The golden sun rose on the horizon, illuminating the vast desert with a gloomy silence. The yellow sands stretched endlessly, dancing with the warm breezes, interspersed with streaks of crimson and dark green, as if it were a painting of a harsh natural tragedy. No signs of life or cities, just a majestic emptiness, broken only by the circling hawks high in the sky, tirelessly watching the land below.
Beneath these birds, a scattered group of tents lay in the desert. Some of them seemed to have survived decades of the wind's wrath. But the largest tent, in the center of the camp, was different. Made of thick fabric studded with strange metallic pieces, it stood as a symbol of power and control. In front of its wide entrance, stood two massive guards, their outfits covering every inch of their bodies, with metal masks concealing their faces entirely, adding an air of mystery.
One of the guards spoke with a cold tone, "Has Rian arrived?" His voice held no emotion, just a routine question. "Seems like he's in trouble again. Let's hope it's not worse than last time."
The other guard ignored him, his gaze fixed on the horizon with silent focus. Inside the large tent, life continued with the usual noise.
Not far from the tent, a tall man appeared, his blonde hair gleaming under the harsh sun. Oliver walked with steady steps toward the grand tent, a silver crown atop his head reflecting the sunlight with a cold, grim light. Beside him walked a slightly shorter man, stocky and clad in ornate clothing. His loud laughter could be heard from a distance, as if announcing his presence in advance. "He hasn't arrived yet? Good! I could use some entertainment!" Asher laughed as he veered away from Oliver, heading toward a smaller tent on the outskirts, his laugh filled with arrogance.
As Oliver approached the entrance of the large tent, the two guards moved in unison. They stomped the ground in a strict military salute, and one of them shouted loudly, "Lord Oliver!" They then opened the large curtain, allowing him to enter with respect.
Oliver gave them a long look, as if there was a slight hesitation in his eyes, before nodding his head and entering the grand tent alone.
In the smaller tent, Rian, the thin young man, lay on an old piece of cloth. His pale face reflected a harsh life filled with exhaustion and fatigue. He wasn't asleep but rather lost in his tangled thoughts—about the past he once had and the present dragging him toward the abyss. But he couldn't dive deeper into these thoughts, as a strong foot kicked him in the stomach, causing him to jolt in pain.
"Get up, you scum!" Asher's voice was sharp, dripping with mockery. He stood over Rian, arms crossed over his chest with a smile full of amusement.
With difficulty, Rian muttered, "Sorry... I'm coming now," as he tried to gather his strength and get up.
Asher gave him no chance to prepare. His second kick was harsher, making Rian writhe on the ground. "Hurry up, you worthless piece of trash, don't keep me waiting any longer."
Asher left him and moved on, leaving behind a young man torn between feelings of humiliation and anger. Rian's eyes burned with hatred, while his labored breaths came with difficulty. "I'll take back everything... no matter the cost." He knew these words came from a desperate mouth, but they were all he had left now.
While the camp continued its routine life, the grand tent was entirely different. A pristine marble floor contrasted sharply with the yellow sands outside. In the middle of the hall, there was a long bronze table surrounded by five chairs, with two thrones at either end. The first throne was gilded, shining as if it were a symbol of absolute power, while the second, made of simple silver, stood on the opposite side, as if awaiting its turn.
Oliver sat on the silver throne, his eyes fixed on a large map in front of him. "Tomorrow we'll start moving toward the southern Eganor Mountains. Less than twenty miles remain to exit this desert." His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable confidence.
Beside him sat Asher, a smile never leaving his face. The other two chairs were occupied by two old men, one of them being Owen, with half his face hidden behind a mask, and the other, a tall man with only one eye visible, the other covered by a black bandage. This old man was named Sun, and he had a sharp look that observed every detail.
Rian sat on the golden throne, a stark contrast to his ragged clothes that barely covered his thin body. His long black hair and the large scar crossing under his left eye made him appear older and more violent than he actually was. His red eyes, glowing with suppressed rage, silently watched the gathering.
Oliver's eyes didn't leave the throne for a moment. He knew this throne wasn't his yet, but it was his dream, a dream he would never give up. "Once we find what we're looking for..." he muttered softly, as if talking to himself, "I'll sit on the golden throne."
"Why must we go there specifically? The place is unexplored and full of dangers," the masked old man spoke with a tone of reverence, aware of the risks in the place Oliver was talking about.
Asher turned to the old man, Sun, and said with a smile full of mockery, "We were promised to find Zane's remains there. If we get them, His Majesty will receive the nucleus injection."
Everyone fell silent for a moment. The atmosphere grew heavy, and the tension was evident in their eyes.
Despite all his coldness, there were other emotions hidden in Oliver's gaze toward the golden throne. He respected the former chieftain, Rian's father, but he wouldn't let that respect stop him from achieving his ambition. The golden throne awaited him, and every step brought him closer to realizing his dream.
This moment revealed much, not just about Oliver's ambition but also about the brewing tensions among the group. The old man Sun, whose face was tightly drawn with suppressed anger, hesitated for a moment, then touched the black bandage on his closed eye, before releasing a sigh of resignation and nodding his head. He had nothing more to say.
After the meeting ended, everyone left except Rian, who was ordered to stay. He stood in the corner, his eyes filled with hatred and regret. Oliver, dealing with him with strange calmness, motioned for him to come closer.
"Rian... there's something else we need to discuss," Oliver said in a low voice, but with a clear authority. He looked at the young man who was supposed to be the natural heir to the throne, but now was just a faint shadow of what could have been.
Rian, hearing these words, felt his hand slowly clench the piece of cloth he wore. He had nothing left to lose, but he also didn't have the strength to take back what he lost. But deep inside, there was a promise—a silent promise that this story was not over yet.