The horizon burned gold as the twin suns rose, casting long shadows over the caravan. The dunes were alive with shifting light, their ripples glinting like molten metal. The camp was already awake, its soldiers moving with the lethargy of men pushed to their limits. The previous night's events hung heavy in the air—the thief's lifeless body, the crackling energy of the amplifiers, and Zhan's cold decree.
Arkos stood near the edge of the camp, his arms crossed as he watched the soldiers prepare for the next leg of their journey. His mind was a storm of doubt and anger, though his face betrayed nothing. He had been with Zhan for years, through countless battles and conquests, but this… this was something different. The boy hadn't deserved that death. The fear in the men's eyes spoke volumes. Zhan ruled with absolute power, but that power was turning the very ground beneath them unstable.
"Thinking of running, Arkos?"
The voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. He turned to see Zhan approaching, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, the faint hum of Essence still emanating from his armor. Zhan's expression was unreadable, his gray eyes fixed on Arkos like a predator studying prey.
"Only a fool runs from the desert," Arkos said, his voice steady. "It swallows cowards faster than any blade."
Zhan smirked faintly. "Then why do you look like a man searching for an escape?"
Arkos held Zhan's gaze, though the air between them felt heavy, oppressive. "The men are uneasy," he said finally. "They've seen what happens to those who cross you. They wonder if loyalty is enough to save them."
Zhan stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the sand. "Loyalty is a fragile thing, Arkos. It must be reinforced. Tested. Those who fail the test—"
"Die," Arkos interrupted, his voice bitter. "I've seen your tests, my lord. I've helped enforce them. But even steel bends when the hammer strikes too often."
Zhan's smirk faded. The sand at his feet began to stir, spiraling outward in restless patterns. "Do you think I strike too often?"
"I think," Arkos said carefully, "that even the strongest empire falls when its foundation begins to crack."
For a moment, Zhan said nothing. His eyes narrowed, but his voice, when it came, was calm. "The only foundation that matters is power. The only loyalty that matters is fear. If the men question me, it is because they do not fear me enough."
"And if they fear you too much?" Arkos asked.
Zhan tilted his head, studying Arkos with a faint glimmer of amusement. "There is no such thing as too much fear. Only not enough strength to wield it."
Before Arkos could respond, a shout rang out from the far side of the camp. Both men turned as a scout stumbled toward them, his face pale and his breath ragged.
"My lord!" the scout gasped, dropping to one knee. "Movement to the south—an entire host, maybe fifty riders. They'll reach us before midday."
Zhan's expression darkened. "Who leads them?"
"We don't know," the scout said, his voice trembling. "But their banners bear the mark of Nyrah."
The name sent a ripple of unease through the camp. Nyrah was one of the last great cities of the Abyss, its warlords notorious for their ruthless efficiency. If they had sent riders, it could mean only one thing—they knew about the amplifiers.
"Arkos," Zhan said, his voice cold. "Prepare the men. This is no raid. This is a lesson."
The riders appeared on the horizon just after midday, their banners snapping in the wind. They came in a tight formation, their armor glinting like scales, their weapons flashing with cruel precision. Fifty riders—enough to overwhelm a poorly defended caravan, but nothing Zhan couldn't handle.
Zhan stood at the front of his forces, his crimson cloak billowing in the hot wind. The amplifiers were stored securely behind the wagons, their faint hum barely audible over the sound of shifting sand. His soldiers formed a loose line, their weapons drawn, their faces pale but determined.
Arkos approached him, his expression grim. "They outnumber us, my lord. If we hold our ground, we risk losing the wagons."
"We won't hold," Zhan said, his gaze fixed on the advancing riders. "We'll crush them."
He raised his hand, and the air around him seemed to vibrate. The Essence in his armor flared, sending waves of heat rippling outward. The sand at his feet began to shift, rising in jagged spires that twisted and coiled like serpents.
When the riders were close enough to see the whites of their eyes, Zhan spoke, his voice carrying across the desert like thunder.
"Kneel, or die."
For a moment, the riders hesitated. Their leader, a tall man clad in black steel, raised his hand to signal a halt. He rode forward alone, his horse's hooves kicking up small clouds of sand as he approached.
"I am Varyon of Nyrah," the man said, his voice deep and commanding. "And I do not kneel to tyrants."
Zhan tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Tyrant? Such a small word for something so vast."
"Leave the amplifiers," Varyon said, ignoring the jab. "Return to the desert, and Nyrah will allow you to live."
Zhan laughed softly, the sound devoid of warmth. "You misunderstand, Varyon. I do not negotiate. I do not retreat. The sands are mine. And soon, your Essence will be as well."
Without another word, Zhan raised his hand.
The ground erupted in a deafening roar, the sand rising in great waves that crashed into the advancing riders. Horses screamed as their legs were pulled from beneath them, their riders thrown to the ground. The desert came alive, jagged spikes of sand piercing through armor and flesh, dragging men into the earth as if the Abyss itself had opened its maw.
Varyon shouted commands, his voice cutting through the chaos. His men rallied, forming a tight circle as they fought back against the shifting sands. Swords flashed, arrows flew, and the air was filled with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.
But it wasn't enough.
Zhan strode forward, the Essence in his armor blazing like fire. He raised his hand again, and the sand obeyed, coiling around the remaining riders and tearing them from their saddles. Varyon turned to face him, his sword raised, his eyes burning with fury.
"You are no man," Varyon spat. "You are an abomination."
Zhan smiled faintly. "And yet, you will die like the rest."
With a flick of his wrist, the sand surged upward, encasing Varyon in a suffocating grip. His sword clattered to the ground as his body convulsed, his Essence ripped from him in a glowing stream that flowed into Zhan's waiting palm.
The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. The riders lay scattered across the sands, their lifeless bodies half-buried in the dunes. Zhan turned back to his soldiers, his expression calm.
"Gather the spoils," he said. "Leave nothing behind."
That night, the camp was silent. The soldiers moved with the weary precision of men who had seen too much death. The amplifiers hummed faintly, their glow casting long shadows across the wagons.
Zhan sat alone in his tent, his gaze fixed on a single amplifier resting on the floor before him. Its runes pulsed faintly, their light reflecting in his cold gray eyes.
Power, he thought. The only thing that matters.
But somewhere in the depths of his mind, a voice whispered—faint and insistent.
What will it cost you?
He scowled, pushing the thought away. It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered but the sands, and the power they gave him.