The West End Island Desert was where the known world ended—or so the rest of the world liked to believe.
It was the most famous stretch of sand in the west, the last marked land before the maps blurred into fables. As part of the Three-Island Continent, it remained one of the harshest and most deserted places in existence. Human settlements clung only to its edges, and along the river that ran through the desert.
And now, a boy of thirteen and his group of seven men were the only living souls for a hundred-mile radius in any direction.
Arin walked at the center of the line, behind the one leading them. His robes, once regal in texture and design, had been bought for a high price at a caravanserai near the desert's edge. Woven from the silk of sundrinker beetles—known for their heat-reflecting sheen—they had once shimmered faintly under starlight. Now, the fabric was dulled, tattered at the hem, and coated in dust. The desert had stripped it of all value.
His mouth was covered by cloth, the same color as the sand. His eyes were set forward, steady and silent.
Ahead of him walked Leran, the tracker. In his hand was a dark compass of obsidian, ringed in bronze. No needle marked its center. Instead, a single strand of scorpion hair floated within its fluid chamber—twitching, bending, always pointing forward. Three weeks ago, they'd carved that hair from the body of a scorpion the size of a man, its shell hard as armor, its venom sizzling through stone.
Twelve had entered the desert. Seven remained after their fight with the scorpion. It was a Class 5 beast—rare in populated regions, but not in the wild.
Behind them walked the others—silent, alert, weapons at their sides. Some had curved swords at their hips, others carried crossbows slung across their backs. Scarves wrapped tight to guard against the biting wind. They said nothing, but their silence was not resentment. It was alertness. Here, even the sand could kill.
They had crossed five borders to get here, each one harder than the last.
"Three weeks ago," Vel muttered, breaking the silence as they crested a hill of rust-colored sand, "we were walking through the flowering ravines of the Yakhaan Plateaus. I feel like my throat is too dry."
"No trees," Leran said, glancing behind. "No birds. No bones. No sound."
"This isn't a desert," Vel muttered. "Boss, how much farther?"
"Maybe three or four more days," Leran replied.
They started journey after their small talk.
The sand ahead shimmered. Just for a moment, Arin saw something glinting far off—green. Water. An oasis. Then it blinked out like a mirage swallowed by heat.
He didn't speak of it.
The compass twitched harder in Leran's hand.
It hadn't been a lucky guess.
They had studied this instrument for over a year.
In the sacred vaults of Antiraaj and the old temples of the northern highlands, Arin and his companions had found ancient texts. Some fragmentary, some forbidden. From them they learned: magical beasts native to the West End Desert had an organ that let them sense what humans could not—energy, pull, whatever slept beneath the sand.
They had discovered a way to use it.
The hair of the beast—if stabilized in fluid—could point. Not north, not to a star, but to what called these magical beasts in the first place. The Healing Crysil.
They didn't know exactly what waited ahead.
Only that it had started to change the land over millennia.
---
City of Sanchora
Far across the sea, the sky turned softer, paler. The Island of Ajwa was a world apart—its highlands green, its rivers cold, its cities alive with trade. And on its eastern cliffs, nestled against the pearl-bright sea, was the city of Sanchora.
Sanchora—the crown of the largest island in the Three-Island Continent. Capital city of the Kingdom of Wajra ajwa.
Inside a marble villa, filtered light fell through sheer curtains onto a black stone floor. A man stood alone at a wide table, reading a fresh report laid out beside a thin leather case.
He read it silently.
"Three weeks ago," it said, "the boy entered the West End Desert with twelve men. Fought with a desert mega scorpion. Five confirmed dead."
He didn't react.
Only said, without turning, "Continue tracking their movement. Don't let them find out."
A voice answered through the door. "Yes, my lord."
The man walked to the balcony. A desert eagle sat on a tall perch of ironwood.
He fixed a silver message tube to its leg, pressed a hand gently to the bird's head.
"It's time for you to go and give this letter to the lady," he said through thought.
The eagle's mind echoed back, "Do you want me to go and check the boy?"
"No," came the reply. "What you must do is check the reaction of the young mistress."
The eagle launched into the open sky through the balcony.
---
Yalkis Grassland
One side of Sanchora city is dense forest, and the other side is a grassland commonly known as the Yalkis.
Across the hills of Ajwa, the wind moved quietly.
Yaks grazed on long ridges of grass, their great coats brushing against the breeze. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of wild herbs. Peaceful.
For a moment, a blur streaked across the sky.
The animals looked up, but only for a second.
The eagle flew on—silent, fast, nearly invisible. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken.
It had a message to deliver.
After nearly two hours of flight, flashing past galloping horses and grazing herds, the eagle noticed a group of yaks in a distant meadow. But then came a weight—a pressure in the air. Not physical, but magical. The presence of a High Magician. And a Royal Beast. Wherever a Royal Magical Beast stood, the young mistress was never far.
The eagle slowed, gliding lower. It would be disrespectful—and dangerous—to continue without permission.
With a ripple in space, an old man stepped into view, carrying a gnarled silver staff. His presence radiated quiet command. He was Ramban, the protector of the royal child Nireya.
Under the shade of a lone tree, an eleven-year-old girl laughed as she played with a baby yak in the grass. The calf was white, with patches of gold glowing faintly in its fur—sign of a royal bond.
The eagle's instincts screamed. He was already inside Ramban's mana field.
"I will kill you next time," Ramban said calmly, "if you enter the princess's privacy without respect."
The eagle flapped nervously, beak parting in rapid squeaks. "Yes, yes! I will not forget!"
"Why did your master send you here?"
"Protector Ramban, sir sent me to deliver a message about Sir Arin. Here—" The eagle motioned with its leg, where the message tube glinted.
"So. Arin is in Sanchora this early," Ramban said, brows furrowing. "You may go back."
"Thank you, sir!" the eagle chirped, then shot off into the sky, free once more.
Ramban walked slowly to where Nireya lay in the grass—but found her asleep, nestled beside the golden-marked yak calf.
He gave a small bow to her, then raised one hand in a silent mudra. The girl's body lifted gently into the air, cradled by threads of light. She floated toward a waiting sedan carriage at the edge of the field.
They started their journey to the palace.