Nightmare Desert

Bennan dreamt of a desert.

Barren and lonesome, stark white sand drifted over dunes, long bleached by the malicious sun above. In the distance, a haunting mirage of a pyramid contrasted against the flawless blue sky, its black surface seeming to drink the light from its surroundings.

On one dune rested the ruins of an ancient encampment, its walls broken down to the foundation by innumerable years of sand-blasted weathering.

Suddenly, the incandescent sun dipped behind the eerie pyramid, plunging the desolate landscape into inky darkness. And then the surface stirred.

Below, the pale moonlight revealed ghostly figures clawing their way out of the sands. Their ethereal visages glowed faintly as the spectral army rose to its feet and resumed an eternal clash. The moon continued across the sky, disappearing into the east—and with it, the invaders faded from existence.

In an instant, hundreds of years flew by.

The wind shifted. Sand rose in a whirlwind, shrouding the world in a white haze. Overhead, the sun and moon chased each other through the sky in reverse.

Time froze. Slowed. Then resumed its natural pace.

Now, on the pale, flat dunes, dark mud structures emerged—nearly fifty of them—lit by thick moonlight reflecting off the bone-white desert floor. Surrounding the encampment stood a tall wall, and atop it patrolled men bearing torches, their lights shifting slowly through the night.

All around, in every direction, a war raged. Cursed bodies fell to the sand as they struck each other down.

[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]

"What the f—"

Bennan gasped, falling forward out of his chair. Pushing himself upright to one knee, hands instinctively flew to his previously injured torso, searching for wounds.

He found none.

Blinking, he looked around in confusion. The dim mud walls of a small hut surrounded him, illuminated only by a single flickering torch in the corner. Maps and plans lay scattered across every surface. Beside him stood a table with a glass pitcher, condensation dripping slowly down its sides.

A man cleared his throat, drawing his attention to the center of the room.

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

They belonged to a beautiful man with long golden hair, a regal woman with a cold, uncaring gaze, and a ruthless-looking man with a hardened, scarred face.

"What the hell is he doing here?" the scarred man growled, the question seemingly directed at the woman. "Boy, make yourself useful and bring me some water."

His voice was powerful, commanding—and it made Bennan shudder. Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to the table beside the chair. From the man's reaction, and the shabby position of his seat at the edge of the room, he quickly pieced together what had happened: he had taken the place of the cold woman's servant.

The thought was insane—but had he somehow entered the Nightmare Spell while fleeing? Crossed the Queen's boundary without realizing it?

He bent forward and placed his right hand over his heart.

"Right away, sir. I'm very sorry for the interruption—I suddenly grew light-headed."

His head was still fuzzy as he turned to the pitcher, nearly missing the handle as he reached for it. With unsteady steps, he walked toward the round table. Two of the figures had returned to their map, but the golden-haired man continued to stare at him, his expression curious.

"Anthony, what about starting here?" the scarred man said, pointing at the map. The beautiful man snapped out of whatever thoughts had held him and joined the other two.

As he drew closer, the fog in his mind began to lift, and the full weight of his situation settled on him.

The pressure these three strangers radiated was immense—like nothing he had ever experienced. Though his borrowed body seemed accustomed to the weight they exerted, cold sweat still ran down his face as he approached the table.

The scarred man held his cup up behind him without even sparing him a glance.

With shaking hands, Bennan filled the cup with the crisp water. The man withdrew his hand and brought the cup to his lips. Bennan glanced down at the table, the worn sallow map laid out before them was a perfect match for the camp he had seen at the start of his dream.

The woman turned to him. Her cold, steel-blue eyes stared into his soul, and he swallowed hard.

"That's all, Qurem. You may sit back down."

He nodded to her, turning away and walking back to his seat.

In his old life as a team lead at a large company, he'd had the opportunity to meet plenty of affluent people—though he'd never been one himself. Once, a Master had shown up for a corporate celebration. That man had a tangible presence you could feel the moment he entered the room. But compared to the three standing behind him now, that presence felt like a gentle breeze next to a tornado.

They were Saints. All of them.

Gods, what am I doing here?