The blade was already at Sahira’s throat when the first shadow sliced through the tent’s fabric. The air was thick with incense and the murmured cadence of the High Priest’s chant when it all unraveled—the ceremony, the fragile peace, her plan. The assassin’s hood was black as coal, but the gold embroidery around the edges betrayed a soldier of Raokh’s horde, loyal to the Warlord of the Red Dunes. Everything went silent for a heartbeat—then chaos raged—daggers, sand, and screaming throats all blending into a cacophony that exploded around her.
Sahira ducked just in time, the blade grazing the delicate blue-and-pink silks that wrapped tightly around her slender frame. Her outfit, a flowing desert ensemble of translucent pink gauze layered over an intricately embroidered blue corset stitched with fine gold thread, was crafted for form rather than function. A foolish choice, she thought bitterly, as she fought to wrestle the dagger from the horde’s grip. Its color—a callback to her noble lineage—may yet place a target on her back. The lacework edges on the silk shimmered against her pale skin, ghostlike under the desert moon now flooding the chaos beyond the tent. But none of that mattered. She refused to die here, dressed for a charade she had planned to thwart.
The tent collapsed in fire behind her as Sahira lunged outside, sand scorching her bare feet. Around her, a caravan painted in splashes of blood and flame succumbed to Raokh’s attack. The Warlord’s forces carved through her people with brutal precision, their curved blades glinting like falling stars under the crimson canopy of dusk. Her only chance lay just beyond the dunes where, hidden in the remains of an ancient Atlantean ruin, her father’s old research might hold the key to survival—and rebellion.
Running, she tightened the thin silk scarf around her neck—pink like the gauze of her outfit—fighting to block out the stench of smoke and the cries. The scarf was all that remained from a mother whose face she could no longer recall. Sahira could hear the hiss of arrows slicing the air behind her, some striking sand at her heels. She paused briefly behind the jagged spine of stone in the dunes to realign her thoughts. Two soldiers pursued her—armed, armored, impenetrable. She reached for a blade of her own but groaned at the sight; within her silk sleeves, she tucked nothing more than a ceremonial dagger. It was barely longer than her palm, ornate in its ivory hilt and utterly useless against trained killers.
Above her burned the twin moons of Xerath, casting silver light down on the endless desert stretch. Despite the adrenaline, Sahira’s piercing blue gaze burned with defiance. If this was to be her end, she would not play the part of the helpless princess. She ripped away the lower hem of her gauzy skirt, exposing more skin but freeing her legs to run faster. Glimmers of gold thread sparkled in the torn fabric, reminiscent of luxury she’d gladly sacrifice for survival.
The soldiers closed the distance quickly. They snarled in their guttural tongue, confident she would fall. Sahira clenched her dagger and waited, forcing herself calm. Rage would not save her now; precision might. The soldiers rounded the stone spine, faces obscured by dark helmets plated with crimson. She used the firelight behind her to blind them momentarily—and she struck. The dagger plunged into the slit of the first man’s neck. He crumbled soundlessly into the sand.
The second caught her wrist and twisted violently, sending her crying out as her weapon clattered. His grip was inhumanly strong, and as panic rose in her, she thought of her father—the scholar who had been dragged out before the Temple Circle while this ambush erupted. Was he still alive? Would his warnings prove true before she perished? But then the noise returned—she could hear a thunderous, mechanical roar slicing through the air. Even her captor stilled as light bathed their struggle.
From above, an ancient, glowing construct hovered over the dunes, its shape jagged like obsidian. A whisper spoke from somewhere within Sahira’s soul, ancient and resonant, sharp as a memory she’d never lived. She felt her blood lurch like it recognized something the world around her failed to comprehend. When the construct’s weaponry fired, it no longer mattered what had happened in the Temple Circle, nor what Raokh demanded in vengeance—something far older and angrier had now awoken.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Pink Lace Underwear Set with Vintage Floral Patterns and Soft Pink Hue for Modern Feminine Style
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