Blood on the Sand

The desert had no mercy.

Michael’s boots sank into scorched red dunes as the sun blazed like an angry god above. The wind carried whispers — ancient, dead, and half-mad.

He tightened the wrap around his face.

“How long till we find this place?” Elisa asked behind him, her voice raspy from the heat.

“According to the map from the pendant,” he said, pulling the flaming projection from the crystal again, “it should be beneath the sands. A buried temple. The last known Dracari haven.”

Elisa stared out at the horizon.

“Looks like it’s been forgotten for a reason.”

---

That night, they camped by a jagged stone outcrop. Michael tended the fire. Elisa cleaned her gauntlets in silence.

“We’re being followed,” she said quietly.

Michael didn’t look up. “I know.”

They’d noticed it since they left Arderyn — figures in the distance, shadows that moved without sound. But tonight, it felt closer.

---

Michael slept — and dreamed.

He stood on a battlefield of glass. Dragons wept blood from the sky. A boy — himself — screamed as the two blades fought each other, not enemies, but each other.

And at the center of the chaos stood a throne made of ash.

Upon it: a man cloaked in molten gold, his face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask.

> “Ignis et glacies… tandem rediistis.”

(Fire and Ice… you have finally returned.)

Michael gasped. “Who are you?!”

> “I am the last king of the flame… the Scorch King. And I remember you.”

The dream collapsed into black.

---

The next day, Michael and Elisa found it.

Half-buried in sand, its jagged spires poked through the dunes like teeth. The doors were sealed shut — until Michael laid his palm on the glyph etched across the stone.

Fire. Ice. Click.

The doors groaned open.

Inside, the walls glowed with faded glyphs and murals of dragon-bonded warriors. Piles of armor. Weapons rusted in frozen time.

And at the center, a circular platform of obsidian — etched with the Dracari emblem.

“Something’s wrong,” Elisa said, stepping slowly. “It’s too quiet.”

She was right.

---

The sand behind them exploded.

Black-armored figures erupted from the ground — the Ashborn, flame-corrupted soldiers born of the Scorch King’s will. Their skin cracked like lava, eyes burning white.

“Elisa! Move!”

Michael drew both blades in a flash. The temperature dropped and flared simultaneously.

Elisa spun, punching a soldier straight into the wall. The pendant on her neck blazed, sending shockwaves across the temple.

But there were too many.

“We’re surrounded!” she shouted.

Michael slammed the fire blade into the ground — a ring of flame shot outward, giving them space.

One soldier grabbed Michael’s arm — and hissed a single word:

> “Redi…”

(Return.)

Michael froze. That voice… it sounded like his mother.

He stumbled.

Another soldier leapt for him — until a blast of white lightning split the room.