The nd was old. Older than the tongues that now spoke over its dunes, older than the empires that had risen and fallen like waves upon the sea. It bore many names across the ages, but to those who walked it now, it was called Zahareh, the Sun’s Anvil. A continent of endless sands and golden pins, of mighty rivers carving life into the dust, of cities built upon the bones of ancient kingdoms. The air shimmered with heat by day, and the night winds howled like spirits mourning the past.

  In the heart of Zahareh y the Tahamir Wastes, a vast desert where the sun was merciless, and only those who knew its secrets could hope to survive. Few travelled its depths willingly, for it was said that the sands swallowed the foolish and the lost alike, and that beneath its shifting surface y the ruins of those who had once ruled the world.

  It was there, buried beneath centuries of dust and forgotten stone, that an ancient tomb y hidden. The entrance had long since vanished beneath the dunes, its guardians crumbled to time, its name erased from history. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of age – dry, lifeless, and undisturbed. Massive pilrs, once carved with the tales of a forgotten era, stood broken and worn, their inscriptions faded into obscurity. Statues of warriors lined the passageways, their faces long since cracked and unrecognizable. At the tomb’s heart, upon stone dais, y a figure untouched by time.

  He was pale – not the sickly pallor of the dead, nor the unnatural whiteness of something drained of life, but a luminous, sun-kissed pallor, as though his skin had once known the touch of golden light and carried its memory even now, beneath the earth.

  He was beautiful in a way that was difficult to define. Not soft nor delicate, but striking – his features sculpted with a harmony that belonged to something greater than mortal lineage. His jaw was strong, his cheekbones high, his nose straight and noble. His lips, full yet firm, seemed almost at ease, as though he had never known the tension of anger or the bitterness of sorrow.

  His hair, long and golden, spilled around him like the rays of a sun that had not shone in this pce for millennia. Though dust had settled upon the dais and the surrounding floor, not a single grain clung to him. The strands gleamed even in the dimness of the tomb, untarnished by time. It cascaded over his shoulders and down his chest in waves, framing his bare form with an almost ethereal radiance.

  He was naked, for whatever garments had once adorned him had long since turned to dust. If he felt the chill of the tomb’s lifeless air, he gave no sign of it. His body, despite his stillness, was a thing of power – lean but strong, built with the grace of one born for battle yet untouched by brutality. His limbs, though rexed, carried a quiet energy, a readiness that spoke of a warrior’s spirit. Across his chest, faint golden markings could be seen, like remnants of something divine. They pulsed, faintly at first.

  Then, his eyes opened.

  They were golden. Not simply hazel with flecks of gold, nor the pale yellow of amber, but the living, burning gold of a sun at its zenith. For a moment, they were unfocused, like his mind had not yet fully returned to him. Then, as if pulled from the depths of eternity, crity struck. His breath, deep and steady, filled the tomb. His fingers curled against the stone, feeling the weight of the world press down upon him once more.

  He was alive.

  He was lying on cold stone, staring up at a ceiling of dark, cracked rock. Faint lines of golden dust shimmered between the stones, catching the dim light that filtered in from somewhere unseen. He blinked, his vision slowly to adjust. His body felt… strange. Heavy, yet somehow unfamiliar.

  He shifted, feeling rough stone against his bare skin.

  Wait. Bare?

  That realization sent a jolt through him. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his muscles sluggish and stiff. Looking down, he saw his own body – pale as sunlight on fresh parchment, smooth, unmarred by scars or wounds. Yet he felt no shame, no modesty. Modesty belonged to the living, to men concerned with such things. He had been something else once – something greater.

  Had been.

  His fingers pressed against the floor, brushing over dust and tiny fragments of brittle metal – armour, long decayed. What little remained crumbled at his touch, rusted beyond recognition. A vague memory stirred: polished gold, a crest of the sun, the weight of a sword at his hip. But the details slipped away as quickly as they came.

  He sat up fully, rolling his shoulders. His long hair spilled down his back, fine and golden. He inhaled, testing his lungs, and exhaled slow. The air was dry, ancient, filled with the scent of stone and something distant – something familiar.

  Sunlight.

  He turned his head. There – a fissure in the rock, narrow and jagged, allowing a single beam of warm, golden light to pierce the darkness. It touched the floor near his feet, illuminating tiny swirls of dust that danced in the still air.

  Sethis reached out, letting his fingers hover in its glow. Warmth. A warmth that settled deep within his chest, as though it had been waiting for him. His skin tingled where the light touched, a quiet hum of something ancient, something divine.

  He was not dead.

  Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs held but trembled slightly from long disuse. The tomb around him was quiet, still, like the world itself had not yet realized he had awoken.

  He took another breath.

  He was here. Wherever here was. However much time had passed.

  Sethis ran a hand through his hair. He had no weapons. No armour. No clear purpose. And yet the light called him back.

  He stepped forward, scanning the walls for a passage. Faint carvings lined the stone, but time had worn them down to little more than shallow grooves.

  His feet brushed against something soft – sand, piled thick along one side of the chamber. He knelt and pressed a hand into it, feeling the fine grains shift beneath his fingers. A slow smile tugged at his lips. Sand meant an opening, somewhere. He pushed his fingers deeper, scooping handfuls away.

  It wasn’t an easy task. The more he dug, the more it seemed to spill back into pce, but he kept at it. His body, still regaining its former strength, burned with the effort, but he welcomed it. Movement, action – these things felt right. He cwed through the dry earth, pausing only to shake dust from his face. Little by little, air stirred against his skin, faint but undeniable.

  Excitement built in his chest. He redoubled his efforts, shifting aside great handfuls of sand until, at st, he broke through. A rush of warm air greeted him, carrying the scent of dry stone. Light met his eyes, blinding at first, but as his vision adjusted, he took in the world beyond. Rolling dunes stretched endlessly before him, golden and vast beneath a sun that bzed in an unbroken sky. The heat wrapped around him, stark and real. He inhaled deeply, tasting the dry air, and for the first time since waking, he let out a short ugh.

  He was free.

  Sethis stood at the edge of the tomb’s entrance, scanning the horizon. Nothing but endless dunes in every direction, shifting like frozen waves beneath the bzing sun. No ndmarks, no signs of life – just sand stretching as far as the eye could see.

  So, he walked.

  The heat pressed down like a weight, but it did not drain him. The sun, relentless and burning overhead, felt more familiar than hostile, like an old companion watching over him. The sand, scorching and unstable beneath his bare feet should have blistered him raw, yet it did not. It welcomed his steps, shifting, but never hindering.

  With each stride, his body adjusted, muscles remembering movement, strength returning. His shadow stretched beside him, sharp and clear in the unbroken sunlight.

  He did not stop.

  The days passed in a blur of golden dunes and an unchanging sky. He did not count them, did not need to. He walked as if the desert itself would eventually yield to him, and in time, it did.

  Far on the horizon, where the sand met the sky, a shimmer of green broke the monotony of gold. Palm trees, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze, surrounded a pool of deep blue water. An oasis.

  Sethis exhaled, a satisfied breath, and adjusted his course.

  The oasis grew clearer with each step, the deep green of palm fronds swaying gently in the warm breeze. The sound of rustling leaves and the faint trickle of water broke the desert’s oppressive silence, a stark contrast to the lifeless dunes Sethis had left behind.

  His pace quickened as he stepped onto firmer ground. Thick shrubs and clusters of reeds lined the water’s edge, the air cooler in their shade. He pushed through a dense patch of greenery, barely noticing the way the dry branches scratched against his skin.

  Then, without hesitation, he leaped.

  The water embraced him in an instant, cool and pure. He plunged beneath the surface, letting himself sink into the weightless dark before rising again. Floating on his back, he stared at the sky – blue and endless.

  He allowed himself to rex.

  When thirst pulled him back to shore, he cupped the water in his hands and drank deeply. He drank until his body no longer craved it, then turned his attention to the trees.

  Dates, handing in ripe clusters from thick palm trunks. He reached up plucking a handful, their skin firm beneath his fingers. The first bite was sweet, richer than anything he remembered, the taste of life itself after lifeless centuries. He ate slowly, savouring each mouthful, then gathered more, piling them beside a broad, ft stone where he could sit and rest.

  And rest he did.

  Days passed in quiet solitude. He bathed in the pool, stretched his limbs, feeling his strength return with each passing hour. When not eating or drinking, he trained. He had no sword, no armour, but his body was a weapon, and he honed it. He moved through forms, striking and dodging against invisible foes. He ran along the oasis’s edge, his speed increasing each day.

  And when he was not training, he meditated.

  Sitting cross-legged on the warm stone, hands resting on his knees, he closed his eyes and let the sun bathe him in its light. The warmth seeped into his skin, his bones, his very soul.

  And he prayed.

  “Sonor, my lord… it is I, your spear.”

  His voice was quiet, yet it carried in the stillness.

  “Why have you called me back? What is my mission?”

  Silence.

  He remained still, waiting. The wind rustled the leaves, the water pped at the shore, but no voice answered.

  He furrowed his brow, fingers tightening into fists on his knees.

  “I do not doubt you, my lord. I never have. But if you have brought me back, then surely… surely there is purpose in it?”

  The sun hung above him, bright and unwavering, yet no divine words came. No visions. No signs.

  Just the endless, quiet warmth. Sethis exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. If Sonor would not speak, then he would not question. He would wait.

  And when the time came, he would be ready.

  The days passed in quiet repetition. Sethis had no true sense of time – only the movement of the sun, the shifting of the wind, and the steady rhythm of his own breath. He spent his hours training, pushing his body to remember what it once knew.

  At first, it was simple.

  He struck at the air, his movements precise yet unpolished. His bance was strong, but his speed was not what it should have been. His body, though powerful, cked the refinement of constant battle. He corrected this through repetition – punches, kicks, sweeps, and blocks, each one faster, sharper than the st.

  Then came the meditation.

  Sitting beneath the tallest palm, he let the sun soak into his skin, his breath deep and controlled. He sought connection, not just with himself, but with something beyond. He had always known his power was tied to the divine, an extension of Sonor’s will, but after so long in death, he could not feel it the way he once had.

  He reached for it now, searching for the light that had once burned within him.

  At first there was nothing.

  The stillness of the oasis wrapped around him, only the soft rustling of the palms and the distant call of a desert bird breaking the silence. His breathing remained steady, his body unmoving.

  Then something stirred. A warmth, faint and fragile, within his chest.

  He focused on it, drawing it out, letting it spread though his limbs. He did not force it – force would break it – but guided it gently, coaxing it to the surface. His fingers tingled, the air around them shifting, humming with something unseen.

  He opened his eyes.

  From his hands, faint golden strands flickered into existence, thin and delicate as threads of sunlight. They curled and twisted between his fingers, barely visible against the daylight, as if made of the same radiance that shone from above.

  Sethis exhaled slowly.

  It was weak.

  But it was there.

  He lifted his hand, watching as the threads flickered, unstable and flickering like candlelight in the wind. He tried to move them, to shape them, but the moment his concentration wavered, they faded, dissolving into nothing.

  Still, a small smile tugged at his lips.

  He had not been abandoned.

  The power was within him. It only needed to be awakened.

  He closed his eyes again and returned to his meditation, the golden warmth still lingering beneath his skin.

  The sun hung high in the sky, its golden light shimmering across the water’s surface as Sethis stepped into the oasis once more. The cool water wrapped around his legs, then his waist, and finally his chest as he waded in deeper. He moved slowly, savouring the contrast between the heat of the air and the refreshing embrace of the water.

  With a deep breath, he submerged himself entirely.

  Silence.

  Underwater, the world was still. The sun’s rays danced through the surface above, casting shifting patterns of gold against the stone and sand below. He let himself float, weightless, his long hair fanning out like a halo.

  When he surfaced, he ran a hand though his soaked hair and sighed.

  It was only now, after days of solitude, that his ck of clothing began to feel… noticeable.

  A warrior – no, a man – was meant to be clothed. Not for modesty, but for identity.

  Yet there was nothing to be done about it now.

  With a shake of his head, he swam to the shore, letting the sun dry his skin as he stretched and prepared for another attempt at unlocking his magic.

  The following days were spent in tireless effort.

  Each morning, he knelt beneath the tallest palm, closed his eyes, and reached for the light within. He called upon it, coaxed it, shaping it with patient hands. The golden strands returned, flickering in and out of existence, unpredictable and fleeting.

  He watched them closely.

  The way they shimmered. The way they flickered. The way they responded to his breathing, his thoughts, his emotions.

  And then, at st, something changed.

  One evening, as the sun dipped low, Sethis held out his hands, and the golden strands formed once more. This time, they did not immediately vanish. Instead, they hovered – twisting, shifting, weaving together into a fragile thread of light.

  Slowly, carefully, he willed them forward.

  The strand obeyed, drifting a few meters ahead like a ribbon caught in the wind.

  Sethis felt his heart beat faster.

  He pushed it further, but after a few moments, the magic unravelled, dissolving into nothing.

  He exhaled, his breath slow and steady.

  Not perfect. Not strong.

  But progress.

  The next morning Sethis moved to a patch of firm ground and began his exercises.

  Bare foot on the firm, sun-warmed ground, he began with fluid motions – his body stretching, twisting, and bending like a reed swaying in the wind. His feet moved in measured, precise steps, shifting his weight effortlessly from stance to stance. He struck the air with open palms, his movements slow at first, deliberate. Each strike extended into a flowing rotation, his body turning with the force to channel momentum through his core.

  Then, he increased the pace.

  A step forward, a swift palm thrust. A pivot, an elbow strike. A sudden, controlled knee rising to meet an invisible opponent. He struck high and low, alternating between open-handed blows and clenched fists. His form was honed for both offense and defense, a style built for survival rather than ceremony. There was no wasted movement. A block could become a strike; a retreat could turn into a counterattack in an instant.

  He shifted into rapid sequences – dodging, weaving, countering, his breath steady as his body reacted on instinct. His bare skin glistened with sweat under the relentless sun, muscles flexing and tensing with every motion. He pushed himself harder, testing the limits of his regained strength.

  Then, as he spun into a final strike, something caught his eye.

  A movement beyond the oasis.

  He stopped mid-motion, feet pnted firmly, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. In the distance, past the rippling mirage of heat, a caravan was approaching. A long line of travellers and beasts, shimmering figures against the endless sands.

  Sethis straightened, his muscles tensing with anticipation. He had not seen another living soul since his resurrection.

  The travellers moved in a slow but steady procession. The camels bore heavy loads, draped in colourful cloth, while men in flowing robes walked beside them, some carrying long, curved weapons. Their faces were obscured by turbans and veils, only their eyes visible beneath the shade of their head coverings.

  As they neared the oasis, a murmur of voices rippled through the group. Some of the men stopped, gripping their weapons more tightly. Others whispered among themselves, casting wary gnces at Sethis.

  One man, taller than the rest, stepped forward and raised a hand, signaling the caravan to halt. His robe was deep blue, embroidered with golden thread, and a curved sword hung at his side. He narrowed his eyes at Sethis, then called out in a firm voice:

  "?? ???? ?? ???? ????? ????"

  Sethis did not respond. He understood nothing of the words spoken to him, but their meaning was clear enough—these men were uncertain of him, perhaps even suspicious.

  Another man, younger and slimmer, muttered something to the leader:

  "??? ????... ?? ?? ??????"

  A few chuckled, but others did not lower their weapons.

  Sethis remained still, raising his hands slightly, palms open—a gesture of peace. He took a slow step forward, but the moment his foot shifted in the sand, two men instantly unsheathed their swords.

  "?????!" one of them barked, levelling the tip of his bde at Sethis' chest.

  Sethis halted. He could see the tension in their stance, the way their fingers curled tightly around their hilts. They were wary, not openly hostile—yet.

  The leader spoke again, this time more slowly, "?? ??????? ?? ????"

  Sethis exhaled. He pced a hand on his chest and spoke for the first time since they arrived.

  “I am Sethis.”

  His voice was steady, though he doubted they would understand him any more than he understood them. He gestured toward himself again, repeating, “Sethis.”

  The leader exchanged gnces with his men. Some murmured among themselves. One of the younger ones scoffed:

  "??? ????... ???? ???? ????!"

  Sethis shook his head, not knowing what was said but understanding the suspicion in their eyes. He took a cautious step back, then gestured toward the oasis—indicating that he had been here, drinking, resting. That was all.

  The leader studied him for a moment, then turned to his men.

  "?????? ??????? ???? ???? ??? ????????."

  Slowly, the weapons lowered, though the men did not rex fully. Sethis remained still, watching, waiting.

  The leader stepped closer, his expression unreadable beneath his headscarf. Then, in a quieter voice, he asked:

  "???? ???? ???"

  The decision, it seemed, was not yet made.

  The caravan people moved about the oasis. Waterskins were unfastened, dipped into the cool water, and set aside, their leather cords tightened once more. A few of the travellers settled near the palm trees, plucking ripe dates and tossing them to one another, speaking in quick, clipped phrases that Sethis could not grasp.

  A short, stocky man with a greying beard approached Sethis, a folded bundle of cloth in his hands. He stopped a few steps away, eyes wary, then extended the garment.

  "??? ???? ????."

  Sethis didn't understand the words, but the gesture was unmistakable. He reached out and took the robe, unfolding it to reveal a simple, earth-toned garment of light fabric. He slipped it over his head, letting it drape over his shoulders and fall to his knees. The cloth was thin, but it was a welcome yer between him and the gazes that still flickered toward him.

  The bearded man grunted, seemingly satisfied, and stepped away. Meanwhile, the rest of the caravan continued their routine. Some crouched near the water's edge, spshing their faces, while others sat in small circles, eating and murmuring amongst themselves.

  Two of them, young men with sharp eyes and hands resting close to their curved bdes, positioned themselves near Sethis. Their expressions were neither hostile nor welcoming—watchful, cautious. One of them muttered to the other.

  "?? ??? ??. ?? ???? ?? ??."

  Sethis caught the tone more than the words, but he could guess the meaning. He did not bme them. To them, he was a stranger, a naked man who had emerged from nowhere, silent and unreadable.

  A boy, no older than thirteen, trotted over with a small leather pouch and knelt beside the older men. He held it out and spoke in a curious, hesitant voice.

  "?? ?? ???? ?? ??????"

  One of the men shrugged. "???? ????."

  Sethis exhaled slowly, watching them. They were discussing him openly, unafraid of his understanding. In their eyes, he was little more than a peculiar vagrant, someone to be regarded with scepticism but not immediate hostility.

  He would need to prove, somehow, that he was no threat.

  Sethis considered his position. The caravan people were wary, their hands close to their weapons. He needed to change that. But how? Words were useless—he did not know their nguage. Action, then.

  He exhaled slowly and lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs in the soft sand. The men watching him tensed, their hands gripping the hilts of their curved swords, but he made no sudden moves. Instead, he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.

  The warmth of the oasis surrounded him, the heat of the sun above and the cool shade of the palms blending in contrast. He reached inward, toward the light that he knew lived within him. It responded eagerly, golden strands flickering to life between his fingers.

  He lifted his hands, guiding the delicate fiments into the air. They shimmered like threads of sunlight, twisting and weaving above the oasis. A dozen golden strands swayed in slow, hypnotic arcs, drifting between the trees, reflecting off the water’s surface. It was better than before—more fluid, more controlled. Was it the stakes? The quiet pressure of needing to earn their trust? Or the simple understanding that if this failed, he might need to fight?

  The reaction was immediate. Gasps rang out. A few men stumbled backward, hands flying to their weapons.

  "???!" someone shouted.

  The older man who had given him the robe took a step back, his eyes wide with arm. Another muttered under his breath, gripping his curved bde tightly. The two guards nearest to Sethis exchanged gnces, uncertainty fshing across their faces.

  But then, something changed.

  A breeze passed through the oasis, rustling the palms, sending ripples across the water. The golden strands of light swayed gently with the movement, as if dancing with the wind. The glow reflected in the wide eyes of the onlookers, and the fear in their faces softened.

  One of the men whispered something under his breath. Then, a child ughed, pointing at the floating strands with wonder in his eyes. Another murmured in approval.

  The tension in the air loosened. Weapons remained sheathed. The old man, still cautious, nodded to himself, rubbing his beard as he observed the dispy.

  Sethis simply sat there, a gentle smile on his face, letting the golden strands weave their quiet dance through the oasis.