The song of revenge

Elias's memory twisted, darkened.

It was night. Flames consumed the village, the air thick with smoke and screams. He remembered running, his heart pounding as he searched for her. He found her in the square, her harp clutched tightly in her hands.

"Run!" she had shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.

But he couldn't move. His legs were rooted to the ground as he watched a shadowy figure emerge from the flames. A woman, cloaked in black, her face obscured but her presence suffocating. She extended a hand toward Lila, and the harp began to glow with an eerie light.

"Stay away from her!" Elias had roared, finally breaking free of his paralysis.

He rushed toward them, but it was too late. The woman whispered something—words he couldn't hear—and then Lila was gone.

Elias snapped back to the present, his breathing ragged. His fists clenched tightly, the memory searing itself into his mind.

The woman In black. He didn't know her name, but her face—or what little he had seen of it—was burned into his memory. She had taken Lila from him. She had taken everything.

And now he remembered why he had awakened.

Vengeance.

The song in the wind grew louder, more insistent, as if urging him onward. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling but his resolve unshaken.

The woman had taken Lila. She had taken her harp.

But Elias would find her. And when he did, he would make her pay.

He turned toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow descent, and began walking.

The desert was unrelenting. The sun, a fiery sentinel in the sky, burned hot against Elias's skin. Each step forward felt heavier than the last as the dunes shifted underfoot, forcing him to push against the earth itself. His throat was parched, his lips cracked and bleeding, but he did not stop. He couldn't.

The melody In his mind continued, guiding him forward like an invisible thread. So often, the wind carried faint echoes of the song as though the land itself were singing back to him. It was a cruel comfort, a reminder that the past he couldn't quite recall was still out there, waiting for him to uncover it.

But survival demanded focus. He needed water. Shelter. Anything to stave off the desert's cruelty.

Hours passed before he stumbled upon something out of place—a line of uneven stones protruding from the sand, partially buried and worn smooth by time. Elias knelt, brushing away the sand to reveal what appeared to be the foundation of an ancient structure.

Symbols, faint but distinct, were etched into the stone. They were similar to the ones he had seen in the cave. He traced his fingers over them, and a familiar chill coursed through his body.

The harp. The thought struck him unbidden, but it felt true. This place was connected to it somehow.

As he examined the ruins, his ears caught a new sound: voices.

Elias crouched low, his muscles tensing as he listened. The voices were distant, carried on the wind, but growing louder. He moved carefully toward the sound, climbing a nearby dune to get a better vantage point.

Below, in the shadow of a rocky outcrop, a small caravan had stopped to rest. There were four of them—nomads by the look of their clothing, wrapped in layers of cloth to protect against the sun. They were gathered around a fire, even in the blistering heat, their camels resting nearby.

Elias's heart leaped at the sight of water skins hanging from the camels' saddles. His body screamed for relief, but his mind warned him to be cautious. He didn't know these people, or how they might react to a stranger.

The melody In his head quieted as he descended the dune, his steps slow and deliberate. When he was close enough to be seen, he raised his hands, palms open.

"Water," he croaked, his voice barely audible.

The nomads sprang to their feet, drawing curved daggers. One of them, a tall man with a sun-scarred face, stepped forward.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice wary.

"My name is Elias," he said, his words scraping out of his dry throat. "I mean no harm. Please… I just need water."

The nomads exchanged glances, and after a tense moment, the tall man nodded. One of the others retrieved a water skin and tossed it toward Elias.

Elias caught it and drank greedily, the cool liquid reviving him like a second life. When he finally lowered the skin, he saw the nomads still watching him, their daggers not yet sheathed.

"Why are you out here alone?" the tall man asked.

Elias hesitated. "I… I'm looking for someone."

"Someone?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Or something?"

Elias's jaw tightened. "Both."

The man studied him for a moment, then gestured for Elias to sit by the fire. "You've been marked by the desert," he said, his tone softer now. "It takes something from everyone who crosses it. Perhaps we can help you, if you'll tell us your story."

Elias hesitated again. He didn't trust them, not entirely, but he needed allies—or at least information. He sat down and began to speak.

As Elias told his fragmented story, the nomads listened in silence. When he finished, the tall man leaned back, his expression unreadable.

"You speak of a harp," he said finally. "An artifact of great power. Some say it's a myth, but others…" He trailed off, his gaze distant. "Others say it's real, and that it's cursed. Are you sure this is a path you want to follow?"

Elias's hands clenched into fists. "I have no choice."

The man sighed. "If that's true, then you'll need more than water to survive. The desert is dangerous, but the things beyond it are worse."

The nomads gave Elias provisions—a skin of water, a small pouch of dried dates, and a sturdy walking stick. Before he left, the tall man pulled him aside.

"There's a city to the west, Veridion," he said. "Traders there speak of strange things. You might find answers—or more questions. But be careful who you trust."