The desert stretched wide and empty, an endless expanse of pale gold under the unyielding gaze of the twin suns. The caravan moved steadily, its wagons creaking under the weight of the amplifiers, the beasts of burden straining against their harnesses. The soldiers marched in silence, their faces drawn and weary. Whispers of Nyrah's impending wrath haunted their steps, mingling with the ever-present hum of the amplifiers.
Zhan Arkheis rode at the head of the column, his crimson cloak a vivid slash against the pale dunes. His gray eyes were fixed on the horizon, his expression carved from stone. The amplifiers weighed heavily in his thoughts. Their power was undeniable, but they were also a mystery—a mystery that had begun to whisper to him in the stillness of the night.
Behind him, Arkos rode in tense silence. The man's usual stoic demeanor had frayed over the past few days, his unease growing with each encounter with the amplifiers. The whispers among the soldiers had not gone unnoticed. They spoke of curses, of visions, of death.
"My lord," Arkos said, breaking the silence. "The men are nervous. They sense what's coming."
Zhan didn't turn. "Let them sense it. Fear will sharpen them."
"They don't fear Nyrah alone," Arkos pressed. "They fear the amplifiers. They fear the whispers."
Zhan's lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. "Do you fear them, Arkos?"
Arkos hesitated. "I fear what I don't understand."
Zhan finally turned to glance at him, his expression unreadable. "Then you fear the sands themselves. They are full of secrets you will never understand. The amplifiers are no different. They are tools, nothing more. And tools are meant to be used."
Arkos frowned but said nothing. The desert wind swept between them, carrying with it the faint scent of dry heat and the promise of a storm.
By midday, the caravan had reached the site of an ancient ruin—a cluster of jagged stone pillars rising from the sand like the broken ribs of some long-dead beast. The soldiers slowed as they approached, their eyes darting nervously toward the shadowed gaps between the stones.
"An ambush site," one of the scouts muttered.
Zhan raised a hand, signaling the column to halt. He dismounted, his boots sinking into the sand as he approached the ruins. The air here felt heavier, charged with a subtle energy that prickled at the edge of his senses.
He placed a hand on one of the stones, his fingers brushing its weathered surface. The whispers returned, faint and fleeting, their words just beyond comprehension. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound, letting it guide him.
The sands remember. The shards of what was. The shards of what will be.
"Arkos," Zhan said, his voice low.
The man approached cautiously. "What is it?"
"This place," Zhan said, his eyes still closed. "It is older than the amplifiers. Older than Nyrah. The sands have buried its purpose, but its power lingers."
Arkos glanced uneasily at the towering stones. "If it's power you want, my lord, it seems Nyrah will deliver it to us soon enough. Scouts report movement to the east. A war band—fifty, maybe sixty riders."
Zhan opened his eyes, a faint smile curling at his lips. "Then let them come. The sands have already chosen their grave."
The sun was sinking low by the time the riders appeared on the horizon, their banners snapping in the wind. The soldiers of the caravan gathered behind the wagons, their weapons drawn, their faces pale but resolute. The amplifiers were positioned in the center of the formation, their faint hum a constant presence.
Zhan stood at the front, his crimson cloak billowing in the hot wind. He could see the war band clearly now—mounted warriors clad in dark armor, their Essence weapons glinting with lethal light. At their head rode a tall figure draped in black and gold, his banner bearing the sigil of Nyrah: a serpent coiled around a burning sun.
The riders stopped just beyond bow range, their formation tight and disciplined. The leader spurred his horse forward, his armor gleaming in the fading light. He stopped a few paces away from Zhan, his sharp features framed by a helm crested with gold.
"I am Commander Jaeral of Nyrah," the man declared, his voice carrying across the dunes. "You ride with stolen property, Scourge. Return it, and you may yet live."
Zhan tilted his head, his gray eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "And if I refuse?"
Jaeral's lips curled into a sneer. "Then the sands will drink your blood, and the amplifiers will return to Nyrah, as they were meant to."
Zhan chuckled softly, the sound devoid of warmth. "The sands do not drink my blood, Jaeral. They obey my will. And soon, they will swallow you whole."
Jaeral's sneer faltered, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "You are bold, Scourge. But boldness will not save you."
Zhan raised his hand, the Essence in his armor flaring faintly. The sand at his feet shifted, spiraling outward in restless patterns. "Come then, Commander. Show me what Nyrah has to offer."
Jaeral turned sharply, raising his sword. Behind him, the riders surged forward, their war cries splitting the air as their mounts thundered across the dunes.
The battle erupted in a deafening clash of steel and sand.
The riders struck first, their spears flashing as they crashed into the front line of Zhan's soldiers. The defenders held firm, their shields locking into a wall as they pushed back against the charge.
Zhan stood at the center of the chaos, his hand raised as the amplifiers flared to life. The runes on their surfaces blazed with light, and the air hummed with raw power. The sand beneath the riders shifted violently, rising in jagged spikes that pierced through armor and flesh. Horses screamed as their legs were torn from beneath them, their riders thrown to the ground.
Jaeral fought with ruthless precision, his sword cutting through Zhan's soldiers with ease. His Essence weapon burned with a fierce light, its edge slicing through shields and bone as if they were paper. He carved a path toward the amplifiers, his eyes blazing with determination.
But Zhan was waiting.
The Scourge stepped into Jaeral's path, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a banner of blood. The ground trembled as he raised his hand, the Essence in his armor flaring brighter.
"You should have stayed in Nyrah," Zhan said coldly.
Jaeral lunged, his sword flashing in the fading light. Zhan caught the blade with his gauntleted hand, the Essence in his armor absorbing the weapon's energy. With a flick of his wrist, he sent Jaeral stumbling backward, his footing unsteady on the shifting sands.
The commander snarled, raising his sword again, but Zhan didn't give him the chance. The sand surged upward, wrapping around Jaeral's legs and pulling him to his knees.
"The sands remember," Zhan said, his voice low. "And so will you."
Jaeral's scream was brief as the sand consumed him, his Essence torn from his body in a brilliant flare of light. The amplifiers pulsed hungrily, their glow intensifying as they absorbed the energy.
The remaining riders faltered, their formation breaking as panic spread through their ranks. Zhan's soldiers pressed the advantage, cutting them down as the desert swallowed their corpses.
By the time the sun set, the battlefield was silent. The amplifiers hummed faintly, their glow casting eerie shadows over the dunes. Zhan stood at the edge of the carnage, his gray eyes fixed on the horizon.
Arkos approached cautiously, his expression grim. "Nyrah will not stop here. They will send more."
"Let them," Zhan said. "The sands are infinite. And so is their hunger."
As the caravan resumed its march, the whispers returned, faint but insistent.
The sands remember. The sands remember you.