Desert Shadows, Copper Secrets

The sun seared across the vast expanse of red dunes, painting golden highlights on the crumbling structures that dotted the ancient landscape. A sharp whistle pierced the hot, arid air, followed by the thundering hooves of pursuers. She ran, keeping low, her eyes fixed on the shimmering horizon where the mirage of the City of Copper flickered into existence. Her breath came in short, quick bursts, and her bare feet churned the sun-baked sand, leaving fleeting traces of her passage.

Naima’s slim silhouette darted through the ruins of what had once been a vast trade outpost. Her ebony skin glistened with sweat and her body was wrapped in a short, ivory tunic tied tightly at the waist with a gold cord. The tunic was cut so it left her arms bare and ended high above her knees for ease of movement, a style common among desert runners in her tribe. On her head, a white scarf frayed at the edges fluttered as she ran, both a shield from the unrelenting sun and a sign of her allegiance to the Ralash nomads. Her white attire, symbolic of peace and defiance, stood out against the ochre sands—bold, unmistakable, and dangerous under pursuit.

Behind her, the sound of shouting grew louder. Naima spared a glance over her shoulder and cursed under her breath. The mercenaries dressed in copper-studded leathers, hired blades of the Merchant Prorates, would not stop until their quarry was either dead or dragged back to the city alive. She hadn’t expected them to unleash three sand steeds so quickly, their monstrous, clawed mounts bred for endurance and ferocity. She had stolen something they prized, something she would die to protect. A small, glinting orb fastened on a chain swung from her neck, tucked against her collarbone.

See also The Forgotten Worlds

“There’s nowhere to go!” shouted the mounted leader, his guttural voice tinged with the accent of the Copper Provinces. “Drop the orb and we’ll leave your corpse intact!”

Naima smirked. “Come and take it!” she yelled back without breaking stride. Her defiance was deliberate, her voice ruler-steady despite the thunder rising behind her.

Not far now. She knew the stories—they were every child’s bedtime tales. Hidden within the City of Copper’s melted ruins, where technology and stone had fused together in ancient calamity, lay labyrinths only the desert-born could navigate. She only needed to reach the outskirts. Above her, buzzard-like machines patrolled, low whirring filling the air, but she knew they couldn’t act without ground confirmation from the mercenaries. The orb pulsed faintly—it was alive, its energy resonating with her heartbeat.

In though fragmented moments, she remembered her elder’s words from three nights before, spoken in hushed tones beneath stars. “This is no mere trinket,” Elder Kaleem said. “It holds the memory of an age before ours, an age that fell. If they retrieve it, Naima, the deserts will burn once more, and then all the sands beneath the sky will become glass.” Her hands felt heavy when the elder presented it to her, but she promised to carry it west, beyond the reach of greed. The weight she bore now, tethered to her soul, was more pressuring than any sandstorm.

Her retreat into memory cost her but a second, and one of the mercenaries now rode far too close. From the corner of her eye, she saw his spear gleaming in the light, poised to strike. She acted on instinct. With a dive, she hit the sand and rolled, kicking up a cloud of dust as the spear whistled past her and embedded itself in the ground. Propelled by sudden desperation, Naima spun onto her knees, clawed at the sand where the spear quivered, and hurled it back. It struck the rider’s mount in the flank, sending both beast and man crashing into the sand.

See also The Tides of Tikal

The other two riders snarled curses and urged their mounts forward even faster. But now, she was there—at the edge of sanctuary. Sunlight fell differently here; the ruins ahead shimmered, the coppery glow refracting as if reality itself had fractured. Her village tales spoke truth: no outsider could cross without a guide. Mercenaries from the provinces neither understood nor respected such truths, and for that, they would fail. She turned, defiant, just as the two remaining figures bore down on her.

Naima whispered to the orb, her lips brushing its surface. “Open the gate,” she murmured. The air crackled, filling with a metallic hum that startled the approaching steeds. The space ahead of her rippled, revealing a tunnel writhing with soft orange light. Without hesitation, she bolted through the entrance, the sizzling barrier collapsing behind her just as the mercenaries, blinded by rage, hurled themselves forward. She heard their screams cut short, and then silence reigned.

Inside, the oppressive heat of the desert melted into a strange, cool stillness. Strange copper walls stretched endlessly, engraved with symbols that pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging her presence. She clutched the orb tightly and whispered, “I am here.” The ancient voices responded, not in words but in sensation—grief, yearning, and hope. The orb hummed in reply, and she walked on.

Whatever had destroyed the world once lay here, dormant. And whatever could save it—or doom it further—awaited Naima’s next steps. Her enemies would not stop coming. But for now, she had the city, the orb, and a slim chance for salvation.