Beneath the Sun

Desert's Dawn/Chapter 1 The Lonely Hunter

Desert's Dawn

The desert is an unforgiving place. It stretches out like an endless graveyard, its sands shifting with each breath of the wind, hiding secrets that are best left undisturbed. In Ashurah, the land bakes under a sun that has no mercy, and the sky is a bleached, hollow vault that seems to offer no hope, only the promise of another day of relentless heat.

Long ago, in an age forgotten by all but the oldest of tales, the seraphs whispered to a man named Joash. He was a man without origin, a shadow given flesh, who united the warring tribes of the desert and laid the foundation of a kingdom. They say the seraphs gave him visions—images of a kingdom bathed in light, where peace was more than a fleeting dream. But peace in Ashurah is like a mirage, always just out of reach.

That was the Era of Seraph's Light, a time when the sands were kind, and the people believed in the Covenant of Unity. But light has a way of casting shadows, and as the years crept on, those shadows grew longer, darker.
The Golden Era followed, ruled by Thaddeus, the Mage King. He unearthed ancient texts, the Sefer Ætheris, and with them, unlocked the secrets of magic long buried in the desert's heart. But power is a dangerous thing, and as Thaddeus delved deeper into the mysteries of the seraphs, he sowed the seeds of his own undoing. The Mage Wars tore through Ashurah like a storm of sand and blood, leaving behind scars that never truly healed.

Then came the twilight—an era where the light dimmed and the prophecies of the Oracle's of Dawn began to take shape. The Aalaka'i, once a proud and mystical people, saw their fate carved into the stones of their ruined cities. And as the last embers of the Golden Era flickered out, the Era of Blood & Ash dawned with fire and fury.

King Daeron II's reign was one of desperation and fear. In his quest to secure his throne, he made a pact that should never have been made—a ritual that summoned something beyond mortal control. The Great Cataclysm was its price, a disaster that split the earth and scattered the Aalaka'i to the winds. Magic was banned, its practitioners hunted like beasts, and Ashurah, once a beacon of light, became a land of darkness and silence.

The sun still rose, day after day, as it always had, but the light it cast was no longer warm. It was the harsh, punishing light of a kingdom in decline. The Sunborn, a faction that whispered of peace and unity, took control, but their promises rang hollow in the ears of a people who had seen too much.

The Era of Silent Winds, they called it—a time when the voices of dissent were silenced, and the desert seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm that was sure to come.
And it came with Queen Cyarra, the Queen of Red Sands, whose reign was a nightmare made flesh. Her hunters swept through the land, and the blood of the innocent stained the sand. Her son, Samael, followed in her footsteps, a tyrant with no mercy, until the sands finally claimed him too.

Now, in this land of endless sun and shifting sands, a new story begins. Jair, a man shaped by the desert's cruelty, walks a path of vengeance and survival. The shadows of the past cling to him, whispering of secrets long buried. In Ashurah, the past is never truly gone. It lingers, waiting to be unearthed, waiting for someone to dig too deep.
Beneath the sun, the kingdom trembles on the brink of something new, something dark. And the desert, as it always does, watches and waits.

Chapter 1
The Lonely Hunter
12 Barren Days, the Year of Red Dunes (1270 S.C.)

The desert was vast, endless, stretching out beneath a sky bleached white by the unforgiving sun. Mirages wavered over the rolling dunes, creating illusions of water where there was none. The sand, fine as dust, clung to everything, infiltrating even the smallest crevices. A solitary figure moved through this wasteland, a ghost in the midday sun.

Jair strode forward, each step deliberate and confident, despite the shifting sands beneath him. His silhouette, stark against the brilliant light, cut a lonely path through the heart of the desert. The sun's glare reflected off his bronzed skin, a testament to years spent under its fierce rays. His eyes, intense and brooding, scanned the horizon, always searching, never resting. He wore a long, weathered cloak that billowed around his legs with each step, its tattered edges whispering tales of countless battles fought and won. A loosely draped shawl covered his shoulders, shielding him from the relentless desert sun. Beneath it, his body was lean but strong, each muscle honed by the harsh demands of his life. His left arm, wrapped in heavy bandages, concealed the Varis Tech prosthetic that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow. This arm was his secret, his edge, a tool of both destruction and salvation.

His stern, weathered face exuded unwavering resolve, with lines etched deep into his skin that spoke to a life lived on the edge. A deep, diagonal scar, like a chasm of untold stories, ran across his cheek, a permanent reminder of a past filled with violence and pain. His hair, a mass of loose, dark, woolly curls, hung over his face like a protective shroud, adding to the enigmatic intensity of his gaze. Jair, the bounty hunter, had arrived.

The journey felt endless, but he welcomed the solitude. The harsh winds of spring, the season where the desert's breath howls across the land, marked the end of the cooler, darker days. The winds, though relentless, had started to fade, signaling the approach of summer's Barren Days, the season of searing heat and relentless light. In the silence, his thoughts were loud, echoing against the vastness of the desert. Each step was a rhythm, a beat that drove him forward. Every grain of sand underfoot was a reminder of his mission, a mission that consumed his every waking thought and haunted his dreams.

Revenge was his compass, though his sister's haunting image often pulled him back to pain. The desert stretched on, vast and indifferent, but it was the silence inside Jair that stung the most. Rook's face flashed in his mind—wide, terrified eyes, a desperate plea for life that he hadn't been able to save. The kid had been a reflection of everything Jair had once been, but now he was gone, swallowed by the same darkness that had taken his sister. Jair's chest tightened, but he kept moving, knowing there was no saving anyone anymore. Only vengeance. He took a deep breath and refocused on the path ahead. Not now. He couldn't afford to be distracted by the past, not when the future demanded his focus.

His mind wandered to the countless dead ends he had followed, each one leading him further into the depths of despair. Every target, every whisper of a clue brought him further from the elusive figure known only as Father. A shadowy figure, always one step ahead, always slipping through his grasp. "Step by step walk the thousand-mile road." his old mentor had said. "The path may be grim, but it leads to the light."

Those words were a distant comfort now, a faint echo in the vast emptiness of his journey.
As he trudged through the shifting sands, memories of his past traumas surfaced unbidden. The brutal training, the endless nights spent honing his skills, the harsh lessons taught by his mentor. "Today is victory over yourself of yesterday" the old man would say, "but tomorrow is your victory over lesser men." Jair had lived by those words, embracing the pain, forging himself into a weapon.

His mentor had been a hard man, but fair. A guiding light in the blackest times. "The only reason a warrior is alive is to fight," he'd said on Jair's last day of training. "and the only reason a warrior fights is to win." Jair had nodded, the weight of those words settling deep within him. They had become a mantra, a shield against the creeping despair that threatened to consume him.

Each bounty he collected was another step towards his goal, another piece of the puzzle. He had learned to read the signs, to follow the whispers of the wind. The desert was a harsh mistress, but it held no secrets from him. Every grain of sand, every twisted root told a story, and Jair had become adept at deciphering their tales.

But the search for Father was different. It was more than just a hunt; it was a quest for justice, for vengeance. The man was a ghost, a phantom that eluded him at every turn. Jair's resolve hardened with each failure, each dead end only strengthening his determination. He would find him, and when he did, he would make him pay for every drop of blood spilled, for every life ruined.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Jair noticed the hazy silhouette of a village ahead. It was the first hint of civilization in days, a beacon in the endless sea of sand. He quickened his pace, driven by the promise of rest and the hope of new leads.