Charles woke not to peace, but to a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Every joint ached; muscles screamed in protest. The desert hadn't let him rest, and even now, the echoes of yesterday's hunt lingered in every fiber of his body.
"Wakey, wakey, little ugly princess. Forty miles ahead," Gerart growled, gravelly and relentless.
Charles shot up, fists raised—then the fog in his brain cleared. His old friend's grip pressed roughly against his bruised shoulder. Pain lanced through his ribs, a dull reminder of the hunt, the bird, and the near-death that had followed.
"Damn… ever try shaking a man normally, old man? Feels like I got chewed up and spat out." He rubbed at his ribs, wincing.
Gerart barked a laugh that scraped the ears. "Poetic now, Charles boy. Lucky for you, I'm all heart."
For two days, it had almost felt like a family trip. Compared to his last journey—days spent crawling, hiding, and dying in sand—this was paradise: full belly, no fear of chains or beasts, sleep that didn't taste like dust and blood. Yet even in this respite, each step left him sore, each breath a reminder of how far his body had been pushed. Gerart jabbered endlessly, and for once, Charles didn't mind. Someone answering back felt strange… comforting.
"You ever wonder how little humans matter these days?" Gerart asked as they trudged through sand, each step a small victory.
Charles squinted against the sun. Fatigue made his head throb, every word heavier. "We weren't always livestock, were we?"
"Once, humans ruled kingdoms. Now? Scattered. Enslaved. Your last real kingdom fell a thousand years ago."
"And the world?" Charles asked, swallowing grit, imagining chaos beyond the desert. His throat felt raw from dry wind.
"Three continents, countless islands. One overrun by monsters and dragons. The Continent of Death is crawling with demons. And ours? Vireath. Humans barely count. Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, beastmen… everyone's carving scraps from each other."
Charles wiped sand and sweat from his lip. Every word weighed on him. "So… we're scraps on the menu?"
Gerart grinned, tapping the hilt of his axe. "Not if you survive, boy."
Time blurred. Wounds throbbed, muscles ached, and for the first time in weeks, survival felt… possible. Yet every small victory came at the cost of exhaustion pressing against his mind like heavy stones. Charles knew the truth: alone, he would have died in the desert. Following Gerart wasn't a choice—it was survival.
---
On the third morning, they gnawed the last bits of roasted bird when Gerart stiffened.
"Look sharp, Charles. Sandstorm coming. Two hours to a cave—if we're lucky."
Charles blinked, mind still foggy, movements sluggish. "It's just a little wind and sand, right?"
"Flay-winds," Gerart said, voice hard. "Little sand strips meat from bone in seconds."
Ice ran down Charles' spine. His stomach churned. "Then… why aren't we already running?"
"Exactly."
The storm hit with teeth and claws. Sand clawed at skin, filled mouths, blinded eyes. Every breath burned; each step was a battle. A gust slammed Charles sideways, sending him sprawling. He spat grit, gasping for air. His legs trembled under him; lungs screamed for oxygen he couldn't get. Every small victory—staying upright, keeping his footing—felt monumental.
Two hours of hell later, they collapsed into a cave, limbs tangled and aching. A low, sinister sound echoed from deeper inside.
"…Gerart. You sure this cave's empty?"
The dwarf frowned. "Was two years ago. Empty as your head."
Two years—a blink for long-lived races. Their choice was simple: clear the cave, or die in the storm. Charles' ribs protested every movement, but instincts pushed him forward.
"Let's kill it," he muttered, voice tight.
They crept in, silent and cautious. Pain sharpened every sense; the darkness seemed thicker because his body ached. Charles' daggers felt heavy, hands trembling with exhaustion.
Two sandworms slid from shadow. Each barely two meters tall, six clawed legs, chitin-armored heads, mandibles sharp enough to split bone. Armor, not size, made them lethal.
Charles whispered, teeth gritted. "On three… I'll take the left—"
"Wait—"
Too late. He lunged at the first worm, daggers sparking harmlessly against chitin. Pain shot through his ribs, legs buckled, and he slammed into the wall. Panic clawed at his chest; blood ran into his mouth.
A shadow fell. A massive axe swung. One worm's head hit the floor with a sickening crunch.
"You're either stupid or suicidal," Gerart growled. "Charging a sandworm with daggers—and not knowing about binding magic?"
"…Binding magic?" Charles rasped, chest heaving. Every breath fire.
"Aye," Gerart said, eyes narrowed. "Without it, your daggers are just rocks. You stab someone—they don't bleed. You stab yourself… you die."
Charles stared. Then a grin tugged at his lips. "…Well. That's comforting." Pain lanced anew in his side, but adrenaline kept him upright.
---
Three days crawled by while they waited out the storm. One upside: roasted sandworm was amazing—crispy outside, buttery inside. Downside: Charles ran out of stolen wine. Muscles ached even when he wasn't moving.
Gerart lectured. The Free City was dangerous. Crime syndicates ruled the underworld. Better to join a guild, he said. Protect yourself, gain status, find belonging.
He also warned about Charles' ring. Charles didn't care—it was a reminder. One day, revenge. For himself. For his mother. But fatigue made every thought heavy, every step forward feel like dragging lead.
When the storm ended, the cave entrance had vanished, buried beneath endless sand.
"I'm starting to really hate sand," Charles muttered, muscles screaming in protest.
---
The dunes finally gave way to trees and grass.
"We're about two hours out," Gerart said.
Charles exhaled, chest tight, body trembling. "Finally… safe. And free."
Then he saw the city. Towering walls bristling with crossbows, gleaming towers catching the sun. Smoke, dust, spices—the smell hit him all at once. Merchants shouted, animals brayed, the clamor of a thousand lives made his head spin.
"Hold your tears, lad. We're not inside yet."
At the gates, a crowd waited. Humans? None he recognized. Non-human faces, some cautious, some openly hostile. Tension hung in the air; one wrong move, and trouble would start.
A young dwarf guard greeted them—barely a beard. On closer look, a girl. Armor ill-fitting, stance uncertain.
The other guard was an elf. Pale, black hair cascading down her back, curves that could stop a war. Charles' heart skipped. His legs felt weak.
"Why's an elf here? Thought they never left their forest kingdom."
"Exiles. And shut it. They're proud—pick fights over nothing," Gerart muttered.
Charles met her eyes. For a heartbeat, the world froze. Every step had drained him, yet he forced a calm posture. Best not pick a fight.
Gerart knew the dwarf. Their check was quick.
"I'll take you to a human inn. Stay tonight. Tomorrow—we'll tour the city," Gerart said.
The inn looked like a two-story shack ready to fall.
"…Great. Bedbugs," Charles muttered, wincing as his back ached.
Inside, the smell of warm bread and soap replaced the dust. White cloths adorned tables, flowers tilted in a vase. But the barkeep—a one-handed man—glared like frozen lava. Clumsily juggling mugs, he barked, "What do you want?"
From behind the bar, an older woman bustled out, snatching a dish rag. "Clovis! That's how you treat customers? I leave for five minutes…"
Charles blinked, body exhausted, but mind sharp. "Uh… how much for a night?"
"Welcome to our family inn! I'm Matilda, and this is Clovis," she said, sweeping a hand toward the surly barkeep. "How can we help you?"
Charles watched closely, noting the tension in Clovis' stance, the way Matilda's eyes softened as she smiled. Something about this city… it didn't feel welcoming—but he was too tired to care yet.
And for the first time since the desert, he felt… almost safe.