Stranger In The Storm

The wind tore across the sand-swept plain near Veena City, dragging gritty air in great hissing gusts. The terrain was dry, broken with pale ridges and scattered stones that shimmered faintly under a milky sky. Tornadoes churned in the far distance like spiraling beasts, but the worst of the storm had passed. Now, the air held only the echo of their rage.

Tairen Exon, cloaked head to toe in dark linen, walked with the deliberate calm of experience. He tugged the fabric tighter across his face, shielding his weathered skin from the sharp wind. His niece, Anna, struggled beside him—taller and leaner, and visibly less composed.

"I can't believe I agreed to this," she muttered, brushing grit from her eyebrows. "Walking through a wasteland because your gut felt curious today."

They'd been walking for hours. The fabric of her gown clung awkwardly to her legs with each step. The silence between them stretched until Anna squinted into the distance.

"Um, Uncle—" she paused, correcting herself reflexively, "Tairen… do you see that?"

Tairen stopped and slowly turned his eyes to where she pointed. A vague human form lay in the sand several hundred meters ahead, unmoving. Another gust lashed their robes sideways like sails in a squall.

He pulled a pair of antique binoculars from inside his coat and leveled them with steady hands. "I'll be damned," he breathed.

Anna's heartbeat quickened. Great. Just great. Of all the things that could happen out here, a body wasn't high on her wish list.

"Is that… a person lying down?" she asked cautiously.

Tairen nodded. "Let's go check it out."

He didn't wait for protest. He never did. Anna exhaled sharply and followed him, sand crunching beneath her boots.

As they closed the distance, the figure grew clearer: a young woman, facedown, clothes torn, skin pale beneath a layer of dust.

"You think she's alive?" Anna asked. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, teeth clenched.

"I can't tell until I touch her. I'm no witch," Tairen replied calmly.

Why did he always act so unaffected? There was a stranger lying in a desert, possibly dead, and he was cracking jokes. What if this was a trap? What if this was the kind of mistake that got good people killed?

Tairen crouched, brushing dust from the figure's face. "Hello?" he said gently, then again louder when there was no response. He checked for breath with two fingers near her nose, brow furrowed.

Anna watched every motion like a hawk. The sun overhead pulsed through thin cloud cover, bleaching the landscape. She shivered despite the heat.

"She's alive," Tairen finally said, sitting back on his heels.

Anna groaned. "And now you're going to help her, aren't you?"

He looked up with the tiniest smile. "You know me well."

"That's the problem," she muttered.

Anna rubbed the bridge of her nose, willing her nerves to settle. Her instincts were screaming, but Tairen didn't believe in fear. He believed in purpose. And right now, his purpose was helping a stranger who might be more dangerous than she looked.

"I'll fetch some sticks. We'll need a stretcher," he said, already rising.

"Oh no. You are not leaving me alone with her."

Tairen placed a hand on her shoulder. "She won't wake anytime soon. And if she does, she won't be in any condition to strangle anyone."

"I don't care if she wakes up speaking in flowers, I'm not staying alone." Anna took two steps back. "You're risking my life on a gut feeling."

"Better my gut than your paranoia," he replied gently. "But I understand. Stay nearby if you prefer. The forest's only a mile off."

Anna didn't respond. Tairen was already walking away.

Her gaze drifted back to the unconscious woman. Somewhere deep inside, a quiet alarm kept ringing. This wasn't right. No one just appeared in a wasteland like this.

But then again… what if she really needed help?

Anna didn't move. She just stood there—silent, uneasy, and alone with her thoughts.

About an hour later, the unconscious body—limp, battered, and ghost-pale—was lashed to a makeshift stretcher woven from sinewy branches and stripped vines. It rasped softly over the forest floor, snagging on roots and pebbles as it was dragged across the dense underbrush. The air was thick with the musk of earth and green decay.

Shanazer sat still, her limbs folded neatly beneath her, yet her thoughts churned like storm clouds. Tairen had just finished explaining how she'd ended up in their care, and though her face remained composed, a flicker of the memory surged to the surface: the sharp blur of her last moment in Gandaska City before the fall. Her breath hitched. Her skin broke into goosebumps as if her past had reached through time and touched her spine.

Tairen Exon had been watching her. He didn't miss the sudden shift in her posture—the stiffening of her shoulders, the subtle tremble in her hands.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, not pressing, just probing the surface.

Shanazer didn't answer right away. Her mind raced. What do I say? What lie is safe enough to believe? It was obvious they already suspected something. They had an accent, the kind that coiled differently around syllables than the one she'd grown up with. That alone confirmed it—she wasn't just far from home. She was far from her world.

She exhaled slowly, just as she'd been trained to. Her voice came out quieter than intended, but controlled. "I'm fine. Sorry. I'm just... a little confused. What city is this?"

Tairen and Anna exchanged a glance—not of suspicion, but something far stranger: disbelief. Veena City. The name pressed unspoken between their parted lips. Who didn't know Veena? It was the pulsing heart of Ventrander, its name etched into every datapanel and skyboard.

Shanazer could read the question in their eyes before it was spoken. She didn't blame them. Of course they don't trust me yet. And she didn't trust them, either. Kindness, in her experience, was often bait. Since the age of nine, trust had become a luxury she couldn't afford. At fifteen, she had perfected the art of reading others before they could make their move—like a living chess game in which each smile could conceal a knife.

But this man, Tairen, was different. There was no guile in his gaze, no calculation in his words. His presence was calm, like warm stone under sunlight. And that frightened her more than malice ever could.

Then he smiled—really smiled—and for a moment Shanazer forgot to retreat behind her mental walls.

"So," he said, reading her silence as easily as one reads the wind, "you're not from around here, I take it?"

She hesitated, then gave two small nods.

Tairen's grin widened, not mockingly but with surprising warmth. "Welcome to Veena City," he said. "You can stay with us, if you'd like. At least until you find your footing."

Shanazer didn't smile back. Not yet. But something softened in her chest.

Maybe… just maybe… she could stop running—for now.

Within the Mysterious Galaxy, nestled among the swirling stars of Sector Vireon, the planet Furydark hung like a coal-black pearl in the void. Thunderstorms rolled endlessly across its blood-orange skies, casting streaks of violet lightning that briefly illuminated the jagged peaks surrounding Gandaska City—a labyrinthine sprawl carved into the bones of ancient titans.

At its heart rose the obsidian spires of the Palace of Granadatorator, a monolithic fortress whose halls whispered forgotten names. Deep within, in the Throne Sanctum—a vast chamber lit by floating braziers of cold flame—sat an old figure wreathed in crimson shadow.

His throne, sculpted from the petrified heartwood of the World Tree Kaldanur, pulsed faintly with trapped souls. He did not fidget. He did not blink. His eyes, twin furnaces of crimson hate, pinned the three kneeling assassins like insects beneath glass.

The air thickened, pressing against their ribs with invisible hands.

Their every heartbeat echoed like war drums in their ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.