The desert wind howled like a wounded god. Sand bit into his skin, caked in blood and sweat, and the taste of iron sat heavy on his tongue. Karan Dor’rak knelt in the slavers’ pit, bound in chains that clinked with each labored breath.He could still feel the sting of the knife that had shorn his braid,the braid that marked him as a warrior of the Dortracy, son of the Storm Clan. To lose it was worse than death. It was erasure.Above him, the sky burned copper and red. The sun sank behind the endless plains, the same plains he had once ridden free upon with the white stallion he’d tamed as a boy. Now he knelt in filth, the smell of fear and men around him thick as smoke.“Look at the savage,” one of the guards sneered, a pale man from the coast, his armor too polished for this land. “Still glaring like he’ll eat us alive.”Karan raised his head slowly. His amber eyes caught the fading light—cold, feral, unbroken.“Untie me,” he said in the tongue of the lowlands, voice like gravel and

“Put that knife down, fisherman, before you lose the hand that holds it.”Varr froze mid-motion, blade hovering over the half-roasted hare. The voice came from the darkness behind him—calm, amused, and dangerous.Karan didn’t move. He was sitting cross-legged by the fire, cleaning his shakar. His head tilted slightly. “Youtook your time showing yourself.”From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in gray, her movements fluid as smoke. Moonlight revealedthe gleam of bronze tattoos curling along her throat—spirals of wind and flame, symbols of blood lineage.A Dortracy woman.She pulled back her hood, and the light caught her eyes—black and bright as polished stone. “You make enough noise for a herd of fools. Half the plain could find you.”Karan’s grip tightened subtly on his blade. “And yet only you did.”The woman smiled faintly. “Perhaps the gods thought I’d need a good story.”Varr muttered, “Or a corpse.”She ignored him and looked at Karan. “You’re far from your clan, warrior.

“Don’t say it, Karan. Whatever promise you’re about to make, I’ve heard it before.”Serah’s voice was flat, her eyes fixed on the endless plain that stretched beneath the cliffs. Dawn burnedbehind them, cold and crimson.Karan tightened his grip on the reins. “I wasn’t offering comfort.”“Good,” she said. “Because it dies fast out here.”They had been riding for three days without pause. The air grew heavier with each mile east, where theland fell away into the Hollow Basin an expanse of black sand and bone-white stones said to hold the firstDortracy graves.Varr rode behind them, his usual chatter gone. Even he felt it—the weight of old things buried too long.Serah broke the silence first. “You’re sure this is where he sent his hunters?”Karan nodded. “Raikor’s men don’t vanish by accident. He’s searching for something.”“The Thorn of Kor’Vareth,” Serah murmured. “The horn that calls the storm.”Karan’s jaw tightened. “Then we reach it first.”She looked at him sharply. “And if i

“Speak again, and I’ll feed your tongue to the horses.”The threat cracked through the war tent like thunder. Karan’s voice was low but laced with a quiet rage that silenced the gathered chieftains. The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the iron scent of tension.Before him, twelve Dortracy warlords sat around the firepit, their braids heavy with silver rings, their bodies inked with symbols of conquest. They were supposed to be allies—bound by the storm they had survived together but already, the fragile unity was splintering.A chieftain with a lion pelt over his shoulders leaned forward. His name was Korvak, a brute with amber eyes and a smile too sharp to trust. “You’ve killed your brother, Stormborn. The plains are yours now. Take the crown, or step aside for those who will.”Karan didn’t move. His hair, uncut since rebirth, hung in thick braids down his back—each streaked with ash from the battlefield. “There is no crown for me.”Korvak sneered. “Then w

The storm was gone.For three days, the sky over the plains stayed. clear, the air heavy with ash and silence. The bodies of men and horses lay scattered across the dunes like broken offerings to gods that no longer listened.Serah buried Karan herself.No priest, no song — only wind and salt on her lips. She tied his braid with a strip of her cloak, whispered the old Dortrac words over his grave.“Kor’vaan et shaar dor’kai. The wind knows your name.”When she was done, she stood there long after sunset, watching the last of the embers fade from the horizon. The storm might have chosen another, but the plains had not yet forgotten the man they had called Stormborn.Behind her, Varr limped forward, his arm bound in a blood-soaked sling. “The men are restless,” he said quietly. “They think the gods abandoned us. Some are saying Raikor’s spirit walks again.”“Let them talk,” Serah replied. “Fear is all they have left.”He studied her face. “And you? What do you have left?”She looked at