Rating: MA 15+
The Valley of Reflected Stars was sharp in the way that things are gleaming before they kill you.
Sabaku and Nahara had walked for two days through terrain that confused the senses—sand that glittered like frozen water, mirages so convincing they had texture, and twice, phenomena that Nahara called "time echoes": moments where they saw themselves from hours ago, walking the same path, ghostly duplicates that vanished when approached.
"The valley distorts perception," Nahara had explained, mechanical fingers adjusting her weapon's calibration. "Too much starlight concentrated in too small a space. It bends more than light. It bends meaning."
Now, as dawn approached on the third day, they crested a dune and found themselves staring at something that bent meaning in an entirely different way: an army.
Hundreds of figures arrayed in geometric precision across the desert floor. They wore armor that caught the pre-dawn light—bronze plates etched with solar symbols, helmets shaped like scarab beetles, shields bearing the eye of Ra rendered in such detail it seemed to track movement. At the army's center, banners snapped in wind that shouldn't exist, displaying hieroglyphs that Sabaku could read even at this distance: REBIRTH THROUGH FIRE. SALVATION THROUGH SUFFERING.
"Solarians," Nahara whispered, crouching low. "The Scarab Legion specifically. Elite warriors. We need to—"
A blade pressed against her throat before she could finish. Sabaku spun to find themselves surrounded—soldiers emerging from the sand itself as if they'd been buried there, waiting. Twenty figures in scarab armor, weapons trained with professional steadiness.
"Don't move," ordered the closest soldier, her voice carrying the flat certainty of someone prepared to execute the command. "You've entered Commander Tefra's domain. She's been expecting you."
"We're just travelers," Nahara said carefully, hands visible and empty despite the blade at her throat. "No conflict intended. We'll leave peacefully if—"
"The white-haired one comes with us. The machine-touched one..." The soldier's eyes studied Nahara with distaste. "Commander will decide your fate."
They were disarmed efficiently—Nahara's weapon, her tools, even the power cores from her pack. But when a soldier reached for Sabaku's pendant, something strange happened. The bronze grew suddenly hot, glowing faintly, and the soldier recoiled with a hiss of pain.
"The pendant identifies him," another soldier said with something like awe. "Ra's Forbidden Child. The prophecy walks."
They were marched down the dune at spearpoint. As they approached the camp, its scale became clear—this wasn't a temporary military position but a mobile city. Tents numbered in hundreds, arranged in concentric circles around a central structure built from polished stone that seemed to hover slightly above the sand. Soldiers trained in formations, their movements synchronized with disturbing precision. And everywhere, everywhere, the smell of incense and something underneath it—copper. Blood. Sacrifice.
Nahara leaned close as they walked, her voice barely audible: "The Solarians believe the gods are real and hungry. They feed them to maintain cosmic order. Don't agree with anything they propose."
Sabaku nodded minutely, his attention fixed on the central structure. As they approached, details resolved: the stone wasn't hovering, it was supported by hundreds of chains attached to posts driven deep into the sand. And the structure itself was a temple—not ancient in style but deliberately archaic, as if the builders had reverse-engineered holiness from fragmented memory.
The soldiers brought them through the camp, drawing stares. Whispers followed in their wake, the word "prophecy" repeated like prayer or curse. Children stopped their games to watch. Priests in solar vestments emerged from tents, eyes tracking Sabaku with expressions mixing hunger and fear.
They climbed steps to the suspended temple, entering through massive doors carved with scenes of sacrifice—humans offering themselves willingly to a sun-god rendered in horrific detail, its many mouths consuming flesh that became light.
Inside, the temple was surprisingly cool, temperature regulated by some mechanism Sabaku couldn't identify. The walls were lined with weapons—not just spears and swords but technological artifacts, energy weapons like those that had existed pre-Collapse, maintained but clearly not fully understood. Trophies, Sabaku realized. Evidence of conquered enemies.
At the far end, a figure sat on a throne of fused bronze and bone. She was perhaps forty, her face bearing scars that formed deliberate patterns—the marks of someone who had earned authority through pain. She wore armor more ornate than her soldiers', decorated with precious stones that caught light and threw it back in colors that had no names. Her eyes were gold—actually gold, artificial replacements that gleamed in the temple's dim interior.
Commander Tefra. She studied them with those unnatural eyes, her gaze lingering on Sabaku.
"Leave us," she said to the soldiers. Her voice carried absolute authority, the kind earned through demonstrated willingness to kill. The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, filing out until only three figures remained: Tefra, Sabaku, and Nahara.
Silence stretched. Tefra leaned forward slightly, those gold eyes fixed on Sabaku's face with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
"Do you know," she said eventually, "how many false prophets I've executed? Seventeen. Kids with white hair and convenient scars, claiming to be the Forbidden Child. Charlatans seeking power or deluded fools believing their own mythology." She stood, descending from her throne with movements that suggested combat training. "I burned them all. Fed their ashes to Ra. Proof that falseness cannot survive divine fire."
She stopped directly in front of Sabaku, close enough that he could see his reflection in her golden eyes—distorted, multiplied, made strange.
"But you..." She reached out, touching the pendant around his neck. This time it didn't burn. Instead it sang—a high, clear note that resonated through the chamber. "The real thing. Finally. After all these years."
"I'm not—" Sabaku started.
"Don't." Tefra's hand moved to his face, tilting it to examine the scar beneath his eye. "I was there when they killed Aru. I was young then, barely a soldier. But I watched them chain him beneath the temple. Watched them starve him for refusing to accept pain as prayer." Her expression shifted—not softening exactly, but becoming complex. "I admired him. His defiance. Even as they tortured him, he never screamed. Never begged. Just kept saying: 'This isn't what the gods want. This isn't what anything wants.'"
She released Sabaku's face. "And now he returns. Wearing a stranger's soul. The prophecy manifesting exactly as the old texts claimed: a child twice-born, carrying memories from beyond the desert, vessel for Ra's resurrection."
"That's not what I am," Sabaku said firmly. "I'm not a vessel. I'm not here to resurrect anything. I'm just—"
"Scared. Confused. Uncertain." Tefra smiled without warmth. "Good. The prophecy never said the vessel would be willing. Only that it would be present when needed." She turned to Nahara. "And you. Machine-touched. Dune Strider, yes? One of the faithless who reject divine order in favor of dead technology?"
Nahara's jaw tightened but she met Tefra's gaze. "I reject cruelty masked as worship. If that makes me faithless, I'll wear it proudly."
"Brave words from someone surrounded by people who consider you an abomination." Tefra walked back toward her throne, each step deliberate. "The Dune Striders are a cancer. They teach that we can survive without the gods. That technology alone can sustain us. But technology is what destroyed the old world. Hubris in metal form. Only through divine submission can humanity transcend its self-destructive nature."
"Through sacrifice," Sabaku said, understanding crystallizing. "You feed people to whatever you think Ra is. Call it worship. Call it necessary. But it's still murder."
"Murder implies waste." Tefra settled back onto her throne. "We transform. We elevate. Those who offer themselves become part of the divine cycle. Their energy feeds the sun, slows its consumption, maintains balance between Earth and star." She gestured broadly. "The alternative is extinction. The sun grows closer each year. In two generations, perhaps three, it will consume Earth entirely. Unless we feed it properly. Give it what it craves."
"That's insane," Nahara said flatly. "The sun is a ball of hydrogen undergoing fusion. It doesn't 'crave' anything. It follows physics, not theology."
"Physics without consciousness is how we arrived at Collapse," Tefra countered. "The old civilization treated the universe as machinery. Look where that led." She leaned forward. "But you, machine-kid, you can serve purpose even while faithless. You can witness what comes next. Watch as the Forbidden Child fulfills prophecy and proves divine truth."
"What comes next?" Sabaku asked, though dread already supplied the answer.
"War." Tefra's golden eyes gleamed. "The Dune Striders have fortified the Temple of Inverse Shadows. Claimed it as their stronghold. They dig through ancient ruins, pulling out technology they can't comprehend, thinking themselves archaeologists when they're merely grave robbers." She stood again, moving to a window that overlooked the camp. "I've spent three years preparing. Building this army. Training them to reclaim what the faithless have stolen. And now, with you here, with the prophecy made manifest, we have the divine mandate necessary for total victory."
"I won't help you," Sabaku said. "I won't be part of—"
"You'll be whatever you're needed to be." Tefra's voice carried absolute certainty. "Because the alternative is everyone you've met since arriving in this world dying slowly. The desert isn't kind to those who lack protection. Nahara here, for instance—she'd last perhaps two days without proper supplies. Less if I ordered her execution for heresy." She turned back to face them. "But cooperate, and she lives. Even keeps her blasphemous mechanical parts. I'm not unreasonable."
The threat hung in the air, naked and effective.
Nahara's mechanical hand clenched into a fist. "Don't let her manipulate you. She'll kill me regardless once you're no longer useful."
"Probably," Tefra agreed with disturbing honesty. "But 'probably later' is better than 'certainly now.' Yes?"
Sabaku looked between them—Tefra with her golden eyes and throne of bones, Nahara with her mechanical limbs and defiant scars. Two sides of a civilization torn between theology and technology, faith and reason, divine submission and human autonomy.
And he, apparently, was the fulcrum. The deciding factor.
"I need to think," he said finally. "I can't just—"
"You have until dawn tomorrow," Tefra interrupted. "Then we march on the Temple of Inverse Shadows. With or without your cooperation. Though 'without' means considerably more bloodshed. Both sides. Including anyone you've grown attached to." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Nahara.
Guards entered at her gesture, surrounding them once more.
"Take them to the guest quarters," Tefra ordered. "Treat them well. Feed them properly. Let them experience Solarian hospitality. By morning, I expect the Forbidden Child will understand where his interests align."
The guest quarters were more prison than hospitality—a tent with comfortable furnishings but guards at every exit. Nahara paced like a caged animal, mechanical leg leaving precise depressions in the carpeted floor.
"She's going to use you," Nahara said without preamble. "Parade you in front of her army as proof of divine favor. Then when the battle's won, she'll sacrifice you to 'complete the prophecy.' That's how these types operate. Symbol first, disposal second."
Sabaku sat on a cushion, head in hands. "What are the Dune Striders like? Are they any better?"
Nahara stopped pacing. "They're pragmatists. They believe survival comes from understanding, not worship. They excavate old technology, try to rebuild what was lost. But..." She hesitated. "They're not saints. They see people as resources too. Just mechanical resources rather than spiritual ones. They'd want to study you. Dissect your memories. Figure out how reincarnation works so they can replicate it, weaponize it."
"So both sides want to use me."
"Welcome to being prophesied." Nahara resumed pacing. "The moment someone decides you're special, you stop being human and become symbol. Tool. Weapon."
Sabaku thought of Aru's memories—the priests calling him chosen even as they tortured him. The same pattern. Different justification. Same suffering.
"What if I refuse both?" he asked. "Just walk away. Let them fight their war without me."
"Then Tefra kills me immediately as incentive for your return. And the Dune Striders hunt you as a strategic asset they can't allow enemies to possess." Nahara sat heavily beside him. "I'm sorry. You're trapped. We both are."
Silence settled between them. Outside, the camp prepared for war—sounds of weapons being sharpened, orders being shouted, prayers being sung in unison. The machine of organized violence spinning up to operational speed.
"Tell me about the Dune Striders," Sabaku said eventually. "Everything. I need to understand both sides completely before choosing."
Nahara nodded. "They're led by a council—seven engineers called the Architects, though they're different from the mechanical guardian we met. These are human. Mostly. Some have augmented themselves so extensively it's hard to tell." She touched her mechanical arm. "They gave me these. Saved my life after... after Ra's Left Hand took my original limbs as 'offering.' The Striders found me, rebuilt me, taught me to survive."
"So you're biased toward them."
"Yes." She met his gaze directly. "But bias doesn't make me wrong. The Solarians perpetuate suffering. The Striders perpetuate survival. If those are the only choices, I know which one lets more children live to adulthood."
Sabaku pulled out the crystalline sphere they'd taken from the necropolis—the First Scientist's compressed knowledge. It pulsed with deep violet light, warm in his palm.
"The Architect said this contains calculations. Mathematics of consciousness transformation." He held it up to the lamplight. "What if the answer isn't choosing sides but transcending the conflict? What if there's a way to—"
The tent flap burst open. A soldier entered, blood streaking her armor.
"Commander requires your presence," she gasped. "We're under attack. The Dune Striders—they knew you were here. They've come for you."
Outside, explosions. Energy weapons firing. Screams mixing with mechanical whirring. The war had found them.
Tefra's voice boomed across the camp, amplified by technology: "Defend the Forbidden Child! Ra demands his vessel survive!"
And from the darkness beyond camp perimeter, another voice—synthetic, modulated through speakers: "Release the prophet! He belongs to no faction! Free will demands freedom!"
Sabaku and Nahara exchanged glances.
"So much for having until dawn to decide," Nahara said grimly.
They were escorted from the tent into chaos. The Scarab Legion formed defensive perimeters, shields locked, spears bristling. But they faced enemies unlike anything Sabaku had seen—vehicles that moved on multiple legs like mechanical insects, drones that circled overhead projecting targeting beams, and soldiers in powered armor that amplified strength to superhuman levels.
The Dune Striders. Technology unleashed.
A projectile struck nearby, throwing sand and bodies. Sabaku stumbled, caught by Nahara's mechanical arm. She pulled him toward cover, but soldiers blocked their path.
"Stay with us!" one shouted. "Commander's orders!"
"Let him go!" Another voice, this one from a Dune Strider speaker system. "The child chooses his own fate!"
Energy beams crisscrossed the night. Fire erupted where projectiles struck. And through it all, Sabaku felt the pendant growing hot against his ribs, pulsing in rhythm with the violence, as if feeding on it.
Tefra appeared through the smoke, golden eyes reflecting flames. "Come with me. Now. To the temple. You'll be safe there. Protected. Divine sanctuary cannot be violated."
But from the opposite direction, a figure in powered armor approached—helmet retracting to reveal a person with silver implants covering half her face, eyes replaced with camera lenses that whirred as they focused.
"Ignore her lies," the augmented person called. "We offer choice, not chains! Come with us and decide your own path!"
Sabaku stood between them—theology and technology, faith and reason, two sides of humanity's fractured soul both claiming his allegiance.
The pendant burned. The crystalline sphere pulsed. And somewhere deep in his merged consciousness, Aru whispered: Don't let them make you a symbol. Be yourself. Choose yourself.
"No," Sabaku said quietly.
Both commanders turned toward him.
"No?" Tefra's hand moved to her weapon.
"I won't choose." Sabaku's voice grew stronger. "Not tonight. Not like this. Not while you're killing each other and calling it righteous." He pulled the pendant over his head, holding it high. "You want a prophet? Here's my prophecy: You're both wrong. The gods don't demand suffering. And technology without compassion is just sophisticated cruelty. You're two halves of the same broken whole, and neither of you will save anyone until you remember how to be human."
Silence rippled outward from his words. Weapons lowered fractionally. Soldiers on both sides stared.
Then Tefra laughed—sharp, bitter. "Idealism. How refreshing. How useless." She raised her weapon toward Sabaku. "If you won't serve willingly, you'll serve anyway."
But before she could fire, Nahara's mechanical arm caught the weapon, redirecting its aim. The beam struck sand, fusing it to glass.
"Run," Nahara hissed. "I'll hold them off. Run!"
Sabaku ran. Into the darkness beyond the battle. Into the desert that had brought him here. Behind him, violence resumed—louder, more desperate. Both sides scrambling to capture the prophet who had rejected them.
He ran until his lungs burned and legs gave out. Collapsed in sand that held neither faction's claim. Above, stars watched their eternal watch. And in his hand, the pendant and the crystalline sphere, both pulsing with light.
He had chosen nothing.
Or perhaps he had chosen everything.
The desert whispered approval—or warning.
Only time would clarify which.
TO BE CONTINUED…