2025-10-09 21:50:16“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 burned
behind 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 the
land fell away into the Hollow Basin an expanse of black sand and bone-white stones said to hold the first
Dortracy 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 it’s not a relic? If it’s a curse?”
Karan’s eyes flickered with something darker. “Then I’ll make it mine anyway.”
By midday, they reached the basin’s edge. The wind was still here—unnaturally so, like the air itself was
holding its breath.
Below lay a field of pillars—stone markers carved with Dortrac runes, each one tilted, eroded by time. Between them, bones glinted like glass beneath the black dust.
Varr dismounted, swallowing hard. “You didn’t tell me we were walking into a graveyard.”
Serah’s voice dropped. “We don’t speak loudly here. The wind carries words to the dead.”
Karan brushed past them, his gaze locked on the far end of the valley. “Then let them hear.”
The descent was slow. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. Strange carvings appeared on the
stones—scenes of warriors kneeling before a horned stallion, eyes blindfolded, blades pointed to the earth.
Serah traced a finger along one of the runes. “These markings… they’re older than the first tribes.”
Karan glanced over. “You can read them?”
“Enough to know they warn of something buried beneath the sand.”
“Warnings don’t stop the desperate,” Karan said. “Or the damned.”
He moved ahead, the faint wind tugging at his braid—the one he had begun to grow again since his exile ended.
Varr kicked at a half-buried skull. “I don’t like this, Karan. Feels like the air’s watching us.”
Karan smiled without warmth. “That’s because it is.”
They reached the center of the basin by dusk. The ground was smooth there, untouched by wind. In the
middle stood a single monolith—twenty feet high, cracked through the center like a scar.
At its base lay a pit filled with ash and the remnants of melted bronze.
Serah knelt, brushing away dust. “This isn’t natural. Someone dug here… recently.”
Karan crouched beside her. “Raikor’s men.”
He touched the ground—it was still warm.
Varr looked around uneasily. “If they took the horn, we’re too late.”
“No,” Karan said. “He’s too proud to use it in secret. He’ll test it in front of the clans. That means it’s still here—or it killed the ones who found it.”
Serah looked up sharply. “You think the dead took them?”
Karan’s voice was soft. “The dead never leave what’s theirs.”
The night came suddenly, swallowing the basin in shadow. They made camp near the monolith, though
none of them truly rested.
The air grew colder still, until their breath came in clouds. The horses refused to eat.
Serah sat close to the fire, her eyes unfocused. “I can feel it,” she whispered. “Something beneath us.”
Karan looked into the flames. “You’ve felt it before?”
“In dreams. Since the ruins.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Each night I hear the same thing—a voice calling through the wind. Yours, maybe. Or his.”
“Raikor?”
She shook her head. “Kor’Vareth.”
Karan’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “The stallion calls to no one.”
“Then why does the storm whisper your name?”
He had no answer.
The fire hissed. A faint tremor rippled through the ground.
Varr jolted upright. “Did you feel that?”
The ground shifted again, more violently. The horses screamed. The sand at the monolith’s base began to sink, swirling inward like a whirlpool.
Karan stood, drawing his blade. “Move!”
The sand exploded outward. A shockwave threw them all to the ground.
When the dust cleared, a dark pit yawned where the monolith had been wide and bottomless. From
within came a dull hum, like a heartbeat buried in the earth.
Serah gasped. “The horn.”
Karan stepped forward. “Stay here.”
“Karan”
He ignored her and descended.
The air inside the pit was suffocating. The walls pulsed faintly, slick with ash and old blood. The deeper he
went, the louder the heartbeat became, echoing inside his skull.
At last, he saw it.
The Horn of Kor’Vareth lay embedded in stone a black, twisted shard the size of a man’s arm, humming with light that flickered like lightning.
Karan reached out, fingers trembling. The air crackled around him.
For an instant, he saw flashes visions of riders burning, storms devouring armies, his brother’s face crowned
in fire.
Then another voice cut through it.
“Do not touch it.”
He turned sharply.
Raikor stood at the mouth of the pit, framed in silver light.
For a heartbeat, Karan couldn’t breathe.
“You…” he whispered. “You followed me.”
Raikor descended slowly, his armor glinting. “I led you here.”
Karan’s mind raced. “The scouts—the tracks—you wanted me to find it.”
“Of course,” Raikor said. “Only one bloodline can wake the horn. Ours.”
His voice was calm, almost tender. “It needed both of us, brother.”
Karan backed away, blade raised. “I’ll kill you before I help you.”
Raikor smiled faintly. “You already have. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
He extended a hand. “Together, Karan. With the horn, we can end the tribes’ endless wars. No more blood, no more chains.”
Karan stared at him, torn between memory and rage. “You burned them, Raikor. You call that peace?”
“I call it cleansing.”
Lightning flared above, thunder rumbling through the pit. The Horn pulsed brighter, feeding on their words.
Raikor stepped closer. “You were always the better fighter. I was the better thinker. Together, we were unstoppable.”
“You betrayed me.”
“I freed you from weakness.”
Karan’s sword trembled. “You cut my braid. You made me a ghost.”
Raikor’s smile vanished. “And yet, here you are chasing ghosts.”
For a moment, the silence between them was louder than any storm.
Then Karan struck.
Their blades met in a blinding clash of sparks. The Horn screamed, its light flaring white. The ground shook violently.
Serah’s voice echoed from above. “Karan!”
He couldn’t hear her. All he saw was his brother’s face, his own blood reflected in those cold eyes.
Raikor disarmed him with a savage twist. “Still too slow,” he hissed, slamming Karan to the ground.
Karan’s hand groped blindly and found the Horn.
The moment his skin touched it, the world exploded.
Light poured through him cold, searing, alive. He screamed as visions flooded his mind: the ancestors, the storm, the great stallion rearing in fire.
Raikor’s voice broke through the roar. “You fool! You can’t control it!”
But Karan rose. The wind bent around him, his eyes burning white. His voice was not entirely his own when he spoke.
“Kor’ath vekh dor’varan. Blood remembers.”
Raikor stumbled back. “What have you done?”
Karan raised the Horn. Lightning erupted from its tip, striking the heavens. The basin shook as the storm awakened massive, endless, divine.
Raikor’s scream was lost in the thunder.
When it was over, the pit was silent. Smoke curled from the shattered stone. The Horn lay cracked in two beside Karan’s body.
Serah rushed down, kneeling beside him. “Karan”
He opened his eyes weakly. “The storm… it heard me.”
She pressed her forehead to his. “You’re bleeding.”
He smiled faintly. “Then the plains live again.”
Above them, lightning still danced in the clouds unnatural, alive.
And somewhere in the distance, Raikor Dor’rak rose from the shadows, his face burned, his eyes filled with something new—fear.
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Chapter Twelve – “The Sands of Prophecy”
“The wind remembers every hoofprint, even those of ghosts.” “Water… we need water!” The cry rose from the back ranks as the Dortracy caravan dragged through the sands. The storm had carried them east — into the desert the shamans called Sareth Vaal, the Veil of the Gods. The air shimmered with heat; the horizon bled gold. Karan rode at the front, his stallion Kor’Vareth glistening with sweat, mane braided with black cords. The horse’s flanks bore old scars — the marks of their bond. Every Dortracy warrior carried such marks: one on the palm, one on the chest, where their horse’s first blood had touched them as infants. It was not mere tradition. Among the Dortracy, to lose one’s horse was to lose one’s soul. “Slow the march,” Karan ordered, voice cutting through the wind. “The herd breathes as one, or not at all.” He dismounted, running a hand along Kor’Vareth’s neck. The stallion pressed its muzzle against his shoulder — an intimate gesture, almost human. Their breaths
Chapter Eleven – “The Storm Throne”
“From death’s ashes, a storm remembers its name.” The wind screamed over the plains, tearing at banners blackened by ash and rain. Where once the Dortracy tents had stood, only mud and smoke remained. In the ruins, a lone rider moved among the dead, his horse limping, breath ragged. The sky above was the color of bruised iron. “Leave them,” Serah whispered, her voice hoarse. “They’re gone.” Around her, the survivors of the Blood Oath war limped through the wreckage. Men who had followed Karan Dor’rak now walked with hollow eyes, muttering the same curse: The gods have turned their faces. It had been three nights since Karan fell—pierced through by Raiko’s blade and swallowed by the storm that followed. The battle had ended in chaos: thunder tearing open the sky, flames devouring the plain, and then… silence. But silence was never simple among the Dortracy. In the center of the battlefield, where the lightning had struck, the ground pulsed faintly with warmth. Beneath the
Chapter Ten – “The Blood Oath”
The plains were black with thunder again.Rain hissed against scorched sand, washing the blood from the bones of men who had died twice once for kings, and once for ghosts.At the center of it rode Serah.Her cloak streamed behind her like tornstormcloud, her braid bound in silver thread, the faint glow beneath her skin pulsing with each heartbeat. To those who followed, she was no longer merely the Stormborn’s companion. She was the voice of the storm itself.They called her Kor’Serah, the Lightning Bride.But to Varr, who had known her before gods began whispering her name, she was still just the woman who buried a man she loved and refused to let him stay dead.The Dortracy camp lay beneath the ruins of the old fortress — Raikor’s fortress, once the Lion’s Crown. Smoke rose from cooking fires, the smell of roasted horseflesh thick in the damp air. The warriors sat in silence, sharpening blades, their tattoos glistening with rain.Serah stood before them on the old altar stone, her
Chapter Nine – “The Judas Pact”
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
Chapter Eight – “The Price of Crowns”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”Karan’s voice was quiet, but the rage in it made the air tremble.Serah stood before him, the lion-fang pendant glinting in her hand. Around them, the dawn wind tore at the tent flaps. Warriors outside pretended not to listen, but every soul in the camp held its breath.“I hid it because you wouldn’t have listened,” she said.“I did listen,” he replied. “I trusted you.”Her gaze didn’t waver. “And I saved your life—twice.”He took a step closer. “While serving the Lion-King?”Serah’s jaw tightened. “I served Raikor once. Before you killed him. Before he became whatever walks the sands now.”The admission cracked the silence like thunder.Karan’s hand went to his sword, but he didn’t draw it. “So all this time—your loyalty, your help—it was guilt?”“It was choice,” she said sharply. “Raikor believed in domination. You fight for survival. Don’t confuse the two.”He studied her for a long moment, then turned away, voice low. “You speak of choice, but y
Chapter Seven – “The Lion’s Reign”
“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
