Scorching Sands of Northern Achaemenid

The long, piercing wail of a war trumpet cut through the thick, sweltering air, announcing the army's return. Beneath the relentless sun, banners snapped like whips, their embroidered sigils glimmering with heatwaves rising from the parched earth. The canyon valley, a land of scorched ochre rock and endless dunes, shimmered under the midday blaze, its towering cliffs casting jagged shadows over the sprawling encampment.

Dust clung to the soldiers like a second skin, their faces streaked with sweat and blood. The garrons, their nostrils flaring, stomped restlessly against the cracked ground, tossing their heads in agitation. The air itself seemed alive, thick with the mingling scents of charred flesh, drying sweat, and smoldering incense from makeshift altars where prayers for the fallen were whispered into the wind.

Helios rode through the camp, his armor searing hot from the sun's embrace, each step of his warhorse sending plumes of dust spiraling into the air. The battle for Acropolis—the northernmost stronghold of the Achaemenid Empire—had been brutal, but they had emerged victorious. And yet, despite their triumph, an unease gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

"Your Majesty," came the voice of his second-in-command, Rudolph, his tone cautious. "The demon army's retreat feels… unnatural. They've fallen back too easily."

Helios' brow furrowed, his gaze flickering to the distant dunes where the enemy had vanished. "Indeed. Given the significance of this stronghold, they should have fought to the last beast. And yet they fled."

He exhaled, heat rippling off his armor like a mirage.

"Unless," he muttered, the thought chilling him despite the desert heat, "they seek something far worse."

Rudolph wiped the sweat from his brow. "Triglav's mind is an enigma. Its movements never unfold where expected. But the Alchemists' Tower should hold the barrier over safe zones."

"For now," Helios murmured. His gaze shifted to the scene unfolding before them.

Men groaned in agony as they were carried toward the medical tents, the sickly-sweet scent of herbal salves barely masking the stench of cauterized wounds. Elsewhere, soldiers dug deep trenches in the sun-hardened earth, preparing for the evening's grim task—burning the dead before the heat rotted them in their armor.

Helios sighed, a weight settling over his shoulders. War had taken much from him, but nothing more precious than time with his daughter. If only he could hold her once more, if only these battles would end…

At the heart of the camp, Lucerne stood, issuing orders as men hauled the fallen into carts, the bodies wrapped in linen to shield them from the relentless sun. The young commander's face, once soft with youth, had hardened like sun-baked stone.

"The boy has become a man," Helios remarked, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Rudolph inclined his head. "Your praise honors me, sire."

Helios barely glanced at him. "I do not deal in flattery."

Rudolph swallowed. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Helios' gaze lingered on Lucerne a moment longer before nodding. "He is perfect for my Melody."

As the men dispersed, Lucerne turned and saluted.

"What news?" Helios asked.

"The Alchemists' Tower has received a signal through Wahrheit. The encryption stones have succeeded—we now have a direct link between realms. We can finally see beyond the veil."

Helios tilted his head, intrigued. "Even with war looming, they continue to defy the impossible."

"Lord Cornelius has stabilized the connection, but details remain sparse."

Helios' fingers twitched. "And what of Octavius? The Crown Princess?"

Lucerne hesitated, the flicker of hesitation setting Helios' teeth on edge.

"Still no word."

Silence settled between them, the heat thick and oppressive.

"We will discuss this in the command tent," Helios ordered.

Inside, the heat barely relented. The tent, though shaded, felt like a furnace, the air within heavy with the mingling scents of parchment, ink, and dried spices meant to ward off sickness. A lone dove perched on a wooden stand, its beady eyes watching him as it fluttered its wings. Tied to its delicate claw was a small scroll.

Helios approached, his fingers deftly untying the parchment. As he unrolled it, his breath hitched.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Luciana has returned."

The ink shimmered under the dim candlelight, yet the words felt surreal. He read them again, his vision tunneling as the weight of understanding settled over him.

"So… Octavius succeeded," he breathed, a rare, almost disbelieving smile ghosting across his lips.

But before the joy could fully take root, a commotion outside sent his instincts bristling.

The tent's entrance flared open, and a figure strode forth, the golden glow of the setting sun casting a halo around him.

"Octavius?"

The young warrior stepped forward, his golden curls damp with sweat, his armor scorched by the desert's merciless heat. Despite his unyielding posture, something in his expression was fractured. He knelt before Helios, pressing a fist to his chest.

"Octavius of the First Division of the Royal Order has returned to duty, Your Majesty."

Helios' eyes flickered with relief. "Stand, boy. It is good to see you."

But Octavius did not move.

"Your Majesty… I am unworthy."

Helios frowned. "Explain."

Octavius clenched his fists. "I… failed. I could not bring the Imperial Crown Princess home."

The words rang hollow in the oppressive heat.

Helios' fingers tightened around the parchment. "Are you telling me this letter is a lie?"

He extended the scroll. Octavius hesitated before taking it, his breath catching as his eyes traced the familiar handwriting. His lips parted in a sharp inhale.

"This is my mother's script."

His hands trembled as he read aloud.

"Luciana has returned… She has given birth. But she is not well. You must return. To Olympus."

The tent seemed to shrink around them.

Helios exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the letter once more, rereading the words, as if repetition might lessen their impact. And then, aloud:

"She has given birth… to a son."

Octavius' face paled.

A son.

The blood of the Imperial Crown Princess mixed with that of a demon.

The desert wind howled outside, carrying with it the promise of a new storm, one far deadlier than the last.