The dunes were restless. The desert winds carried whispers that twisted through the camp like threads of unease. Soldiers worked in grim silence, repairing wagons, tending to their mounts, and sharpening weapons still slick with the blood of Nyrah's war band. The amplifiers, pulsing faintly with their eerie light, sat at the center of the caravan's formation like sacred relics—or cursed ones.
Zhan Arkheis sat alone on a rise overlooking the camp, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The victory over Nyrah had been decisive, brutal. Yet his mind was not on the battle or the spoils. It was on the amplifier he had tested, the whispers that had spoken to him, and the vision of the ruined city buried beneath the sands.
The sands remember. The shards of what was. The shards of what will be.
The phrase haunted him. It was as if the amplifiers themselves were alive, not merely tools but something more—something ancient and aware.
"My lord."
The voice broke through his thoughts, and Zhan turned to see Arkos approaching. The man's face was set in a mask of calm, but Zhan could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.
"What is it, Arkos?" Zhan asked.
Arkos inclined his head. "Scouts report movement to the south. Another war band, larger this time—at least a hundred riders. They'll be upon us by nightfall."
Zhan's lips curled into a faint smile. "Nyrah does not waste time."
"No," Arkos agreed, his voice low. "They are testing us. Probing our defenses. They'll keep coming until we are bled dry."
Zhan rose to his feet, his crimson cloak stirring in the wind. "Let them come. The sands are infinite, Arkos, and so is their hunger."
"My lord," Arkos said cautiously, "the men… they are not infinite. Many fell in the last battle. If this continues—"
"If this continues," Zhan interrupted, his voice sharp, "Nyrah will fall before we do. They think numbers will save them, but numbers only mean more Essence for us to take."
Arkos hesitated, his expression tightening. "And the amplifiers? Do you intend to use them again?"
Zhan turned his gaze back to the camp. "The amplifiers are a gift, Arkos. A key to something far greater than this petty war. They will serve their purpose when the time is right."
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the caravan prepared for the coming battle. The wagons were arranged in a defensive circle, the amplifiers placed at the center. Soldiers took up their positions, their faces grim but determined. The air was thick with tension, the anticipation of violence pressing down on them like a weight.
Zhan stood at the front of the formation, his armor gleaming faintly with the absorbed Essence of his victories. His gray eyes scanned the horizon, unblinking, as the first glimmers of movement appeared in the distance.
The riders came in waves, their banners snapping in the wind. They were more organized than the last war band, their formation tighter, their armor heavier. At their center rode a figure clad in dark steel, his helm adorned with the serpent-and-sun sigil of Nyrah.
"Another commander," Arkos muttered, stepping up beside Zhan. "They send them like pawns."
"Then let us remind them what happens to pawns," Zhan said coldly.
The riders halted just beyond bow range, their ranks shifting slightly as their commander rode forward. He stopped a few paces from Zhan, his armored figure imposing against the backdrop of the setting sun.
"I am Commander Rathor of Nyrah," the man declared, his voice deep and steady. "You have something that belongs to my city. Return it now, and your death will be swift."
Zhan smirked faintly. "Is that what Jaeral promised before I fed his Essence to the sands?"
Rathor's hands tightened on the reins of his mount. "Jaeral was a fool. I am not."
"Then you should know better than to threaten me," Zhan said, his voice laced with quiet menace.
"You mistake this for a threat," Rathor said. "It is a promise. The amplifiers will be returned to Nyrah, and your bones will join the sands."
Zhan tilted his head, his gaze sharp. "You warlords of Nyrah cling to your city like insects to a dying flame. Do you even know what the amplifiers are? Do you understand the power you claim to wield?"
"They are weapons," Rathor said. "And in our hands, they will crush you."
Zhan laughed softly, the sound devoid of warmth. "Weapons? No, Rathor. They are something far greater than you or your city could ever comprehend. But I will show you their true purpose. And when I do, you will kneel before the sands."
Rathor didn't respond. He raised his hand, signaling his riders to advance.
The battle began with a thunderous charge, the ground trembling beneath the hooves of a hundred horses. Zhan's soldiers braced for the impact, their shields locking into a solid wall. Arrows flew through the air, cutting down the first wave of riders before they reached the line.
But Nyrah's forces were relentless. They smashed into the defenders with brutal force, their spears and swords flashing in the fading light. The clash of steel and the screams of the wounded filled the air, a cacophony of chaos and death.
At the center of the formation, the amplifiers began to hum. Their runes glowed brighter, pulsing in time with the rhythm of the battle. Zhan stepped forward, his hand raised as he channeled their power.
The sand beneath the riders shifted violently, rising in jagged spikes that pierced through armor and flesh. Horses screamed as they were pulled down, their riders thrown into the fray. The amplifiers flared brighter, their energy spreading outward in waves that sent ripples through the battlefield.
Rathor fought his way through the chaos, his sword cutting down Zhan's soldiers with ruthless efficiency. He carved a path toward the amplifiers, his eyes blazing with determination.
Zhan watched him approach, his expression calm. When Rathor was within striking distance, Zhan raised his hand, and the sand surged upward, coiling around the commander's legs.
"You are bold, Rathor," Zhan said, his voice cold. "But boldness cannot save you."
Rathor snarled, his sword slicing through the sand. "You cannot stop Nyrah. We will bury you."
"No," Zhan said. "The sands will bury you."
The amplifiers flared with blinding light, their runes shifting as they unleashed a surge of energy. The sand erupted in a massive wave, engulfing Rathor and his riders. Their screams were swallowed by the desert as their Essence was torn from their bodies, the glowing streams flowing into the amplifiers.
When the light faded, the battlefield was silent. The remaining riders had fled, their banners disappearing into the horizon. The sand settled, leaving only the twisted remains of those who had fallen.
The soldiers regrouped, their movements slow and weary. The amplifiers continued to hum, their glow casting eerie shadows across the dunes.
Arkos approached Zhan, his face pale. "The amplifiers," he said. "They… they are growing stronger."
Zhan nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "As they should. Their power is infinite, Arkos. We are only beginning to understand it."
"And the cost?" Arkos asked quietly.
Zhan turned to face him, his gray eyes cold. "The sands remember, Arkos. But they do not care."
As the caravan resumed its march, the amplifiers pulsed faintly, their hum blending with the whispers of the desert.
The sands remember. The shards of what was. The shards of what will be.