The desert rolled away beneath their feet, dunes giving way to sunbaked flats where heat shimmered like a mirage. Eryn squinted ahead and caught his first glimpse of it — a glistening curve on the horizon, like sunlight caught on glass.
"That's Ra'teluun," Bolt said, his voice carrying equal parts pride and caution. "Keystra's guardian. Or so they say."
The closer they drew, the more impossible it seemed. The barrier wasn't a wall of stone or metal — it was light, humming faintly in the air. Beyond it rose a city of white towers and golden domes, alive with movement even from this distance.
As they stepped through Ra'teluun's veil, the world shifted. Heat softened, the air tasted faintly of salt and spice, and the roar of the desert gave way to the din of life — merchants calling out prices, the chime of brass bells over shop doors, the scent of roasting meat carried on the breeze.
Amon kept a measured pace, his hood casting shadow over sharp, sun-browned features. Beside him, Bolt towered in his deep green tunic, his skin the rich shade of oiled teak, his short coiled hair catching the light like a halo. Eryn trailed half a step behind, his plain clothes and road dust marking him as an outsider.
The streets bent and twisted, each turn revealing something new — stalls piled high with desert silks, glassblowers shaping molten art, and children darting through narrow alleys. Everywhere, there were faint signs of reverence for Ra'teluun: murals of a robed guardian, prayer charms strung on silver wire, and tiny bowls of water left on doorsteps as offerings.
Yet beneath the bustle, Eryn noticed the way people glanced upward toward the inner wall, as if to make sure it still stood.
They paused at a broad market square. Bolt spotted the merchant's awning — deep crimson with silver embroidery — and started toward it.
"I'll handle the haggling," Bolt said. "You two… try not to buy anything cursed."
As Bolt strode off, Eryn found himself edging toward the shade of a narrow alley. His fingers found the cool metal of his mother's necklace, the weight of it familiar, the shape burned into his memory.
He took a slow breath.
Resonance flows both ways, Bolt's voice echoed from a lesson days before. You give to the vessel, it gives back… eventually.
Eryn focused, pushing his will into the pendant. At first, nothing — then a faint vibration, a hum that resonated up his arm. The metal warmed, a pulse matching his heartbeat. A spark flickered between his fingers and the chain, so brief he almost thought he'd imagined it.
"You're forcing it," Amon's voice cut in from behind.
Eryn jerked, nearly dropping the necklace. "I wasn't—"
"Every beginner says that." Amon stepped into the shade, eyes narrowing. "Control comes from patience, not from strangling the power out of it. An untempered artifact bites back harder than you think."
Eryn frowned, loosening his grip. "Then how do I—?"
Bolt's voice boomed across the square, "Start with breathing. Deep in, slow out. Let it meet you halfway."
Eryn tried again, slower this time. The hum returned, softer, steadier — and with it, the faintest taste of ozone in the air.
Bolt returned, carrying a wrapped bundle. "Got us enough supplies to track them for a day, maybe two."
"And the Cindral Veil?" Amon asked.
The merchant's voice was low. "They're moving east, toward the dry basins. If they make it past the salt flats, the artifact is gone — and the oasis may be gone with it."
Eryn felt the weight of the words settle in his chest. Time wasn't just running out — it was sprinting.
As the sun dipped low, painting Keystra in gold and shadow, the three prepared to leave again. Amon checked their provisions, Bolt adjusted the straps on his ring-hand gauntlet, and Eryn… quietly closed his fingers around the pendant, feeling the steady pulse inside.
It wasn't much. But it was the start of something.