The sun blazed high over the Summer Expanse, a punishing orb of molten gold suspended in a cloudless sky. Winds swept across the endless dunes, dragging fine grains of sand that stung like glass and shimmered like liquid fire. The heat was relentless—crushing, dry, and ancient in its wrath. Even the air smelled scorched, a blend of ash, copper, and something faintly sulfuric. It was as though the desert itself resented their presence.
Frost adjusted the hood of his light blue cloak, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. His Soulbound—a sleek, ivory-scaled drake named Solstice—snorted irritably, its claws crunching over the hot stone as they crested a dune. Beside him, Rant stomped through the sand without hesitation, his armor shimmering with a faint mist from his water affinity, an attempt to ward off the heat.
"Still think summer's the easiest region?" Frost muttered, shielding his eyes as he scanned the horizon.
Rant smirked but didn't slow. "Didn't think we'd be thrown into a volcano masquerading as a desert."
They descended into a basin where obsidian spires jutted from the ground like broken glass, and crimson steam hissed from cracks in the earth. Crystalline flame-trees grew along the ridges, their translucent branches pulsing with heat. Somewhere beneath their feet, the ground rumbled again—distant, like thunder waiting to strike.
Frost reached into his pack and retrieved a polished compass—its needle spun erratically before settling south. "We're close. The Mystic is near."
Rant grunted and drew his curved sword. "Then let's drag that petal out of whatever furnace it's hiding in and get this over with."
Suddenly, the sand beneath them surged like water. A deafening hiss shattered the silence. The ground exploded upward, and a monstrous form slithered into view—scales like molten bronze, eyes like twin suns, and a body so massive it coiled around the ridges like a living faultline.
The Summer Mystic.
Its serpent head rose high into the air, towering above them, fangs bared and dripping with lava. The creature's roar cracked the sky, sending waves of heat rolling across the basin. Its coils were ringed with glowing runes, and where its body moved, the ground smoldered black.
"Move!" Frost shouted.
Rant leapt sideways just as the Mystic crashed down where they'd stood. Frost raised his hands, forming a barrier of crystalline ice that immediately began to melt under the Mystic's gaze. His drake, Solstice, swept low and raked its claws across the Mystic's side, but the attack barely registered.
Rant surged forward, water coiling around his sword. He leapt high, driving his blade toward one of the glowing runes, but the Mystic twisted with impossible speed, knocking him aside with its tail.
The impact sent Rant tumbling across the sand, groaning. "Okay… it's angry."
"No kidding!" Frost called, conjuring spears of frost and launching them at the beast's eyes.
They struck true—but evaporated before impact, consumed by the sheer heat. The Mystic reared back and unleashed a wave of fire. Frost summoned a dome of ice around them, but the force of the flames sent him to his knees.
"We're not going to outpower it!" Frost yelled. "We need to outthink it!"
Rant rolled to his feet, blood on his lip. "Then get clever fast!"
The Mystic lunged again. Frost dove aside, but the ground fractured beneath him. Lava seeped up through the cracks. His clothes steamed, his boots scorched.
Suddenly, a shift in the wind.
Both boys paused.
A strange stillness fell across the battlefield.
From the crest of a dune, a figure emerged—slowly, silently—moving like a mirage in the heat. A man.
He was clad in a tattered brown robe, the hem stained with ash and sand. From the base of the robe, flame-like patterns curled upward in orange and gold embroidery. Around his wrists were shimmering golden cuffs, etched with ancient arcane script that glowed faintly in the sun. A tarnished pendant hung from his neck, shaped like an unbloomed flower surrounded by a ring of flames.
His face was shadowed by his hood, his posture stooped as though walking under an invisible weight.
Frost and Rant instinctively stepped back—not in fear, but awe.
The Mystic hissed, pausing mid-lunge. Its eyes fixed on the stranger. There was no attack, no sound—just stillness.
Then something impossible happened.
The Mystic—this monstrous, fire-forged guardian of the desert—shrank back. Its coils rippled as it slithered in reverse, eyes wide, tongue flicking nervously. It hissed again, this time not in rage—but in fear.
One glance from the man, one step forward... and the Mystic turned and vanished beneath the sands, burrowing deep, fleeing.
Gone.
The stranger took two more steps. Then his legs gave out. He collapsed into the scorched sand, unmoving.
Rant rushed forward, catching him before his face hit the ground. "Hey—! Hey, can you hear me?"
There was no answer. The man was alive, barely. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale despite the sun, and a strange heat radiated from him—not fiery, but ancient. It pulsed like the heartbeat of the desert itself.
Frost knelt beside them, staring at the golden cuffs. "These symbols... I've seen them before. In the sealed tomes under the Academy. Forbidden ones."
Rant adjusted the man's cloak, revealing the pendant more clearly. "Who is he? He didn't even speak. Didn't cast a spell."
Frost shook his head slowly. "No. He didn't need to."
They laid him gently in the shade of a crystal-flame tree. Frost summoned what little water they had, placing a soaked cloth on the man's forehead. The pendant shimmered in the light—blood red at the center, like a flame frozen in glass.
"Something scared that Mystic away," Rant said quietly. "And it wasn't us."
They sat in silence.
Above them, the sun finally began to dip. The air cooled slightly, casting long shadows over the expanse. Frost stood and walked to the ridge. From here, he could see the desert stretching endlessly—lonely, vast, and full of secrets.
"We have to bring him with us," Frost said finally.
Rant didn't argue.
They constructed a drag-sled using their supplies and gently placed the man onto it. As they began the long journey back toward the others, Frost cast one last look over his shoulder.
Where the Mystic had vanished, the sand still glowed—marked by a massive spiral symbol burned into the earth, faintly pulsing with the same runes on the man's cuffs.
As the wind howled across the dune, the spiral began to shift—twisting, blooming.
Almost like something was waking.