The Raven: Prince of Iron and Blood.

Numeris Devyniolika

Arid wind stretched The Reach, where the sun bore down mercilessly and the sands whirled with treacherous winds, the warriors donned Kharu and headscarves called Maraq.

Vakarė turned to his men, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and the dust choking his throat. "Hold the line! " The soldiers obeyed instinctively, their armoured shoulders squared as they braced against the unseen tide. The sound of hooves sank into the scorching sand, and the desert swallowed the sound like a thief in the night.

Rya brushed back the scarf and winced at the vastness before him. The desert was endless, its golden dunes shifting with the winds, akin to the flowing mane of a colossal beast. Eons ago, titanic creatures roamed these arid plains, but their colossal forms have long succumbed to the embrace of time, leaving behind a haunting landscape etched with their remnants.

The only company for the weary travellers were the crumbling statues of ancient oracles, their once-mighty forms now reduced to hollow eyes gazing into the void, serving as silent sentinels and grim warnings of the fate that awaited the unwary. The Reach was said to be forged from the bones of ancient giants, the cracked earth resembling the scales of a long-dead beast, each fissure whispering the tales of forgotten sorrows and lost souls.

The Zephyrians' message in return had commanded the army to meet with them five miles from the oracle markers. Rya and his commanders had purchased desert horses, supplies for the overland journey for four thousand men, and a map. The last garrison they had passed was twenty leagues behind.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, a speck that grew larger with every agonizingly slow heartbeat.

"MY PRINCE! RIDER!"

A horse, its rider cloaked and indistinct, approached her from the south. Rya squinted, his eyes struggling to make out any details through the shimmering heat. Was it a mirage, a cruel trick played by the desert's capricious spirits? Or could it be real? The figure grew closer, and he could now see the horse's powerful strides, the plume of dust trailing behind it. It was no illusion.

"Raise the banner."

A lieutenant bore a pole over his lap and now raised it high in the powerful wind. A white pennant – a sign of peace and parley.

The horse snorted as it neared, its hooves sinking into the soft sand. The rider's hood fell back, revealing a face as weathered as the desert itself. His eyes, a piercing blue, locked onto hers. He offered no greeting, only a curt nod that seemed to convey a silent message: Trust, but be wary. The man's skin was tanned and leathery, a testament to his life spent under the merciless sun.

Rya could see the heavy stamp of Faryn's influence. Whereas the traditional nomadic wore flowing robes crafted from finely woven fabrics that protect them from the relentless sun during the day and the biting cold of the desert night, it was dyed in sun-faded reds, deep blues, and vibrant earth tones from the city. These were cinched at the waist with wide, elaborately braided leather belts set with shimmering, inlaid gemstones—remnants of city wealth that gleam like buried treasure among the tan sands. Atop their heads, embroidered headscarves were wrapped around their foreheads and cascaded down their backs, shielding their necks and faces.

They called the Zephyrians a tainted race, as they refused to mix with Gentiles. The people of Faryn, and came under no King.

"We've been expecting you." The rider dismounted, the sand hissing as his boots touched the ground. His gaze never left Rya's. "You are to come with me," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "We have much to discuss. Leave your men. Only two men."

His thoughts racing, Rya swallowed hard. He had no choice but to follow. The horse's eyes, dark and wise, seemed to bore into his soul, offering no judgment, only understanding. He took a pause and a breath. "Vakarė, return with the men to the garrison if we're not back by sunset. Jokubas and Darus, stay with me."