharp as a vulture’s and cruel in their ambivalence. Combined with the dagger on his hip, long as a man’s forearm with a large red gem on the ornate pommel that glittered when it caught the firelight, it gave the man an air of danger.

Akeem looked up at the man with reverence and fear. It was scary, being in the presence of someone that could erase him with little more than a thought. Especially when he thought of asking a favor of said man. Yet, Akeem couldn’t help admiring him. The proud figure taking command of countless lives was what he imagined for his future.

Now, all he could aspire to was a shred of someone else’s attention.

The man who Akeem assumed was the minister behind the ceremony raised his hand and, like trained dogs, the crowd quickly settled, the only sounds to disturb the night the crackle of the torches and the fainter music. A fifth guard seemingly stepped out of the minister’s shadow and handed him the large horn of some animal. Akeem swore he saw it glint as moonlight struck it.

He knew of no beast that naturally had that quality. The horn had an unnatural addition. Given that it was being handled by a minister of the Celestial Court, it suggested it was an icon, a tool that gave mere men dominion over the capricious forces of the world and could create miracles.

If it was, it was worth more than all the money Akeem had ever earned. By far.

The minister raised a horn to his lips and blew. A deep, resonant hum filled the air, growing in volume until it drowned out Akeem’s racing heart.

“Brothers.” When the hum ended, the minister spoke into the horn and his voice was loud enough that it traveled well beyond the crowd. “Sisters. Children of the stars. Let us give thanks.”