The twin suns hung low on the horizon, casting the desert in hues of blood and gold. A cold wind, rare in the Great Abyss, swept across the shifting dunes, carrying with it a sound—a low, ominous hum that didn't belong to nature. The hum grew louder, reverberating in the air like the mourning cry of some colossal beast. It came from the black obelisk standing atop the highest dune, an unnatural structure carved from the essence of the sands themselves.
The villagers of Dyrah gathered below the obelisk, their faces drawn and pale. It had appeared overnight, towering and silent, its jagged surface glinting faintly in the light. None dared approach it, yet none could look away. Fear rooted them in place, a collective paralysis that gripped their hearts.
When the hum ceased, the silence that followed was deafening. Then came the voice.
"People of Dyrah," it boomed, impossibly deep and resonant, as if the desert itself were speaking. "Your hour has come."
The villagers fell to their knees. Some whispered prayers, clutching at symbols of forgotten gods, while others wept openly. Only a few dared to raise their eyes, looking toward the crest of the dune, where a figure now stood, silhouetted against the fiery sky.
Zhan Arkheis descended the slope slowly, deliberately, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like spilled blood. The black obelisk pulsed faintly with Soul Essence as he approached, its light dimming in reverence to its master. The villagers' terror swelled, manifesting in choked sobs and trembling limbs.
"Your tribute is overdue," Zhan said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Do you know the price of defiance?"
A man stepped forward, trembling but upright. He was older, his back bent with years of toil, but his eyes burned with a desperate determination. The villagers parted to let him through, their murmurs falling silent as he faced Zhan.
"We have nothing left to give," the elder said, his voice quavering but firm. "The drought has taken our crops, and the raiders have taken our stores. If you take more, we will starve."
Zhan stopped a few paces away, his gaze cold and unyielding. "You misunderstand," he said softly. "The sands do not care for your struggles. They demand what is owed."
The elder's resolve faltered under that gaze, but he held his ground. "We are not cattle for slaughter," he said, his voice rising. "If you take us all, who will remain to pay your Tribute next season? There will be nothing left but dust!"
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and fragile. Then Zhan raised his hand.
The air shimmered with heat as the sand beneath the elder's feet began to shift, rising like liquid. The elder gasped as the ground swallowed his legs, pulling him downward. He clawed at the air, panic overtaking his defiance.
"You mistake me for someone who cares about seasons," Zhan said, his tone devoid of emotion. "Or survival."
The sand surged upward, encasing the elder's body in a suffocating grip. His screams echoed across the dunes, sharp and short-lived, as his soul was torn from his body. The Essence coalesced into a glowing orb, which floated lazily into Zhan's outstretched palm. The husk of the elder crumbled, falling lifelessly to the ground.
The villagers wailed, their cries filling the air like the keening of a dying animal. Zhan ignored them, his attention on the orb in his hand. It pulsed faintly, warm and alive, a fragment of existence now bound to his will. He crushed it between his fingers, the Essence flowing into his armor with a soft, satisfying hum.
"Your delay has cost you," Zhan said, addressing the remaining villagers. "Now, I will take double the Tribute."
The screams grew louder as the sand rose again, spreading outward like the grasping fingers of a giant. Men, women, and children alike were seized by the living dunes, their Essence drawn from their bodies in shimmering streams. The process was slow, deliberate, as if Zhan relished their suffering.
Amid the chaos, a boy no older than twelve broke free from the grasping sand and ran toward Zhan, clutching a rusted knife. His face was streaked with tears, but his eyes burned with hatred. He lunged, the blade aimed at Zhan's chest.
The knife never connected. Zhan's hand shot out, catching the boy by the throat with effortless precision. The boy struggled, kicking and clawing, but Zhan's grip was unyielding.
"Foolish," Zhan said, tilting his head. "But brave."
He tightened his grip, and the boy gasped, his struggles weakening. Then, for a fleeting moment, Zhan hesitated. The boy's eyes—filled with rage, pain, and something deeper, something primal—met his own. There was no fear in them, only defiance.
Zhan dropped him.
The boy fell to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. He scrambled back, staring up at Zhan with a mixture of confusion and fury.
"Run," Zhan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The boy didn't need to be told twice. He bolted toward the edge of the village, disappearing into the dunes. Zhan turned away, his cloak billowing in the hot wind as he surveyed the scene. The cries of the villagers had subsided, replaced by an eerie silence. Only the dead remained, their lifeless bodies scattered like broken dolls across the sands.
The black obelisk trembled and began to dissolve, its Essence flowing back into Zhan. He turned and began walking toward the horizon, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Behind him, the oasis village of Dyrah was no more—a forgotten speck swallowed by the endless sands.
As the suns dipped below the horizon, casting the desert in a deep, bloody red, Zhan spoke softly to no one in particular.
"The sands remember only the strong."
And with that, he vanished into the night.