The Alabasta sun was a merciless tyrant on the second day, its glare bleaching the dunes into a blinding white void. Marya trudged behind Vaughn and Charlie, her throat parched, the ghost of her Mist-Mist powers writhing beneath her skin like a caged animal. Every shadow seemed to whisper accusations: You failed. You hurt them.
"—and this," Charlie wheezed, his voice cracking as he gestured to a cluster of petrified pillars jutting from the sand, "is the remnants of Alabasta's first trading outpost! Built 800 years ago, sacked by marauders, reclaimed by King Tullus IV—"
"Brother," Vaughn interrupted, squinting at the horizon. "Save the lecture. We've got company."
A low rumble vibrated through the sand. Marya's hand flew to Eternal Night's hilt as three hulking sand-stalkers burst from the dunes—hyena-like beasts with obsidian claws and translucent hides that rippled like heatwaves. Their snarls split the air, drool sizzling where it hit the sand.
"Acidic saliva!" Charlie yelped, scrambling behind a rock. "Apex predators of the pre-Calamity era! Aim for the—"
Vaughn was already moving, Light Bringer carving arcs of Haki. One beast lunged, jaws snapping, but Marya dissolved into mist, rematerializing atop its spine. Her blade plunged down—only to falter as the creature's hide shimmered, her strike glancing off.
"Focus," she hissed to herself, but the mist surged unbidden, engulfing her arm. The sand-stalker whirled, its claws raking her thigh. The pain sharpened her fear—What if I lose control again? What if I hurt them?
Uncertainty gnawed at Marya's resolve, each heartbeat echoing her doubts and past failures. She felt the weight of her mistakes pressing down like the Alabasta sun, relentless and unforgiving. Her thoughts swirled with the guilt of lost control, the phantom pain of her powers slipping and causing harm. The raw scrape of the sand-stalker's claws was nothing compared to the anguish of doubt within her.
The tension in her muscles mirrored the tension in her mind—taut, ready to snap. Every time she looked at Vaughn and Charlie, the specter of her past errors loomed large, a constant reminder of what was at stake. The burden of her Mist-Mist powers, once a source of pride, now felt like a curse she couldn't escape.
Her anxiety mixed with determination. She knew she couldn't afford another failure, not here, not now. As the sand-stalkers attacked, her body reacted out of instinct, but her mind was clouded with fear. The mist—her old ally—now seemed like a capricious force, slipping beyond her command just when she needed it most.
And yet, beneath it all, there was a glimmer of fierce resolution. The voice of Shanks, a guiding beacon amidst the storm of her emotions, sparked a flame of hope. Marya clung to that spark, channeling it with every ounce of willpower she had left. The fear, the doubt, the guilt—they were ever-present, but they fueled her, driving her to fight harder, to regain control.
As the adrenaline ebbed, the fatigue set in, and uncertainty clawed back at the edges of her consciousness. Marya's breath hitched, and she forced herself to focus on the task at hand, the next step forward. The tremor in her fingers was more than exhaustion; it was the battle between who she was and who she feared she might become.
"Marya!" Vaughn barked. "Eyes up!"
She gritted her teeth, Shanks' voice cutting through the panic: "A storm's only useful if you steer it." With a roar, she channeled Haki into her blade, Eternal Night humming as it sheared through the sand-stalker's shimmering hide. The beast collapsed, its siblings retreating with yelps.
Charlie emerged, clutching a broken compass. "Remarkable! Their camouflage mimics heat distortion—a survival trait from the Age of Droughts!"
Vaughn tossed Marya a canteen, his gaze lingering on her trembling hands. "You good?" His exterior remained calm and collected, a mask of confidence that belied the turmoil within. The weight of responsibility for the group's safety pressed heavily on his shoulders, every decision a potential tipping point between success and catastrophe. His sharp eyes scanned their surroundings constantly, vigilant for threats, but beneath the practiced ease, worry gnawed at him—worry for Marya, for her control over the mist, and for the path ahead.
The sight of Marya's trembling hands had hit him hard. He trusted her strength implicitly, yet he couldn't ignore the signs of her struggle. The fear that she might falter weighed on him, a fear he kept hidden beneath his reassuring demeanor. Vaughn knew they couldn't afford any lapses, not in this unforgiving land where danger lurked in every shadow.
She nodded, though the lie tasted bitter.
He studied her eyes, searching for a crack in her facade. For a moment, he considered pressing further, but the urgency of their mission reined him back. With a reluctant nod, he accepted her lie, though it gnawed at him. Trusting her strength was one thing; ignoring the signs of her unraveling was another.
"Alright," he said, more to himself than her. "Just stay close." He turned away, the weight of his own doubts heavy on his shoulders. For now, they had to keep moving, and hope that Marya's resolve would hold.
By dusk, they staggered into Al'Rahim—a dusty town of clay huts and bustling market stalls, its streets perfumed with spice and roasted goat. The Consortium's creed (secrecy first) meant no uniforms, no emblems. Just three travelers asking questions.
Vaughn leaned against a water vendor's cart, flashing a grin. "Heard some archaeologists came through here. Friends of ours. One's got a face only a mother could love—real serious type."
The vendor, a wizened man with a scarred cheek, snorted. "Ain't seen no scholars. But a group passed west, toward the Valley of Kings. Had a local with 'em—Revolutionary Army castoff. Kael, maybe?"
Marya stiffened. "Kael?"
"Aye. Joined up young, they say. Family got purged by Baroque Works." The man spat. "Came back after the war, quiet-like. Now he's digging up old bones. Fool's errand."
Charlie adjusted his glasses. "Why's that?"
"The sands claim what they bury," the vendor muttered, turning away. "Ask the tea seller. She feeds gossip like camels."
The tea seller, a sharp-eyed woman with henna-stained fingers, smirked at Vaughn's charm. "Kael Duneshade? Oh, he's a ghost. Fought with the Revolutionaries, they say, till his squad got ambushed. Baroque Works left him nothing but scars." She poured mint tea into clay cups. "Heard he joined some scholars last moon. Looked… hollow. Like the desert drank his soul."
Marya's mist prickled. Possession. Just like me.
"Where'd they go?" Vaughn pressed.
The woman nodded to the west, where the stars kissed the dunes. "Same as all fools chasing mirages. The Sun's Grave."
"The Sun's Grave—that's the Consortium's code name for the excavation site!" Charlie hissed, adjusting his cracked glasses as they trudged into Al'Rahim's dusty outskirts. The town sprawled before them, clay buildings huddled like ancient sentinels against the encroaching dunes. "But if Kael's with them, why didn't the team report—"
"Because he wasn't Consortium," Vaughn interrupted, scanning the labyrinthine streets for threats. "Just a local guide. They probably hired him for his knowledge of the ruins. Means whatever happened out there… he might've been the last to see them alive."
Marya said nothing. Her throat burned from the day's march, her Mist-Mist powers simmering uneasily beneath her skin. The whispers still haunted her dreams, but she shoved the memory down. Focus. Find the team.
The inn was a squat building of sunbaked clay, its sign swaying on rusted chains. Inside, the air reeked of lamb stew and pipe smoke. A grizzled bartender eyed them as Vaughn negotiated for rooms, his Consortium coin purse discreetly tucked beneath his robes.
"Two berries a night," the barkeep grunted, sliding keys across the counter. "Dinner's extra. And no trouble—we've had enough strangers lately."
Vaughn's brow creased. "Strangers?"
"Aye. Scholars like you. Came through a week back. Had a local with 'em—skinny fellow, scars on his arms. Nervous type."
Marya exchanged a glance with Vaughn.
Charlie leaned in, oblivious to subtlety. "Did they mention where they were headed? Any notes on their findings? Perhaps a—"
"They paid in berries and kept to themselves," the barkeep snapped. "Now. You want stew or not?"
They ate at a corner table, Charlie's voice a relentless hum over the clatter of spoons. "—and the Valley of Kings, of course, was the burial ground for Alabasta's earliest rulers! The tombs are said to align with constellations from the Void Century. Did you know the star patterns here shift dramatically during the dry season? It's why the ancients believed the desert itself was a living—"
"Charlie," Vaughn said flatly. "We're here to find our team. Not rewrite your thesis."
Marya poked at her stew, her mind churning. The haunting voice slithered at the edges of her thoughts. Weak. Unworthy. She clenched her fist under the table, mist curling faintly around her wrist.
A serving girl refilled their drinks, her hands trembling. "You're… with the others, aren't you? The ones who left with Kael?"
Vaughn's posture relaxed. "You saw them?"
The girl nodded. "He came back alone two nights ago. Bought supplies and vanished. Looked… wrong. Like he hadn't slept in weeks."
Marya's stomach dropped. Just like me. Marya's heart raced as she absorbed the girl's words. Who was Kael to face the horrors that she herself wrestled with? She didn't know him, but his plight mirrored her own. The relentless whispers, the creeping mist—these were fragments of her struggles, fragments now reflected in a stranger's torment.
"Do you think he's like me?" she muttered, more to herself than to her companions. Her voice wavered, caught between fear and an eerie kinship. "Possessed. Consumed by something ancient and powerful... something he cannot control."
Vaughn's eyes were steady, perhaps too steady. "We'll find out soon enough," he said, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of her thoughts.
Charlie paused his endless tirade about ancient alignments and artifacts, and his lips pursed as he looked at her. "Marya, we don't have enough information to know what we are dealing with. Whatever it is, we will handle it."
But can they? The darkness in her mind curled tighter, the mist thickening to a haze. She was not sure if she could handle another soul lost to the shadows. Not when she was so close to losing herself. As they retired, the question lingered in her mind. Was Kael's struggle a mirror of her own? If so, could she find the strength to face it? Or would she, like him, be marked as weak, unworthy?
Their room was sparse—straw beds, a cracked basin, and a window overlooking the desert. Charlie sprawled on the floor, scribbling notes by lamplight. He unrolled a map of the Valley of Kings, its edges singed. "According to legend, the Sun's Grave is a necropolis built around a 'star-fed flame.' If Kael returned alone, the team must still be at the dig site! Perhaps they've uncovered something monumental—a Poneglyph variant or even a weapon from the Void Century!"
Vaughn sharpened Light Bringer's edge; the whetstone's scrape was rhythmic. "Let's hope that's the reason we lost contact. They were just busy."
Marya stood at the window, the cold night air biting her face. The dunes glowed silver under the moon, beautiful and cruel. Marya's inner turmoil ebbed and surged like the tides. The weight of her own potential affliction pressed heavily on her psyche, mingling dread with a desperate yearning for resolve. The thought of Kael, a stranger burdened with a fate so uncannily similar to hers, gnawed at her heart. It wasn't just the fear of the unknown that tormented her, but the paralyzing possibility that her own demons mirrored those that Kael faced—demons that threatened to consume her from the inside out.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift back to a childhood memory, seeking solace in the recollection of her father. It was a rare moment of tenderness, a fleeting instance that stood out starkly against the backdrop of his imposing presence. She remembered the day he first taught her how to wield a sword, his voice steady and unwavering, filled with a calm authority and a rare hint of softness.
They stood in a secluded grove, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground. "Marya," he had said, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, "a blade is an extension of your spirit. It can bring destruction, but it also has the power to protect and to heal. Your strength lies not just in your skill, but in the control you exert over it."
His words resonated with a truth that had eluded her until now. In that moment, she saw a different side of her father—less the feared swordsman, and more a guardian imparting wisdom to his daughter. It wasn't just the sword that defined him; it was his mastery over it, his ability to remain unyielding in the face of chaos.
"Remember, fear is a weapon the darkness wields against you. Master it, and you master yourself."
"We leave at dawn," Vaughn said, snapping her from her away from her inner thoughts. "Charlie, get some sleep. Marya, take the first watch."
She nodded, her fingers brushing the edges of the kogatana at her throat. Don't let it define you. But as the others slept, the haunting voice returned, louder now. You know what he's become. You feel it. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded thing.
*****
The Alabasta desert stretched endlessly, a sea of colorless shifting mounds under a pitiless sun. Kael Duneshade stumbled through the dunes, his boots dragging furrows in the sand. The relic burned against his chest—a crescent amulet fused to his olive skin, its glyphs pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"The stars align… the oasis awakens… become my vessel…"
The voice was a serpent in his skull, relentless. Kael clutched his shaggy, honeyed head, nails digging into his temples. "Stop. Please."
But the relic answered with memories:
—His mother's laughter, cut short as Baroque Works agents torched their village. Smoke. Screams. A child's hand slipping from his grasp.
—Revolutionary Army camps, the taste of hope bitter on his tongue. Comrades falling to Crocodile's machinations, their blood pooling in the sand.
—Alabasta liberated, but his home a graveyard. Empty. Silent.
"You're lying," Kael snarled, though his voice cracked. "The war's over. I'm free."
"You are mine," the relic hissed. "The Mother Flame hungers. Become its guardian. Protect it."
Kael's heart was a battlefield of emotions. Frustration gnawed at his resolve, fed by the voice's incessant demands. His despair was a deep well, dark and bottomless, as he grappled with the loss of his family and friends. The memories the relic thrust upon him were knives, slicing through his sanity with every haunting detail. He was torn between a fierce yearning for freedom and the heavy chains of destiny that bound him to the amulet's will.
Every step through the desert felt like a march toward his own doom, the relic's power an ever-present shadow, threatening to consume what little humanity he had left. He despised the helplessness that coursed through him, a warrior now a puppet to an ancient force. The weight of his past, the hopes and dreams of a liberated Alabasta, only deepened his anguish.
Ahead, the small town of Hasa'ir shimmered in the heat—a cluster of small huts and date palms, its market stalls bustling with farmers and merchants. Children chased goats through the streets, and elders sipped mint tea in the shade. The air smelled of cumin and bread.
Kael froze. Familiar. Too familiar. It looked like his village. A sense of déjà vu washed over Kael as he gazed upon the small town of Hasa'ir. The sight of the huts and date palms, the laughter of children, and the scent of cumin and bread all stirred a whirlwind of emotions within him. It was as if he had been thrust back into the days of his youth, when his own village thrived with similar vibrancy. The memories were both a balm and a torment, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. His heart ached with a longing for the past, for the days when his mother's laughter filled the air, and hope had not yet been extinguished by the fires of war.
The village's resemblance to his own was uncanny, and for a fleeting moment, Kael allowed himself to bask in the illusion of home. But the illusion shattered quickly, replaced by a sharp pang of sorrow and anger. The familiarity of the scene was like salt in a wound, exacerbating his grief and fueling his rage against the relic that had ensnared him. The village was a stark contrast to the desolation that now defined his life, a life consumed by the relic's malevolent influence.
As he stood there, frozen by the memories, a surge of protectiveness welled up within him. He did not want to see another village suffer the same fate as his own. The innocent faces, the simple joys of daily life—they deserved to be preserved, not destroyed. But the relic had other plans.
"Kill them," the relic whispered. "Their blood will pave your path."
"No!" Kael staggered backward, sand hissing around his boots. "I won't… I won't!"
But the amulet flared, golden light searing his veins. Visions engulfed him:
—A hidden oasis, its waters glowing like liquid starlight. A flame at its heart, ancient and ravenous.
—A princess kneeling before an altar, her royal blood dripping onto stone. The flame roaring to life
—Himself, armored in light, standing guard for eternity. Alone. Unyielding.
"I'm not your slave!" Kael screamed, but his body moved without him.
Kael's mind was a theater of war, torn between the remnants of his humanity and the relentless whispers of the relic. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to fight back, to resist the malevolent force that sought to bend his will. Memories of his village, his loved ones, and the life he had lost surged through him, a torrent of sorrow and rage. The relic's voice was insidious, a constant pressure gnawing at his resolve, promising power and vengeance in exchange for his compliance.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a desperate plea for freedom. Kael's vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying as the relic tightened its grip. He could feel the ancient magic coursing through his veins, a searing heat that threatened to consume him. His muscles strained against the invisible bonds that held him, his fists clenching and unclenching in a futile attempt to regain control.
"Think of the power," the relic hissed, its voice a seductive caress. "Think of what you could achieve. No one would ever harm you again." The first blast of golden fire erupted from his palms, incinerating a palm grove. Townsfolk screamed, scattering as the relic's power tore through Kael—a maelstrom of light and heat. "Burn the unworthy. Claim your crown."
"Stop!" He fought to clench his fists, muscles trembling. But the relic was stronger.
A merchant's cart exploded, splinters raining like shrapnel. A child tripped in the chaos, wailing. Kael's hand twitched toward her, torn between salvation and slaughter.
"Weak," the relic spat. "You let them die before. You'll let them die again."
Memories of Baroque Works' atrocities flooded him—his family's bodies, the Revolutionary Army's failed ambush, Alabasta's hollow victory. The relic fed on it, twisting grief into rage.
"ENOUGH!"
With a roar, Kael channeled every shred of willpower into one motion—he slammed the amulet against a stone well, cracking its surface. The relic shrieked in his mind. The backlash hurled him into a darkness that enveloped Kael like a sentient, malevolent entity, pulling him deeper into its abyss. It was a void not merely of light, but of all sensation and hope, a place where time seemed to stretch and warp, leaving him adrift in an endless sea of nothingness. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the echo of his own heartbeat, a lonely reminder of his fragile mortality.
In this suffocating blackness, Kael felt the weight of a thousand forgotten souls pressing down on him, each one a victim of the relic's insatiable hunger for power. Their whispers clawed at the edges of his mind, a cacophony of despair and lost dreams. He struggled to maintain the flicker of his own consciousness, but the darkness was relentless, seeking to snuff out the last vestiges of his humanity.
Visions of torment and destruction flickered before his eyes, scenes of cities burning, lives extinguished in violent flashes of light. He saw himself at the center of it all, a puppet of the relic, wielding its devastating power with a cold, merciless detachment. The line between reality and nightmare blurred, leaving Kael to question whether he would ever find his way back to the light.
Then, just as the darkness seemed poised to swallow him whole, a faint glow appeared on the horizon of his mind, a distant, fragile beacon of hope. It was the memory of his village, his loved ones, their faces radiant with the warmth of simpler times. Clinging to this glimmer, Kael summoned every ounce of his remaining strength and willed himself to break free from the relic's grasp.
The void resisted, but Kael's resolve was unyielding. He pushed against the darkness, feeling it crack and shatter under the force of his determination. With a final, desperate effort, he surged upward, breaking through the surface of the abyss and into the blinding light of consciousness.
When Kael awoke, Hasa'ir was gone. Smoldering ruins stretched where homes once stood. Bodies lay half-buried in ash, their faces frozen in terror. The relic pulsed smugly against his chest, its glyphs now glowing blood-red.
"You see? This is your purpose. Destruction. Dominion."
Kael vomited, bile mixing with sand. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but recognition. He'd become what he'd sworn to destroy. In the distance, the stars began to shift.