Darkness was a living thing within the cage—heavy, stifling, unrelenting. The faintest slivers of moonlight filtered through narrow gaps in the iron bars, thin beams illuminating swirling motes of dust and sand disturbed by the wagon’s rattling motion. The cage itself was cramped, barely large enough for Kinto to sit upright, let alone stretch his limbs. The rough iron floor pressed cold and unforgiving against his fur, while each jolt of the wagon sent fresh jolts of pain through his bound wrists and ankles.

Kinto exhaled slowly through his nose, conserving energy. The poison was fading now, its numbing grip finally retreating. Tentatively, he tested the muscles of his fingers, feeling the slight, sluggish movement return. It wasn’t enough—not yet—but it was progress. He would need every scrap of his strength if he hoped to survive what lay ahead.

Outside, muffled voices rose above the creak of wooden wheels and the rhythmic hoofbeats of scaled desert mounts. Kinto pressed one ear toward a gap between the bars, straining to catch words spoken in low Sserashk tones. The wagon’s thick canvas covering muted their voices, making him fight for every word. He focused carefully, catching brief fragments between the clattering of wheels over stone and sand.

"...We'll reach Onoshu by morning," said a male voice, low and gruff, speaking in Sserashk. Kinto didn't recognize him; likely one of Yara’s companions. "Assuming the winds hold."

"They'll hold," came Yara's familiar voice, sharp with authority but tempered by subtle fatigue. "They have no choice. The Empress expects the Sylvarin in her grasp before the sun's crest."

A hesitant silence followed, filled only by the soft creak of wheels rolling over packed sand and the faint rustle of wind against the canvas.

The male voice returned, cautious and curious. "Forgive my doubt, General, but is he truly as dangerous as you say? He seems... docile."

There was a pause, then a soft exhale, quiet and unreadable. Yara’s response came steady, but with a subtle edge beneath the calm. "Not every threat is measured in steel or claw. You've been with the Eshikhaa long enough to understand that. His danger lies in what he may already know and what he could reveal."

The conversation fell quiet as the wagon jolted over a deep rut, causing Kinto’s head to smack painfully against the iron bars behind him. He suppressed a groan, focusing instead on what Yara had said. The Eshikhaa: Izana’s chosen few, her "Claws of the Sand". He had heard only stories about them before; shadowed figures feared even among the Saryxian Empire’s elite. He hadn’t imagined he would ever come face to face with them, let alone find himself the target of their blades.

Another voice spoke softly, hesitant. A younger woman. "General, I still don't understand why capturing this Sylvarin required the Eshikhaa. It feels excessive."

Yara's response came slower this time, careful and measured. "Because when the Empress sees a threat, she doesn't risk half-measures. Whatever knowledge he possesses is significant enough that she trusts no one else to contain it."

There was a pause, the heavy air punctuated only by the rhythmic creaking of the wagon wheels.

The younger woman ventured again, quieter now. "It's just that... the urgency feels familiar. Like when she called on us before. At Shakiir."

Yara's voice dropped, instantly firm, edged with quiet warning. "Irisa."

Irisa continued cautiously, her tone wavering between courage and fear. "It's just us here, General. We know the truth. It wasn't her power alone. Without the Eshikhaa to channel through—"

"Enough," Yara interjected sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That day is sealed. Even among us. Whatever role we played is for the Empress alone to disclose."

Kinto’s heart tightened sharply in his chest. Shakiir. He recognized the name instantly—the desert city said to have been swallowed whole by the sands, a chilling display of the Empress’s power exercised all the way from her throne room on Onoshu. A city now nothing more than whispers among the dunes. He’d always suspected there was more to the story, hidden beneath layers of Imperial propaganda, but now, hearing their words, his suspicion solidified into certainty.

The gruff male voice cut into the lingering silence, changing the topic carefully, voice lowered. "General, the Solerians we dealt with... they looked familiar. Particularly the older one. Do we know him?"

There was a pause, brief but telling. "You likely recognize Commander Drenzar," Yara answered coolly, but her voice carried a faint, grudging respect. "Once among the Empire's most decorated leaders."

The man inhaled sharply, recognition clear in his reaction. "Commander Drenzar? The Vorrik Drenzar? The one from the Siege of Ikaraan?"

"The same," Yara said flatly. "He retired cycles ago, resigned from his post abruptly. I wasn’t given the reason. Only that it displeased the Empress, and few things displease her without consequence. I always suspected it had weight behind it."

Another short silence, thoughtful and uncertain, before the male spoke again. "And the other one? The younger, loud one?"

Yara hesitated slightly, clearly weighing how much to share. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight, clipped with restrained disdain. "Kethar. He was once being groomed for the Eshikhaa itself, cycles ago."

Irisa’s voice rose slightly, surprised. "Truly?"

"Yes," Yara responded flatly. "He was skilled, dangerously so, but reckless. Had the instincts, the power, but none of the control. In the end, he chose betrayal. Slit his own commander’s throat, fled into the desert, and disappeared. He's been a fugitive ever since, albeit with less urgency to capture than the Sylvarin."

Irisa’s tone softened again, troubled. "He must have had his reasons. No soldier turns traitor without cause—"

"He had reasons," Yara said curtly, cutting off Irisa’s speculation. Her voice held a subtle edge, frustration mingled with a quiet, buried bitterness. "But reasons don't erase betrayal. Loyalty is simple: either you have it or you don't. Kethar chose his path. He lives with those consequences now... or rather, he did."

Yara’s final words fell with a weight that lingered, closing the conversation with a tone of finality that none of the others seemed willing to challenge. The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable, not the kind born of peace, but of restraint, like soldiers holding their breath after a superior’s reprimand. No one dared fill the space she’d left behind.

Kinto remained motionless, his ears angled subtly toward the conversation. He could feel their attention hanging in the air, just enough of it still circling him, probing, evaluating, wondering if he'd heard too much or understood more than he should.

It was not the moment to act. Not yet.

So he waited.

Eventually, mercifully, Irisa spoke again, her voice softer now, tinged with a forced lightness that felt out of place. She muttered something about supplies running low, about the merchant caravans along the eastern trade road—mundane worries, common logistics, the language of routine. Another soldier chimed in, complaining about stale rations, the heat, the discomfort of long travel. The weight in the air eased, conversation sliding back toward the shallow and familiar.

Kinto’s ears twitched, ever so slightly. The tension in his shoulders began to uncoil.

This was what he had been waiting for—not silence, but forgetfulness. The moment their thoughts wandered, lulled into the rhythm of the road and the dull monotony of duty.

Now, they were no longer monitoring him.

Slowly, Kinto's fingers curled tighter inside the mitts, feeling for the tear he’d deliberately made during his fall. The thin slit in the leather gave just enough room to move, a subtle breach the soldiers had failed to notice in their haste.

Drawing a careful breath, Kinto focused inward, steadying himself despite the jarring movements of the cart. His fingers traced silent patterns, testing the sigils, muscle memory guiding the delicate motions required for the spell he intended.

He paused briefly, cautious eyes flickering towards the soldiers around him, outside the wagon. None had noticed yet; their attention was on the horizon ahead, on the city of Onoshu that waited to claim him.

Slowly, carefully, he completed the sigil. A familiar hum of energy tickled the tips of his fingers—a spark igniting deep within his chest. He reached out silently through that invisible thread of magic, feeling the familiar presence of his tome, the Archive, waiting in the sands behind him, concealed with Kethar and Vorrik beneath their sandy tomb.

The book responded instantly, its essence drawn inexorably toward him.

Pages fluttered softly in the darkness, settling quietly into his waiting mitted hand, the leather-bound edges familiar and comforting. Kinto’s heart quickened slightly; he still had a chance, slim as it was, fragile as a candle's flame in the desert wind.

Without hesitation, he opened the book just enough, eyes swiftly scanning pages he had long since memorized. He turned instinctively to an inscription he’d prepared weeks ago: a teleportation spell, waiting silently for the activation gesture he now performed with practiced precision.

Outside, oblivious soldiers continued their quiet discussions, the cart creaking onward toward the heart of the Empire’s dominion.

But Kinto was no longer listening.

His focus narrowed, magic threading through his fingertips, his breath steadying as he completed the final motion. The sigil beneath him flared briefly, a ripple of energy shimmering invisibly beneath his feet.

One heartbeat.

Then the cage was suddenly empty, iron bars rattling gently with the sudden absence of their prisoner. The soldiers continued unaware, lost in their thoughts, confident in their victory as they marched steadily toward Onoshu—completely oblivious to the sudden silence within the iron cage they were escorting.

The desert’s stillness was shattered by a sudden rush of displaced air, followed by the muted crackle of displaced sand. Kinto stumbled forward, knees nearly buckling beneath him as he materialized atop the shifting dunes, a ripple of nausea rising and fading swiftly. His chest heaved in slow, controlled breaths as he steadied himself, blinking rapidly against the gritty sting of blowing sand and disorientation. Beneath him, the fluttering edges of a single page protruded from the sands, marked faintly by the runes of his own magic. 

Night enveloped the world around him, vast and moonlit. The soft silver and violet light draped gently across the dunes, casting the land in a delicate interplay of shadow and brilliance. The air felt mercifully cool against his fur. For a moment, Kinto allowed himself the indulgence of relief—a fleeting sense of liberation after the claustrophobic darkness and iron confines of the cage he was in seconds ago. But it was only a heartbeat before reality sank back in.

He turned his gaze toward the rocky outcroppings and uneven sand where the checkpoint had stood, now eerily deserted. A faint breeze stirred, rustling the canvas tents and cloth barriers that had been hastily erected by Yara’s soldiers. It appeared the Eshikhaa had left quickly after their capture of Kinto, confident enough to abandon their makeshift post to the sands. He exhaled through his nose softly in relief; at least he wouldn’t have to deal with sentries lingering behind.

For the first time since being taken captive, Kinto truly felt alone. The sudden solitude was profound, pressing in from every direction like a tangible weight. But solitude was a welcome change: an opportunity. Gathering what remained of his dwindling energy, he shifted awkwardly, testing his limbs and the tight bonds that still bit painfully into his wrists and ankles. The restrictive mitts still encased his hands, rendering them almost useless, save for the one subtle, deliberate tear he'd managed to create in the chaos.

With painstaking care, he maneuvered his mitted hand toward his tome, the Archive, which lay gently atop the cool sands before him. Even through the stiff leather mitt, he could feel its presence, not just the weight of it, but the quiet pull beneath the surface, like a string drawn taut between them. The book responded to his nearness, as it always did, its leather-bound cover warm with the faint echo of their bond. Struggling briefly, he pushed his palm awkwardly against the tome’s edge, fumbling until it tilted open, pages parting as though recognizing his intent.

He steadied his breathing, heartbeat steadying as he focused inward, envisioning clearly what he required. Slowly, ink-dark lines began crawling across the blank parchment, spreading outward from the spine like spiderwebs of liquid shadow. The script emerged delicately at first, then quickly grew bold and decisive, forming precise, intricate sigils that shimmered faintly in the moonlight.

Kinto’s eyes narrowed, scanning the page quickly, verifying the inscription. Satisfied, he positioned his hand carefully, curling two fingers beneath the restrictive leather, and extended them through the small slit he'd carefully torn. The sensation of air against the fur of his fingertips was exhilarating, a powerful reminder of hope. He began the intricate hand-sigils, muscles protesting, trembling slightly from disuse, but still precise, still controlled.

A ripple of energy pulsed from the book beneath his hand, a soft, comforting vibration spreading outward. As he finished the final gesture, the page itself shuddered, suddenly tearing itself free of the tome with a sound like crisp linen being ripped apart. Then, before his eyes, it shredded itself further into narrow, razor-sharp strips, edges glowing a faint blue with magic. Each fragment hovered momentarily, quivering with tension, awaiting command.

Kinto shifted his fingers only slightly.

The strips darted downward in rapid succession, moving with surgical precision. They struck the leather bindings around his wrists and ankles, slicing effortlessly through the thick straps with barely audible whispers of tearing. At the same time, other fragments morphed mid-air, folding and twisting, until they shaped themselves into delicate, key-like constructs formed from stiff parchment. These constructs inserted themselves into the tiny, rusted locks of the steel cuffs.

There was a series of clicks.

One by one, the cuffs released, dropping with heavy clinks to the sand underneath him. Pain flickered briefly as the restraints fell away, his wrists stinging as fresh air caressed raw, bruised skin beneath the bindings. His hands finally free, he reached up to pull out the gag that remained secure in his muzzle and let out a shaking exhale, savoring the rush of relief and freedom.

But relief was fleeting. With stiff, uncooperative fingers, he flipped quickly through the tome once more, eyes searching pages that appeared blank until his mind conjured forth precisely what he needed. Another page filled swiftly with intricate glyphs, symbols dancing fluidly before settling into the perfect alignment. Another careful gesture of his hand, fingertips tracing invisible patterns in the air, activated the spell.

Immediately, another page tore itself from the tome and levitated itself above Kinto's head. A slender tear appeared in the parchment, opening wider into a small, shimmering portal, through which a gentle stream of crystal-clear water began to flow steadily. The magical stream hovered above him, suspended in mid-air by unseen forces, its presence a gentle miracle amidst the barren wasteland.

Kinto tilted his head upward gratefully, parting his parched lips. Cool water cascaded slowly down, trickling over his muzzle, soaking into his fur, and filling his mouth with refreshing sweetness. He drank eagerly, letting the water flow generously down his throat, washing away the stale taste of captivity and the bitter tang of poison that had lingered too long. Strength slowly seeped back into his limbs, clarity sharpening his weary thoughts.

Finally, refreshed and focused, Kinto forced himself upright, muscles protesting sharply. He staggered slightly, knees trembling, but he refused to collapse. The desert stretched endlessly around him, a sea of sand and stars beneath the watchful gaze of the twin moons. Somewhere beneath those indifferent sands lay the ones he sought—the ones he couldn't abandon, despite every reason he'd been given to do exactly that.

Steeling himself, Kinto flipped through his tome once more, his mind racing, seeking the correct inscription. The Archive responded eagerly, pages fluttering to settle again into delicate script. He traced the required sigil swiftly, knowing urgency now mattered above all else.

Several pages tore free, folding themselves mid-air into razor-edged spades, tools forged from parchment and magic. At a gesture, they plunged downward, slicing neatly into the sand with steady precision. Each spade worked tirelessly, tirelessly shifting grains aside, cutting deeper with rhythmic, purposeful motions.

Sweat beaded along Kinto’s brow despite the cool night air. His breath quickened slightly, anxiety coiling within his chest as precious minutes slipped by. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the faint, subtle connection to the lifelines he had given Vorrik and Kethar while they were being buried; a single, enchanted page laid carefully across each of their faces, a thin shield of magic keeping their airways open beneath the crushing weight of sand.

The parchment tools struck something solid. The sudden resistance sent a jolt of adrenaline through Kinto, his eyes snapping open as he hurried forward, stumbling over shifting sands toward the shallow depression created by the digging spell.

He dropped to his knees, reaching desperately into the exposed sand. His fingers brushed the rough texture of scales first, cold and unmoving beneath his touch. Heart hammering, he clawed frantically, pushing aside handfuls of sand until he exposed Kethar's face, the parchment still clinging stubbornly, preserving a shallow breath.

Kethar's scales were dulled with sand, blood crusted around torn claws, injuries sustained during his frantic attempts to escape. One arm lay twisted awkwardly, clearly dislocated at the shoulder. Kinto’s heart tightened painfully at the sight, guilt and sympathy momentarily overwhelming. He carefully peeled the parchment away, placing two shaking fingers against Kethar’s throat, waiting, praying silently.

There—a pulse. Weak, fluttering, but undeniably present.

Relief surged through Kinto, fierce and fleeting. He allowed himself only a single breath before turning sharply toward the shifting sands several yards away, where the enchanted spades continued digging deeper, pushing harder, desperate in their urgency.

Kinto stumbled toward the second excavation, sand shifting treacherously beneath his unsteady feet. His heart pounded relentlessly within his chest, a wild rhythm of fear and hope intertwined. Vorrik had been buried deeper—far deeper—and with each second that passed, Kinto's dread deepened, gnawing at the edges of his determination.

He fell heavily to his knees beside the widening pit, heedless of the sand grinding into his fur, driven solely by urgency. His fingers dug desperately, joining the enchanted parchment spades, frantically shifting handfuls of coarse grains aside. The desert resisted, collapsing inward as he scooped handful after handful away, a mocking persistence in its endless weight. Panic spiked sharply, and Kinto snarled softly in frustration, his movements growing more desperate.

Then his fingers brushed something hard and cold: a scaled shoulder. Kinto’s breath caught, relief surging through him, but tempered immediately by fresh fear. Vorrik lay utterly still, deeper than Kethar had been, the pressure of sand pressing dangerously upon him.

"Damn it," Kinto spat, voice tight with urgency as he dug faster, sand flying wildly around him. Gradually, he uncovered Vorrik’s face, barely recognizable beneath a heavy layer of dust and sand. The protective parchment still clung to Vorrik’s muzzle, a lifeline so thin it bordered on cruel hope. Carefully, reverently, Kinto peeled the paper away, breath held anxiously in his chest.

For a heartbeat, Vorrik didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his features frozen in grim stillness. Kinto pressed shaking fingers to Vorrik’s throat, desperation clouding his vision. At first, nothing. Then, faintly, impossibly, a single thready pulse, slow and weak, but undeniably alive.

Kinto exhaled shakily, eyes briefly squeezing shut with gratitude. “Stay with me,” he whispered hoarsely, carefully brushing sand from Vorrik’s face.

It took several exhausting minutes more before Vorrik was fully excavated. He’d suffered grievously; the sand's oppressive weight had fractured ribs, bruised scales, and left him alarmingly pale beneath his natural copper-green coloring. Blood trickled slowly from the corners of his mouth, a grim testament to internal damage Kinto could only begin to imagine.

He fought back a wave of nausea, struggling against despair. Vorrik needed immediate aid—aid beyond the rudimentary healing Kinto could offer here, amidst the endless dunes. Carefully, he adjusted Vorrik’s unconscious form, positioning him safely on his back, head gently propped to ensure a clear airway.

Turning back toward Kethar, Kinto quickly but gently moved to the Solerian's side. Kethar was in a grim state, his right shoulder badly dislocated, the arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Blood coated his claws, scales chipped and cracked from his panicked digging attempt. Small abrasions and bruises littered his body, and even unconscious, Kethar's features were set in a mask of pain and rage.

Kinto hesitated briefly before reaching out, gently gripping Kethar’s injured shoulder. With a sharp inhale and a muttered apology, he pulled firmly. A sickening pop echoed briefly in the night air as Kethar’s shoulder slid back into its socket. Kethar jerked reflexively, a low groan escaping his lips, but he didn't awaken—mercifully spared the immediate agony.

Carefully positioning Kethar alongside Vorrik, Kinto drew a steadying breath. His companions, once captors now dependent entirely upon him, lay motionless before him, battered and helpless beneath the cold desert stars. His muscles trembled from sheer exhaustion, but adrenaline and determination buoyed him, refusing to let his body collapse just yet. He retrieved the Archive once more, flipping rapidly to a spell he had memorized long ago. His body wasn't ready—this type of sigil drained essence by design, even more so when extended to multiple targets. The Archive trembled faintly in his hands, as if in warning. He ignored it.

The page materialized obediently beneath his fingers, its elegant lines shimmering faintly with restrained magic. Kinto hesitated briefly, his gaze flicking back to Vorrik and Kethar, uncertain of his own reserves of strength. But hesitation could cost lives, and he refused to falter now.

Closing his eyes momentarily, he steadied his trembling fingers. He began tracing the sigil with deliberate precision, the familiar rhythm of the hand-sigil grounding him amidst swirling anxiety and fatigue. The magic responded, humming gently beneath his fingertips, a quiet, comforting song in the vast silence of the desert night.

At his command, pages tore free from the Archive, fluttering gracefully in spirals around him, Vorrik, and Kethar. Each piece of parchment glowed softly, forming an intricate circle around them, sigils flaring briefly like stars against the darkness.

A powerful surge of energy enveloped them, wrapping them in threads of magic so thick it felt almost tangible, binding them together in shared consequence, whether they welcomed it or not. The sands beneath their feet blurred, reality shifting and bending around them.

The desert vanished in an instant, replaced by warm light and the quiet breath of life humming through polished elderwood. They emerged within Tal’amir’s receiving hall, a vast, domed atrium carved into the heart of a massive elderwood tree. Above them, bioluminescent vines traced along the arching bark walls, shedding a gentle glow over rune-etched stone and quiet book alcoves. The floor beneath them shimmered with the last traces of the teleportation circle—public, communal, and already drawing the attention of nearby scholars and caretakers. The scent of parchment, moss, and candle wax greeted Kinto like an old friend. Tal’amir.

Home.

Kinto sagged immediately to his knees, the strength finally abandoning him entirely. The Archive slipped gently from his fingers, landing softly upon polished wood floors. His vision blurred briefly, exhaustion overwhelming his senses for one terrifying moment. He forced himself to remain conscious, reaching weakly toward Vorrik and Kethar’s limp bodies, needing reassurance that they were still there, still alive.

Footsteps echoed swiftly across the hall, distant shouts rising in alarm and urgency as figures hurried toward them. Familiar voices called out his name in shock and worry, but Kinto’s attention fixed solely upon the Solerians lying motionless beside him.

His strength waned, darkness pressing insistently at the edges of his vision. But as hands grasped his shoulders gently, urgently, pulling him back toward safety and healing, a single thought resonated clearly through the encroaching darkness:

They had survived.