Sands of Fate

Far from the eastern desert where our tale began.

Elarya, Ser Kael, Baby Sulien, and their small band of Kel'rhakars and a few Rhazkaan warriors press forward across the burning dunes. Their destination lies ahead: Val'shaar, the sacred heart of the Vol'kheren lands. But as the sun grows ever more merciless and their water supplies dwindle, the horizon offers no comfort—only more sand, more heat, and more uncertainty.

Sulien rides in silence. Though only a child in form, it is the woman within him — the soul reborn — who sifts through the haze of memory, trying to grasp the threads of a story once read in another life. Her thoughts swirl: fragments of prose, echoes of foreboding lines, blurred fates that led to tragedy. Something was meant to unfold here, she remembers — something grim, something inevitable. And yet, knowing this world has changed, she strains to remember exactly what comes next.

In the distance, dark specks emerge against the shimmering sands — four merchant caravans slowly making their way west. The moment the merchants spot the approaching horde of warriors, they panic. Frantic hands scramble to gather belongings, pack mules are yanked by their reins, and whispered prayers spill from trembling lips.

As the caravan came into view, one Rhazkaan rider stood out — a broad-shouldered warrior whose face bore the hardened map of a hundred battles. A jagged scar carved down from his brow to the ridge of his cheek, pulling his lip into a permanent sneer.

His blade gleamed in the light, trembling with eagerness — or perhaps it was the hand that gripped it, driven by an unspoken thrill at the chance to plunder. He dug his heels into his horse and began to surge forward, eager to be the first to claim blood and spoil.

But Elarya's voice rang out like a whip. "Hold." Elarya intercepts him, raising her voice sharply. "Stand down. While I lead the Kel'rhakars, we do not butcher the helpless."

The command halted the warrior. His scarred features tighten, and his glare flicks from Elarya to the merchants and back again. In the harsh, guttural tongue of the Vol'kherens, he growls, "Shakareen… in Vol'kheren lands, mercy dulls the edge. Better to strike before thirst turns us into beasts." Still, her gaze remains firm, unyielding.

With a growl of frustration, he reins in his mount. The blade lowers, his bloodlust reluctantly tempered. The rest of the Rhazkaans follow suit, their discipline forged not by chains, but by deep-earned respect for the woman who dared to lead them with restraint instead of wrath.

Elarya then turns to her handmaidens. "Hide the boy," she whispers. "Sulien must not be seen by common eyes — not yet."

The handmaidens nod and wrap Sulien in layers of cloth, tucking him gently into the shaded rear of a canvas-draped cart. Another pair of women conceal the two young dragons in a straw-filled basket, disguising them beneath blankets.

Elarya mounts her steed a beautiful fine white shanor, Then ordering Ser Kael to ride at her side as they approach the caravans.

Kael eyes her warily. "What are you planning?"

"A trade," she said, brushing windblown silver hair from her eyes. "We're not thieves, Ser. I won't become a tyrant in rags." Her gaze stayed on the horizon, unblinking. The words settled like iron in the heat.

The caravans wait tensely, the merchants crouched behind wooden carts. But as Elarya draws closer, their confusion grows.

They had expected savagery — blades, fire, maybe even death. What they see instead is a slender young woman with pale, moonlit skin and hair of starlight. Her posture is regal, but not arrogant. A foreigner among savages. At her side rides a knight clad in worn plate, carrying himself like a soldier of the West.

"We mean no harm," Elarya calls out. "We seek only trade — water, food, and anything else we may need for our journey."

The merchants hesitate. One steps forward, eyes darting between Elarya's calm face and the weapons slung behind her riders.

"You… you may take what we have," he stammers, bowing his head. "We ask only to live."

Elarya frowns. "I did not ask for gifts. I will pay."

She reaches up and unpins the golden clips in her braid — simple but beautiful things, the last remnants of a love long gone. They had been a gift from Rogo, her Shak'var, given to her in gentler days now lost to sand and time.

She holds them out. "These. For your goods."

The merchants glance nervously at the knight beside her, who nods. After a moment, they accept the offer. Flasks of water, dried fruit, sacks of grain, and salted meat are exchanged. Relief softens the tension.

As Elarya prepares to return to her horde, one of the merchants speaks up — emboldened now.

"My lady… are you the one who married the Warlord of the Vol'kherens? The silver-haired foreigner of the east?"

Elarya pauses. She doesn't speak.

Kael leaned close, his voice low and cautious. "You don't have to say anything, Shakareen. Their fear doesn't deserve your truth."

But before she can turn away, another merchant — young, and shaking with barely-contained nerves — blurts, "She's a Vyrmyr! — I've heard the rumors!"

The older merchant grabs him by the shoulder, hissing for him to be silent.

Elarya slowly turns back. Her eyes are unreadable.

"So what if I am?"

The first merchant swallows, then steps forward. "If you are who we think… then perhaps we can offer more than just supplies. There's a city — Albareen. Not far from here towards the south. They do not care for bloodlines or banners. Only coin. They would welcome you."

Kael tensed. "Albareen's a city of coin — trade and silk, they say. But I've only ever heard stories. No outsider who goes in ever seems to come back out, Shakareen."

"And yet," Elarya says softly, "we may not make it to Val'shaar with what little we have."

Kael frowns. "They'll try to bind you with gold chains and velvet ropes. You'll might as well walk into a trap."

Elarya looks back at her horde in the distance — at the weary women clinging to what little they carried, at the carts swaying beneath the weight of their lives, and at the handmaiden gently cradling her swaddled child, Sulien. Her jaw tightens.

"Then if it is a trap," she said coldly, "I'll break it. I'll spill the blood of anyone who threatens my people."

She gave the merchants a nod — not of trust, but permission. "You'll lead the way. I want to see this city with my own eyes."

Then, without looking away from them, she called to one of the scarred Rhazkaan riders. "Varkas," she said, her voice sharp as flint.

The scarred warrior pulled his horse forward, the beast snorting as it stepped through the dust. His face, marked by the brutal path of an old wound, was unreadable — save for the faint gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

He came to her side without a word.

"Keep watch on them. If they so much as whisper treachery — you know what to do."

Varkas gave a grunt, the closest thing he had to a nod, and turned his mount with a tug of the reins. He did not smile, but the way his hand hovered near the hilt of his blade spoke volumes.

The merchants exchanged uneasy glances, then silently began to pack up and turn southward. Elarya remained still a moment longer, her gaze sharp as a blade.

Behind her, the horde stirred. And from within, a child watched — small and swaddled, but burning with memory and will.

From within the horde, Sulien listens. Cradled in the arms of a handmaiden, his eyes flick toward the merchants. Even at this distance, his keen senses hear every word.

Inside, the woman who now lived as Sulien stirred — not with words, but with the silent certainty of memory, her awareness alert, seeing and remembering what once was.

"This is it. The moment it all begins."

In the story she once read, Elarya trusted Albareen.

And it destroyed her.

Her horde was welcomed with open arms, lulled into ease by smiles and honeyed words. One by one, her people vanished — poisoned, lured, or slain in the quiet. She survived the fall of Albareen, but the cost was written in the blood of those who followed her.

But now, Sulien clenches his tiny fist.

"Not this time."

And so the path bent. Not yet toward fire, nor peace, but a choice — one no longer shackled by the story alone. For in the hands of a child, swaddled in dust and prophecy, stirred the will to rewrite fate.