The next morning broke sluggishly, the twin suns rising as though reluctant to cast light on the caravan's grim march. The ruins were long behind them now, swallowed once more by the sands, yet their presence lingered. Soldiers avoided each other's gazes, their steps dragging. Even the beasts of burden moved with unusual reluctance, snorting and pawing nervously at the ground as if they too felt the weight pressing on the camp.
Zhan Arkheis rode in silence at the head of the procession. His cloak fluttered faintly in the wind, its deep crimson stark against the pale dunes. His face betrayed nothing, as cold and unyielding as the Essence-forged armor he wore, but his mind churned beneath the surface.
The amplifiers had grown louder. Not just in sound, but in presence. Even from the front of the caravan, he could feel their faint hum crawling through the air, wrapping itself around his thoughts like vines. The whispers had become more frequent, more urgent, their words twisting into riddles that refused to leave his mind.
"The sands remember. The shards call. The Architect waits."
He had heard the phrase more than once now. It echoed in his thoughts, lingering like a half-remembered melody.
"My lord."
The voice pulled him back to the present. Arkos was beside him, his expression as weary as the rest of the camp.
"The men won't last much longer like this," Arkos said. His tone was quieter than usual, carrying none of the sharpness it often did when he challenged Zhan. "They're cracking. The whispers... it's affecting all of us."
Zhan didn't look at him. "Weakness spreads only if you let it, Arkos. Stamp it out."
"You can't stamp out what they don't understand," Arkos replied. His voice was low, careful, but insistent. "They think the amplifiers are cursed. Some say the shadows from the ruins are following us."
Zhan's eyes narrowed. "Are they?"
"No," Arkos said. "But that doesn't matter to them. It doesn't matter when they're already scared to death."
For a moment, Zhan said nothing. Then he slowed his horse to a stop, the caravan halting behind him like a beast unsure whether to move forward or retreat.
"Gather them," Zhan said, his voice cutting through the wind. "All of them. Now."
The soldiers gathered in a loose circle around Zhan, their faces pale and drawn. The amplifiers sat in the center of the formation, their glow faint but steady. The men avoided looking at them, their eyes darting anywhere else—the sand, the horizon, each other.
Zhan stood tall in front of them, his presence commanding. He let the silence stretch, let them squirm under his gaze, until he could feel their unease settle into something sharper.
"You are afraid," Zhan said finally, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "You think the amplifiers will kill you. You think the shadows are watching. You think the sands will swallow you whole."
No one spoke. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
"Good," Zhan said, his tone icy. "Fear is useful. It sharpens your instincts, keeps you alive. But only if you control it. If you let it control you, you might as well dig your own grave now."
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Do you think the amplifiers are cursed?" he asked, his voice low but sharp.
No one answered.
Zhan's lips curled into a faint smile. "You're right," he said. "They are cursed. They are cursed with the memories of those who came before us. The sands remember them, and they remember their failure. The amplifiers whisper because they know the cost of weakness. They know what happens when you hesitate."
He turned, gesturing toward the glowing devices. "These are not your enemies. They are tools. They are keys. And if you cannot see that—if you cannot master your fear—then you are the curse. You are the one who will fail. And the sands will bury you for it."
The men shifted uneasily, their faces a mixture of shame and uncertainty.
Zhan's voice hardened. "So tell me—are you weak?"
"No, my lord," a few voices muttered.
"I can't hear you," Zhan said, his tone cutting.
"No, my lord!" the men said louder, their voices trembling but firm.
Zhan nodded, his gaze sharp. "Good. Then prove it. The amplifiers will lead us to a power greater than anything this desert has ever seen. But only if you have the strength to follow me."
The camp was quieter that evening, but it wasn't the same silence as before. The men moved with more purpose, their fear buried beneath a layer of determination, thin but present.
Arkos watched them from the edge of the camp, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Zhan approached him, his footsteps muffled by the sand.
"They'll hold," Zhan said, his tone confident.
"For now," Arkos replied.
Zhan raised an eyebrow. "You doubt me?"
"I doubt that fear alone can hold them together forever," Arkos said. "You gave them a purpose today, but purpose is fragile. It can shatter the moment something bigger comes along."
"Then I will give them something bigger to believe in," Zhan said.
Arkos turned to him, his gaze steady. "And what about you, Zhan? Do you believe in anything besides power?"
Zhan's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Belief is for those who lack control, Arkos. I don't need to believe. I make others believe."
Arkos didn't respond. He simply shook his head and walked away, leaving Zhan alone with the amplifiers.
That night, the whispers returned, stronger than ever. Zhan sat beside the amplifiers, his fingers brushing their glowing surfaces. The hum of Essence vibrated through his bones, and the words came clearer now, sharper.
"The sands remember. The shards call. The Architect watches."
Zhan closed his eyes, letting the whispers wash over him. A faint smile curled at his lips.
"Let it watch," he murmured. "I will show it what the sands can truly become."