The crescent moon hung low in the ink-black sky as the sound of chaos thundered against the cliffs of Anukhet—an empire carved into the red sandstone of the desert. The scent of iron and scorch preambled the battle below, but above, in the spired halls of the Alabaster Keep, a figure moved like a shadow, unseen yet certain of her purpose.
Nymeria’s sandaled feet whispered against the onyx floor, her form wrapped in layered silken robes dyed a vivid shade of deep rose. Embroidered with fiery gold thread, the fabric glimmered faintly in what little light spilled from the torches. Her long dark hair cascaded like a river of obsidian, threads of fine golden chains braided sporadically providing a warrior’s elegance. Her full lips pressed into a firm line of determination as her eyes scanned the keep, those dark irises alive with both fear and resolve.
Glistening beads of sweat clung to her skin, not just a byproduct of the arid heat but of the life-or-death decision playing out in her mind. She held in her hand an artifact, cold and too heavy for its size – a carved metallic fragment that thrummed faintly in tune with the pulses in her wrist. At this moment, Nymeria clutched what everyone died for below: The Obsidian Veil, an ancient piece of wisdom that could supposedly bring drought-stricken lands to life—or burn kingdoms into the dust.
“Nymeria?” A hushed yet sharp voice crackled behind her.
Spinning on instinct, her robes catching in the motion, she unsheathed the thin dagger at her side. It was only Vasco, his tunic torn and smeared with blood, the symbols of his monkish order obscured. His bronze skin gleamed faintly against the light, although his knotted brow showed little awe for the artifact in her hand.
“What are you doing? Everyone’s waiting for you. The Order of Saqari is breaching the lower gates!” His tone conveyed a rush of urgency laced with betrayal. “You—you weren’t thinking of running?”
“Running?” she hissed. “And where, Vasco, do you think I’d go when the Veil itself hangs heavy in my hands? To the drylands where they’d skin me alive for it? Or the Al’Hamas markets to watch idiots bid for it with broken promises?”
“Then what, Nymeria?” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a growl. “You’re keeping us here like lambs to slaughter. So do it. Decide—hand it off or destroy it, but stop looking at it like it whispers to you.”
Nymeria didn’t respond, but her grip tightened, her knuckles whitening as her fingers curled over the engraved surface. The object, unmistakably ancient, bore no allegiance to anyone. And yet, everything about its weight in her palm screamed of power and betrayal. She wanted nothing of this fight. Yet destiny always had a way of cornering its pawns into positions it couldn’t retreat from.
Through the roar of her thoughts came another sound—a thunderous crack so loud it rattled the very foundation of the spire. Sandstone dust rained from the high vaulted ceilings of the Alabaster Keep as Vasco lurched forward, grabbing Nymeria by her arm.
“They’ve breached the gates,” he remarked grimly. His determined cocoa-brown eyes stared into hers as if willing her to action. “You must decide now or the Veil will fall to them.”
Nymeria’s thoughts raced. The plan, if it could be called one, had already splintered. The elders of her city, the warriors, the scholars—none could agree on the fate of the Veil. Many saw it as salvation; just as many saw it as doom. And here she stood at the edge of consequence.
“You know what they’ll do with it, Vasco,” she whispered. Her voice was softer now but carried more anguish than anger. “Saqari won’t honor the desert or the tribes. They’ll pillage; they’ll kill. They’ll use this as a death march across continents.”
“Then destroy it,” he pressed sharply. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Destroy it. The words echoed, yet her instincts murmured otherwise. Destroying the Veil would extinguish its secrets forever, but what if even an ember of the truth it held could reverse the decades of suffering her homeland endured? Droughts that drained life from their rivers, crops that withered before the harvest—an unrelenting cycle of struggle and starvation. The Veil might be their only hope.
But that hope came with a steep cost: blood.
A new light flickered into the corridor, fiery and fast-moving. The Saqari. Their advance wasn’t just near—it was here. The heavy clash of their metal boots reverberated against the floor, accompanied by chanting in a language lost to her ancient ancestors.
Vasco shoved her toward the adjacent stairwell that coiled down the spire. “Go, Nymeria. Save yourself if you won’t save us.” His voice faltered, a mournful resignation swelling beneath the urgency. “Whatever you do… don’t let them take it.”
Nymeria’s throat tightened as she turned away. With every step down the shadow-choked stairwell, the battle above and below roared louder. The path forked into a deep chamber, its walls stained with ancient murals painted in her ancestors’ blood-red pigment.
A single altar lay in the center, its surface littered with preserved ashes. Nymeria clutched the Veil against her chest, running her thumb over its carved surface. Then she stepped forward, her pulse steady against the whispers of destiny crashing down around her.
The fires of war crept closer behind her, slower now, deliberate. But Nymeria smiled. Whether the Veil was salvation or destruction, it was a fire no one would wield again—not Saqari, not her kin.
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