The first rays of the twin suns crept over the horizon, painting the sands in muted golds and fiery reds. Where Kalrum had once stood—a proud oasis city teeming with life—there was now only silence and ruin. The plateau was unrecognizable, swallowed by dunes that shifted and shimmered as though the land itself were alive. The whispers of survivors, if any remained, were drowned by the wind that now swept through the remnants of the city.
Zhan Arkheis stood atop a ridge overlooking the ruins. His crimson cloak billowed in the morning breeze, streaked with dust and Essence that glimmered faintly in the light. His expression was unreadable as he surveyed his work. The city's destruction had not been necessary; Kalrum could have provided him with its Tribute without resistance. But it had defied him, and defiance demanded a lesson.
He raised a hand, and the Essence within his armor pulsed faintly, the energy collected from Kalrum's souls whispering against his skin. They called to him—fragments of fear and agony, the remnants of lives he had snuffed out. For most Porteglass, consuming Essence was a process of pure power, a tool for creation or destruction. For Zhan, it was something more. It was the proof of his dominion over the weak, a constant reminder that he controlled the one currency that mattered in the Abyss: life itself.
"Lord Arkheis."
The voice broke the stillness, low and cautious. Zhan turned slightly, his gaze settling on the figure approaching him. It was Arkos, one of the few men who had remained loyal through Zhan's conquests. His face was hardened and weathered, but his eyes betrayed a lingering unease. He was no stranger to death, yet even Arkos struggled to watch what Zhan had done to Kalrum.
"The Tribute has been collected," Arkos said, inclining his head. "The Essence stores are full."
"And the survivors?" Zhan asked, his tone even.
Arkos hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "A handful managed to flee. The winds will deal with most of them. The boy—"
"The boy survived," Zhan interrupted, turning fully toward Arkos. His gray eyes bore into the man, sharp and unrelenting. "I let him live."
Arkos stiffened, confusion flashing across his face. "You let him live? After all that…" He caught himself, quickly lowering his gaze. "Forgive me, Lord Arkheis. I don't presume to question your judgment."
"You already have," Zhan said, stepping closer. The sand stirred at his feet, shifting unnaturally as though responding to his mood. "What is it you wish to say, Arkos? That I made a mistake?"
"No, my lord," Arkos said quickly, but Zhan could hear the tremor in his voice.
For a long moment, Zhan said nothing. The wind howled around them, whipping through the dunes and sending spirals of sand into the air. Finally, Zhan sighed, a faint but deliberate sound.
"The boy was no threat," Zhan said, his voice calm but laced with something unreadable. "A child with a rusted knife cannot wound me. But his survival will serve me better than his death."
Arkos frowned. "I don't understand."
"You don't need to," Zhan said simply, turning away. "Return to the camp. Prepare the caravan to move. We leave at midday."
Arkos hesitated, but he bowed his head and stepped back, retreating down the ridge. Zhan watched him go, his expression unchanged. He could feel the man's doubt like a faint pulse in the air, but it didn't concern him. Arkos was useful—for now. That was all that mattered.
As the wind grew stronger, Zhan turned his attention back to the ruins. The faint glow of Essence still lingered in the air, like embers drifting from a dying fire. The boy's face surfaced in his mind—his eyes burning with defiance even as Zhan had crushed him.
Zhan scowled, pushing the thought aside. It didn't matter.
By the time the suns reached their zenith, the caravan was ready. The column stretched across the dunes like a great serpent, its wagons laden with stolen goods and Essence. Zhan rode at its head, his crimson cloak stark against the pale sands. His followers—mercenaries, opportunists, and the occasional Porteglass seeking power—moved with precision, their loyalty born not of admiration but of fear.
The caravan's destination was the Bone Market, a sprawling trade hub on the eastern edge of the Abyss. It was a place where power was bartered like coin, where Essence could buy anything from water to mercenaries to weapons. Zhan had no interest in the trinkets sold in its crowded stalls, but the market was a necessary stop. His growing empire demanded resources, and the Bone Market offered an endless supply.
As they traveled, the dunes seemed to ripple around them, the sand shifting in unnatural waves. It was a phenomenon Zhan had grown accustomed to—a side effect of his presence. The Abyss itself seemed to respond to him, bending to his will in subtle and unpredictable ways.
"Lord Arkheis," Arkos called, riding up alongside him. "A scout has returned. He claims to have seen movement on the northern horizon."
Zhan's eyes narrowed. "Movement?"
"A small group," Arkos said. "Perhaps ten, maybe fewer. Survivors from Kalrum, perhaps."
Zhan considered this for a moment. "They'll die before they reach the next oasis. The sands will see to that."
"Shall we leave them, then?" Arkos asked.
"No." Zhan's voice was firm. "The sands may kill them, but I want them to know whose name they should curse before they die. Send a party. Bring me their Essence."
Arkos nodded and signaled to a group of riders. They broke away from the caravan, their mounts kicking up plumes of sand as they veered northward. Zhan watched them go, his expression unreadable.
The survivors didn't make it far.
When Zhan arrived at the site an hour later, the riders had already done their work. The bodies were sprawled across the sand, their lifeless eyes staring into the sky. A woman clutched a child in her arms, her face frozen in a mask of terror. A young man lay nearby, his fingers still wrapped around the hilt of a broken sword.
Zhan dismounted, his boots crunching against the sand as he approached. The faint hum of Essence filled the air, the remnants of the souls that had been harvested. He knelt beside the young man, his gaze lingering on the blood-stained blade.
"You fought," Zhan murmured, his voice quiet. "How admirable. How pointless."
He reached out, his hand hovering over the man's chest. The air shimmered, and a faint light began to rise from the body—a fragment of the soul that remained. Zhan drew it into his palm, the Essence swirling like smoke before vanishing into his armor.
As he rose, his gaze fell on the woman and child. The child's face was hidden against his mother's chest, his small hands clutching at her lifeless dress. For a moment, Zhan stood still, his expression unreadable.
"Do you curse me?" he asked softly, though no one could answer. "You should. But your hatred won't change what you've become."
He turned away, his cloak billowing in the wind. The riders watched him silently as he mounted his horse and spurred it back toward the caravan. The bodies lay undisturbed in the sand, their faces turned toward the suns.
As the caravan resumed its journey, Zhan felt the weight of the Essence he carried. It pulsed within him, a constant reminder of his power, his dominion. Yet beneath it, something else stirred—an itch at the edge of his thoughts, a flicker of something he couldn't quite place.
He crushed it, as he always did. Doubt was a weakness he could not afford.
The sands stretched endlessly before him, vast and unyielding. The Abyss was his to command, and he would see it bow before his will.
No matter the cost.