When the Sands Whisper and the Castles Fall Silent

In the heart of Astraval, amidst white marble columns and ceilings adorned with faded gold worn by time, seven of the greatest minds in Lumanria gathered in a spacious hall bathed in a faint magical aura, as if the very walls were listening to what was being said.

At the head of the rectangular table made of "Valiuth" wood sat Narith Elonis, still as the silence before a storm. To her right sat:

• Serina Elonis, the youngest daughter of Elorin, her twin eyes glowing with a caution unbefitting her age.

• Orinath Velmire, a man in his thirties, brother by name and will—like a green leaf among a forest of withering elders.

• Selmira Ithrael, lady of the books and keeper of the castle's libraries, with glassy eyes that read only minds.

To Narith's left sat:

• Vaenira Quelthas, mistress of magical and medical experiments, her sharp gaze sensing pain before it was born.

• Elarion Vexthar, dean of the Magic University, an elderly man with a gray beard that quivered with every word, as if it weighed meanings.

• And lastly, Maelthorn Dy'reth, city defense commander, resting his sword on the table as if the battle could begin at any moment.

Their words crossed softly—discussing student numbers, dwindling magical components, and the kingdom's decreasing support. But what remained unspoken weighed heavier on the room than all that was said.

Narith, in her dark gown and silver shawl embroidered with ancient Elonis sigils, raised her hand to silence the room and spoke with a voice as cold as Thalvarex's frost:

"What is happening in Lumanria… is neither a shortage of numbers nor a failure in leadership. Someone is pulling the strings behind the curtain, and we will find them."

Silence fell. Doubt crept into their eyes.

⸻

In the heart of Kashtar Hollow, under the dim flicker of torches, Dareth sat at a wide table, hunched over, writing letters with his firm, deliberate hand. His eyes never left the parchment, fingers moving quickly, as if writing out a lifetime. Each letter he completed, he folded and sealed with red wax, then handed to waiting knights.

After a brief pause, he spoke in a low but commanding tone:

"Summon Calden… and tell him to gather the fortress commanders tonight. There's something we must prepare."

⸻

In a distant land, amid a vast desert with no visible end, the heat of the sand shimmered on the horizon like the breath of a sleeping beast.

Across that sand raced a hooded rider in black robes, as if he were the night's shadow itself. Mounted on a black steed, he tore across the desert with unnatural speed, hooves barely touching the ground.

He approached a nearly invisible hollow in the sand, and shouted a strange word in a long-dead tongue… The sands parted in a heavy silence, responding to a sacred call. A massive stone entrance appeared, leading deep underground.

The rider and his horse entered. The sands closed behind them as if they had never existed.

Below the surface, a hidden underground city revealed itself—carved from stone and sand, with towering walls and winding passageways between cave walls. Homes hung on cliff faces, connected by thick ropes and stone ladders. The city breathed a hot silence, befitting a people who spoke rarely.

A towering figure approached—broad-shouldered, dark-skinned like camel hide, with narrow, mistrustful eyes. He struck the rider's back with a heavy hand and laughed like thunder:

"We haven't seen you in ages, son of the wanderer! What winds brought you back to us?"

The rider pulled back his hood, revealing the face of Raylon Meris, son of Mirk, the most famous traveler of the age—a weary, pale-skinned young man of nineteen with black hair.

He sighed and said irritably:

"Take your hand off me, stone-man. It's like a boulder fell on my back."

The Garudian let out a deep laugh and embraced him tightly:

"I missed you, you skinny twig."

Together they walked the city's winding paths, as Raylon took in the hanging homes, the silent people moving through sand like extensions of the desert itself.

⸻

Thurak Vharun sat beside Raylon under the golden glow of torches dancing on sandstone walls, inviting him to dine with his family in one of the vast halls carved deep into the rock. The night was warm, filled with laughter and the deep hum of ancient Garudian songs, softly chanted in respect to the desert.

Polished bone plates were placed before them. After a short silence, Thurak spoke:

"We haven't ventured to the surface since the end of the Third Half-Age. No news reaches us but the whispers of the wind. Tell me… what is the surface like now?"

Raylon shrugged, chewing on a piece of salted meat:

"I don't know. Don't care. I wander, explore, and leave when a new war begins that has nothing to do with me."

Thurak gave him a sorrowful look, leaning slightly forward:

"Why such bitterness in your heart, Raylon?"

Raylon fell silent, his dark eyes distant. His mother's voice echoed in his mind—words that never left him.

"Mirk was an honorable man… He didn't fight for greed, but for justice. He joined the Six-Year War believing the land was worth the sacrifice. And all he got was death."

Raylon clenched his fist and muttered:

"My father… gave everything. He fought for this land. But it seems the land still craves our blood."

⸻

At noon, Dareth sat in a chamber thick with the scent of ink and old leather. He had written four firm, concise letters by hand.

• One was sent to Velkaris Keep.

• Another to Dorneth Spire.

• The third to the east, to the great kingdom of Varnoros Thalein, where the mountains slowly peel away from Kashtar's dominion.

• But the fourth… was the most private. It was sent to Lumanria, the arcane city of magic—specifically to the High Council of Sorcery.

No rider was needed for that one; Lumanria could only be reached through the Marked Raven. The rest required galloping messengers, traversing sands, plains, and valleys.

⸻

As sunset neared, Raylon Meris emerged from underground, leaving behind the hidden city of the Garudians. He walked swiftly, never looking back, the desert wind cooling his brow.

But he hadn't gone far before he stopped abruptly. Before him, across the sands, stood seven masked riders. He exchanged tense glances with them.

"Bandits? Thieves? Travelers? Mercenaries?" The thoughts raced in Raylon's mind.

One of the riders stepped forward slowly. Raylon called out warily:

"Bandits?"

The rider replied calmly:

"Travelers."

Silence.

Then another rider said, in a scrutinizing tone:

"Who walks the desert alone? No one but one man… I've heard of him."

Raylon raised an eyebrow:

"And who might that be?"

The rider answered confidently:

"The son of Mirk… from the city of Lodraim."

Raylon shouted:

"Who are you?"

The rider lifted his veil, revealing the face of a seventeen-year-old youth with a striking resemblance to Dareth. He spoke with steady confidence:

"My name is Alther Dareth."

Their eyes locked in a fierce, silent exchange—burning with both respect and guarded suspicion. The scene slowly panned upward to the darkening sky, then descended again upon a new desert setting, near a small oasis lake glowing beside a fire.

⸻

At midnight, Raylon, Alther, and the six other riders sat around the flames. Some chatted, others laughed, some watched the stars. Wine was poured into leather cups, and firelight danced across their faces.

Alther looked to Raylon:

"I've heard much about your father from mine… He said Mirk was a great man."

Raylon smiled faintly:

"He was great… because he rode with someone like your father."

Then, in a more serious tone:

"Dareth is a legend… unmatched in battle and strategy. Even giants like Kaelar Varneth, and shrewd statesmen like Lurian Varneth, Kaelar's father, tread carefully around him… Every step, every word, is deliberate."

He paused, then asked:

"But what brings you to this desert? Why did you leave your city?"

Alther answered simply:

"I'm heading to study in Nevarth."

Raylon's eyes narrowed. A thought struck him:

Why not Lumanria?

Did something happen there?

Or is something about to?

Noticing Raylon's distraction, Alther playfully nudged his shoulder:

"Let it go… I want to enjoy your company, desert master."

Laughter rose, cups passed, flames cracked—while the sands whispered their secrets to the stars.

⸻

The scene settled. Then Alther turned to Raylon:

"How is Lodraim? I've always heard about it, but it's just a name on maps to me."

Raylon sighed, voice tinged with longing:

"After my father died in the final battles of the Six-Year War… I wasn't even born yet. I came into this world three months after he was gone. My uncle, Ilmarin Meris, took over the keep—and raised me."

He paused, then added as if memories were falling back into place:

"The keep… nothing special. Just another castle. The city itself is small—no more than thirty thousand people. You know how cities under great realms are… not always ideal. Lodraim is one of seven keeps under Arvendore. Under the banner, yes… but no one truly sees us."

Alther nodded slowly, letting Raylon's words flow uninterrupted. The silence between them spoke louder than any response.

⸻

Late into the night, as Kashtar Hollow fell into hushed slumber, Kaelen rode out silently, eyes searching for a hill he knew too well.

There, beneath the slope, Elyra waited.

He dismounted slowly, hesitant.

Elyra approached, a mischievous smile on her face:

"Well, well… the pampered knight's son," she whispered, placing her hand on his chest. Looking closely, she added:

"What's wrong? Don't know anything but war? Never known love?"

Before he could answer, she gently pushed him down, and threw herself over him beneath the shadowed hill—where darkness swallowed the moment, etching it forever into his chest.

After a breath-filled hour of silence, she whispered, stroking his cheek:

"You look… sad. Like no one hears you. Like no one sees you, despite all your strength. I'm here… if you want me."

At that moment, Kaelen drowned in her eyes, believing every word like a promise of salvation.

He wasn't a knight—just a heart… thirsty for illusion.

⸻

Upstairs in the dim-lit chambers of the fortress, Elvarin sat on her bed, refusing to sleep despite the night's heavy presence.

"I don't want to sleep until I know," she insisted, her wide eyes gleaming in the dark.

"Mom… tell me about the Six-Year War."

Her mother—Lady Lysera—looked at her deeply, as if her gaze pierced through Elvarin into a distant, bone-carved past.

She drew close, sat on the edge of the bed, and whispered:

"If I tell you… will you sleep?"

Elvarin nodded. Her mother exhaled softly, and began:

"More than twenty years ago, before most of those you know were even born, a fire broke out… not just any fire. It began on the eastern borders, then crept into the south…"

As her words slipped into the girl's ears, the scene began to draw back…

The camera (or narrative eye) slowly retreated from Elvarin's window, past soft curtains, further and further… until the entire fortress stood still in the quiet of night.

Its towers silent. Its guards holding their breath.

And then—beyond the walls, across the shadowed plateau—an old woman stood alone, leaning on a twisted staff.

She was the same old woman Dareth had seen upon entering Zarynthar.

There she stood, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the fortress…

As if she awaited something.

Or someone.

And while everything lay still,

The night whispered its secrets.