Morning was nothing but a pale gray glow behind the dunes.
The wind carried dry sand, scratching the already cracked skin of the captives.
They stood.
Not by choice.
Not by will.
Because staying on the ground meant death.
A guard, a shapeless figure beneath filthy rags, passed through the ranks.
In his hand, a coarse sack from which he pulled chunks of hard bread.
One by one, he threw them to the slaves as one throws scraps to starving dogs.
When his turn came, he held out his hand.
The guard barely glanced at him and tossed a stale piece of bread that bounced off his chest before falling into the sand.
Slowly, he crouched down, picked up his meager prize, and clutched it to his chest.
No blessing.
No mercy.
A whip cracked through the air.
The signal.
The march resumed.
He shoved the bread into his mouth without thinking, barely chewing, swallowing like a hunted animal.
The taste of dust and mold flooded his senses, but he did not have the luxury of complaint.
Chains clattered.
The desert, still slumbering, stretched out before them: infinite, blinding.
One step.
Then another.
And another.
The sand swallowed their footprints just as it had swallowed their past.
There was no beginning, no end.
Only the march.
Only the suffering.
With every breath, his aching ribs creaked under the invisible weight of the crushing sky.
With every exhale, a little more of himself dissolved into the burning air.
The sun rose.
Merciless, omnipresent.
It made their agony a spectacle without an audience.
And in this hell of light and sand, the Void endured.
Lurking deep within him.
Silent.
Patient.
The sun was already spewing its venom over the desert when they resumed their march.
Bare feet sank into the burning sand, each step a new agony.
All around him, ragged breathing, groans of pain.
The sound of chains dragging across the ground marked the rhythm of their miserable advance.
Suddenly, a dull thud.
Then another.
And another.
Thirteen slaves fell.
Five of them collapsed at the same moment, like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Their skin blackened by the sun, their lips cracked by thirst, their eyes already lifeless.
"Mercy..." one of them whispered before slipping into unconsciousness.
The group stopped, forming a hesitant circle around the inert bodies.
Murmurs rose.
Faint at first, then louder, rumbling like a gathering storm.
"We haven't drunk since yesterday!"
"We're all going to die out here!"
"Even your horses get water, but not us!"
The nearest guard, a broad man with empty eyes, raised his whip.
He slashed the air violently — a sharp, brutal crack.
"Silence!" he roared. "March or die!"
But the slaves, driven by pain, continued to moan.
Some fell to their knees, others clung to their neighbors to keep from collapsing.
A metallic sound rang out: spurs striking against a stirrup.
Everyone froze.
A woman dismounted from her horse.
She wore light armor, made of black leather and tarnished metal plates.
Her face, dry and angular, looked carved from contempt.
Her eyes — two cold blades — swept over the slaves as if they were filth stuck to her boots.
She stepped forward, each footfall leaving a clear imprint in the sand.
The silence was so heavy that one could almost hear the heartbeat of every slave.
"You cry for a few drops of water?" she spat.
Her voice, hard and mocking, cut through the burning air.
"If you wanted to survive in this world, you should have learned magic."
A murmur rippled through the line of slaves.
Some lowered their heads.
Others clenched their fists in anger.
A young man, his skin baked by the sun, slowly straightened despite the chains.
His eyes burned with hatred.
"Learn magic?" he rasped.
"Only those blessed by the gods can... We never had that chance!"
The woman arched an eyebrow, a mocking smirk twisting her lips.
But the man did not stop.
He pointed with a trembling hand toward the horses nearby, their manes dripping with sweat.
"You water your beasts every hour... And us?! Are our lives worth less than your damned animals?!"
A shiver ran through the slaves.
No one dared speak out loud.
No one... except him.
The woman remained silent for a moment.
Then she slowly raised her hand.
A glowing circle appeared beneath the man's feet.
In the blink of an eye, a crystalline bubble of water formed around his head.
He gasped in surprise.
His arms flailed desperately.
His eyes widened in horror as the water flooded his lungs.
He fell to his knees, clawing at the invisible prison with bloodied nails.
One final spasm.
Then stillness.
The bubble burst.
His body slumped heavily into the dust.
The water pooled around him, forming a muddy puddle that slowly seeped into the sand.
The woman gazed at the slaves one by one, a cruel smile on her lips.
"Drink," she said coldly.
"Drink before the desert does."
A moment of hesitation.
Then instinct took over.
The slaves threw themselves onto the puddle.
They pushed, scratched, fought like starving beasts.
Some crawled on all fours, lapping up the warm, blood-tinged water mixed with dust.
Others screamed in frustration, unable to reach the center of the chaos.
He did not move.
His wrists bled from the pressure of the chain, pulled tight by the slaves ahead and behind him.
But he...
He was not thirsty.
He was not hungry.
He felt... strange.
As if a deep energy was humming beneath his skin.
His heart beat slower, heavier.
Each breath seemed to feed something greater within him.
He resisted the pull of the chain, but the weight of the others dragged him toward the puddle.
His feet slipped.
His body pitched forward, swallowed by the throng.
Dust burned his eyes.
Sweat glued his ragged clothes to his skin.
And yet, in the midst of this nightmare,
he felt a cold certainty awaken within him:
He was not like them.
Not anymore.
The turmoil of the slaves around the muddy puddle was now nothing but a distant murmur in his ears.
Something else had seized his attention.
A tremor, faint at first, barely perceptible beneath his bare feet.
Then a rumble.
Deep.
Low.
The ground was vibrating.
The chains jingled softly as everyone froze, seized by an ancient instinct: fear.
The sand beneath their feet began to ripple in small waves.
The guards, now alert, drew their blades.
The horses neighed nervously, pulling against their reins.
"Form up!" a guard shouted.
Five knights, clad in heavier armor, dismounted and formed a defensive line.
Their imposing presence towered over the surrounding panic.
The mage-woman remained mounted.
Her piercing gaze swept the horizon, impassive, as if she were waiting for something.
An older knight, his beard graying and his sword steady in his hand, stepped toward the slaves still huddled around the puddle.
"You too, slaves!" he bellowed.
"Get ready to run or die! Keep your eyes open and stay sharp!"
He spoke with a firm voice, but not a cruel one.
Like a veteran well-accustomed to bad surprises.
He, standing among the others, straightened.
His senses seemed to hum at a different frequency.
Under his feet, he felt…
The sand undulating.
The earth breathing.
His heart pounded faster, each beat thundering in his skull.
Something was coming.
Something colossal.
His gaze snapped to the right.
There.
Beneath three guards, nervously scanning their surroundings, the ground was shifting.
Not just trembling.
A massive shape, hidden just beneath the surface.
He barely had time to whisper:
"Look out..."
Too late.
The desert exploded.
A column of sand shot up with a deafening roar.
And from that geyser of dust and stone,
a gaping maw burst forth — enormous, lined with chitinous fangs.
In a flash, it swallowed the three unfortunate guards whole, leaving only a crimson mist suspended in the air.
The slaves screamed.
The horses reared, some throwing their riders.
The monster rose from the sand in its full horror.
A giant worm.
Its thick, scaly hide gleamed under the burning sun.
Massive muscular rings covered its monstrous body, each studded with bone-like spikes.
Its enormous maw opened and closed with a sickening wet sound, revealing multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth.
The ground quivered with every movement.
The entire desert seemed to shudder under its presence.
The mage, still atop her horse, watched.
Her face remained a mask of stone, but her eyes briefly lit with a golden glow.
"A Sand Devourer..." she murmured.
Around her, the knights spread out, lances leveled and shields raised.
The young slave felt his breath catch in his throat.
He had no weapon.
He had no magic.
And yet, he could feel his body... vibrating.
A silent force rising within him, ready to erupt.
The chain attached to his wrists yanked him backward, pulled by the others scrambling to flee in the opposite direction from the worm.
But he stayed.
Rooted.
Fascinated.
The desert had just become a battlefield.