Fractured Dunes - Chapter 1 - The Gathering Storm

The Vaelthar Series

The wind howled across the peaks of the Endless Spine, a mountain range carved from the bones of gods, its jagged teeth reaching toward the heavens like frozen sentinels. Snow clung to their summits in thick, unbroken sheets, a pristine white that gleamed in the fading sunlight. But the beauty was a deception, a thin veil over a land shaped by unrelenting violence. Avalanches crashed like distant thunder, rolling down slopes too steep for mercy, swallowing entire ridges beneath their weight. The air here was thin, brittle with frost, biting into anything foolish enough to linger. Ice crusted along the cliff sides, delicate but deadly, hanging in massive, jagged spears that shattered in the wind, scattering like glass upon the stone. The storms that gathered here were titanic, slow-moving behemoths of ice and fury, their edges bleeding across the sky like torn banners.

Beneath the mountains, the land softened into the tundra, where the cold did not simply bite—it devoured. A wasteland of ice and rock stretched beyond sight, a barren canvas of whites and grays, where the wind cut like razors, whispering across the surface like a ghost searching for warmth. The rivers here did not flow—they slumbered beneath thick sheets of permafrost, their depths locked away from the sky. Ancient glaciers crawled forward with agonizing slowness, carving deep scars into the earth and grinding stone into dust with the patience of centuries. Here, in this vast and unforgiving place, even the sun itself seemed distant, a pale and fragile thing in a sky too vast to care.

But the world did not end in silence. Beyond the tundra, the land broke apart, shattered into sprawling grasslands where the earth was raw and open, where the wind did not cut but screamed. The plains were a sea of green and gold, endless fields of wild grass rolling like ocean waves, swaying and shifting beneath the force of the storm winds that ruled them. The sky stretched wide here, impossibly vast, an unbroken expanse of deep blues and grays, where clouds formed in towering columns, rolling and churning as if they were alive. Thunderheads rose like distant mountains, flickering with light, spilling rain in heavy, endless curtains. The earth was not still—it shook beneath the force of tempests that roared across it, winds so strong they could uproot boulders, scatter them like seeds upon the soil. Lightning danced across the sky in veins of pale fire, crackling through the heavens with a fury that knew no master.

Then, the world tilted, falling away into the depths of the great ocean.

The coastline was jagged, the cliffs torn and broken where the land met the sea. The waves surged and crashed against them in an eternal battle, carving the stone with patient violence, chipping away at the continent with each relentless tide. The ocean stretched into infinity, a vast, unknowable expanse of deep cerulean and shadowy abyss, where the waters churned in ceaseless motion. Here, the storms were not gentle. They were titans, rising from the horizon in monstrous walls of fury, racing across the waves with winds strong enough to snap trees in half. Lightning split the sky in blinding flashes, reflecting off the water's surface and turning the sea into a mirror of chaos. But beneath the surface, all was still—depth less, dark, an ancient world untouched by the tempests above. The ocean did not rage. It waited.

And then, beyond the waters, the land rose again—a sheer wall of stone and sand, a continent carved by time and cruelty. The cliffs here were monstrous, towering slabs of red and ochre rock, scarred by centuries of erosion, by storms that had lashed against them without mercy. Some had crumbled, their edges broken where gravity had claimed its due, leaving jagged remains to be swallowed by the sands below. And the sands—they were alive. Rolling, shifting, whispering across the desert in an unceasing current of motion, dunes rising and falling like waves upon a golden sea. The desert stretched beyond sight, beyond reason, endless in its hunger, swallowing everything that dared to enter. The sun bore down upon it with unrelenting heat, its light shimmering against the magnetic grains of sand, turning the horizon into a mirage of motion, of deception. The wind swept across the dunes in curling streams, twisting the landscape into new shapes, never the same, never still.

And then, the storm came.

It began as a breath, a whisper of movement across the dunes, but it grew—fast, violent, alive. The sky darkened as the storm swallowed the horizon, the wind rising into a furious crescendo, carrying the sand with it, turning the air into a vortex of raw, searing fury. It consumed everything in its path, blotting out the sun and swallowing the land in a haze of gold and shadow. The storm did not move. It hunted. It swept across the desert, carving the dunes anew, reshaping the land as it had for centuries, as it would for centuries more.

A world of storms. A world of ruin and rebirth.

A world waiting for something—or someone to rise from the chaos.

The storm was alive.

It twisted and screamed as it tore across the dunes, a churning leviathan of sand and lightning, its body vast enough to swallow the horizon, its hunger endless. The desert howled beneath its fury, the dunes rising and falling like waves in a roiling sea, their golden crests curling in surrender before the storm’s relentless march. The magnetic sands, charged by the storm’s passing, rose in great spiraling tendrils, curling, boiling, writhing like grasping fingers of some ancient, unseen force.

Lightning shattered the sky above, not in a single strike but in violent, continuous arcs, leaping from cloud to sand and from sand to cloud, weaving through the maelstrom in erratic, unpredictable bursts. The very air crackled with energy, and the metallic grains of sand caught in the storm’s grasp ignited in blinding flashes, turning the raging mass into a shifting, luminescent beast of raw, untamed power.

No man dared walk in its wake.

No structure stood against its fury.

But there, upon the horizon—unmoving, unyielding—a crystal spire stretched toward the heavens.

It loomed over the desert like a defiant monolith, a tower of pale iridescence, its surface shimmering with the stolen light of the storm. The wind roared against it, and the sand crashed into its unbreakable walls, yet it did not falter. The tempest rushed onward, devouring the land, slamming into the spire with unimaginable force—

And then, the storm broke.

The sand curled, twisting away from the crystal’s surface. The lightning reared back as if denied its prize, its tendrils of energy skirting around the monolith’s presence, unwilling or unable to touch it. The wind, for all its fury, bent around the spire, its momentum fractured, its force diverted.

The storm did not end—it could not end—but it was forced aside.

Raging, it curled around the monolith, splitting like an enraged beast turned from its prey. Spilling to either side, it thundered onward, abandoning the spire as it howled across the sands.

For all its wrath, the storm could not conquer the crystal.

And deep beneath the sands, where the desert had long since swallowed the past, life thrived.

The crystal spire did not end in the sky. It descended, its roots stretching deep into the earth, its tendrils of light piercing the dark in thin, shining veins. And below, beneath the weight of the dunes, hidden from the merciless touch of the storm, the city of Solrath glowed like a second sun.

It was a world untouched by the fury above.

The great cavern that held Solrath was vast, soaring high overhead, its domed ceiling lost in the shimmer of reflected light. The crystal’s veins ran through the cavern walls, casting a soft, golden radiance upon the streets, upon the carved sandstone towers, and the market roads bustling with life. Magnetic skiffs hovered just above the ground, gliding silently between stalls and courtyards, carrying goods across the city. The scent of spice and stone filled the air, and the sounds of commerce and conversation were in sharp contrast to the howling winds above.

Here, the storm did not touch them.

Here, the tempest was nothing more than a distant memory, a thing to be feared but never faced.

Solrath had survived beneath the sands for generations, its people safe, its walls secure, its glowing veins of crystal a silent guardian, shielding them from the rage of the world above.

But the storm would return.

It always did.

The light inside Solrath was different from the burning glare of the desert above. Here, beneath the sands, the glow was soft and fractured, cast through the massive crystalline tower that rose from the cavern’s heart, its veins running deep into the walls of the underground city. The light did not bend like the sun or shimmer like a flame. It refracted, bent, and took shape. It bled gold and sapphire blue across the sandstone streets, bouncing through polished glass and sculpted stone, a shimmering mirage in a city untouched by the storm.

It was beautiful, enchanting, and artificial.

Zahra hated it.

She did not belong in this glow, in this softened world of safety and curated beauty. She belonged where the wind howled, where the storm roared, where the sand carved flesh like glass, and the air crackled with raw, unrelenting power.

And so, she made herself the storm.

She moved.

The dagger came first—a flicker of steel, a blur of silver as it cut toward her ribs, sharp, fast, deadly. But Zahra was faster. She twisted, her body bending with the fluidity of wind, the blade missing her by a fraction of an inch.

Another strike. A kick swept toward her legs.

She let the momentum carry her, stepping aside at the last second, turning the dodge into a pivot, shifting her weight, letting the force of her opponent’s attack betray them.

She struck.

Her elbow crashed against her opponent’s ribs. A sharp exhale. A stumble. Not enough to break them, but enough to put them on the back foot.

The next strike came without hesitation: a downward slash, a brutal cut aimed at her shoulder. Zahra ducked and spun, the wind twisting with her. Her dagger flashed, knocking the incoming blade aside, the clash of steel against steel ringing through the air.

The training grounds were alive with movement. The storm above raged, and inside these walls, Zahra raged with it.

Her opponent was fast. She was faster.

Their blades met again, the force behind each strike reverberating through her bones, but she did not waver. She did not feel the burn in her arms, the sting of sweat dripping down her back. She did not let the storm consume her.

She was the storm.

But she was also the stone beneath it.

She did not break.

A fist shot toward her face—she sidestepped. A knee aimed for her gut—she caught it with her forearm, redirecting the force, shifting her balance before delivering her counterstrike, her foot slamming against her opponent’s side.

They stumbled.

She did not hesitate.

She surged forward, blade flashing like lightning, fast and merciless but controlled, always controlled.

Her opponent barely blocked in time, the impact forcing them back, their boots scraping against the rough, blood-soaked sandstone floor.

Zahra breathed hard, but not from exhaustion.

Her body was fire and wind, her mind clear and sharp as a blade.

The storm above howled.

The storm inside her stayed steady.

Her opponent grinned, rolling their shoulder, shifting their stance—a challenge.

Zahra answered with a smirk of her own.

They lunged.

She met them in the middle, and the storm raged on.

The world blurred.

The clash of steel, the heat of movement, the pulse of battle—it faded, unraveled, slipping away like sand through her fingers.

And then there was silence.

She stood in the throne chamber, her boots planted firm against the polished onyx floor, her hands curled into fists at her sides. The weight of the words had not yet settled in her chest, not fully. They rang in her ears, sharp and final, rattling through her like the last echo of a battle already lost.

"Your training with the Sunforged is over."

That was it. The decree had been passed down, impersonal and absolute.

The ruler of Solrath had spoken, and her word was law.

The fight was gone. The adrenaline, the fury, the sharpened clarity that came with combat—it was gone.

The storm had been ripped from her hands.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

The throne chamber was nothing like the training grounds. It was untouched and carefully controlled—a room meant for politics and diplomacy, not battle, not blood, not her.

Light filtered through the great crystal tendrils above, casting shifting patterns of gold and sapphire across the walls. The chamber smelled of heated stone and incense, of something foreign, something suffocating.

The air here was wrong.

Because this was not where she was supposed to be.

She could still feel the heat of the fight lingering on her skin, the phantom sting of steel colliding against steel. She could still hear the echoes of her breath, the steady rhythm of her footfalls on the sandstone, the wind of the storm raging above as she fought like she was meant to fight.

She had just been there.

Just moments ago.

Hadn’t she?

But no—that was already the past.

This was the present.

This was real.

And this was where her war ended.

Her jaw clenched. No.

Not like this.

The storm had never ended. It had only been taken from her.

And Zahra would take it back.

"You will take your place at my side," her mother continued, voice smooth and commanding. Unyielding, like carved stone. "This childish rebellion of yours has gone on long enough."

Zahra wanted to laugh. Not the kind of laughter that came from joy, but the kind that clawed at the edges of her throat, bitter and choking. A rebellion? That’s what her mother thought this was? As if she had been running from duty and playing at war while the adults in the room made the hard decisions.

"This is not a request," Lady Mevrah continued. She sat atop the raised dais, her posture rigid, her gold-trimmed robes arranged in perfect folds across her lap. The light caught in the edges of her silver-streaked hair, making it almost metallic, like spun steel. She was the most powerful woman in Solrath, the mind behind every war, the one who had held the Sandborn together after Kaelen, her father, had died. The one who had looked Zahra in the eyes after they pulled his banner from the wreckage and told her to keep walking.

Zahra’s nails dug into her palms.

"I am not meant for politics," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Her mother did not so much as blink. "You were never meant for the Sunforged."

There it was—the final sentence. The severing of the last, frayed tether Zahra had held to the life she wanted.

Her training was over. Her path, the one she had bled for, fought for, woken before dawn, and trained until her arms trembled—it had been stolen from her, wiped away as if it had never been hers to claim.

She felt the weight of the room pressing against her, the presence of the nobles seated along the edges of the chamber, watching in silence. She did not look at them. Their faces would be blank expressionless, but she could hear them whispering, already adjusting their calculations.

They had never expected her to last.

She was Rhael’s shadow, the spare heir, the disappointment her mother had never quite managed to erase.

She had given everything to prove them wrong.

And it had not mattered.

The realization should have left her numb. But Zahra did not feel numb. She felt fire smoldering deep in her chest, a slow, simmering heat that coiled like a blade waiting to be drawn.

"I won my place among them," she said, her voice sharper now, stronger. "I trained alongside them. I bled alongside them."

"And now you will serve alongside me," Mevrah said. No hesitation. There was no room for argument.

Zahra took a step forward. She shouldn’t have. The air in the chamber grew tense, the guards along the edges shifting, hands hovering near their weapons. But Zahra did not care.

"I will not abandon them," she said. Her warriors. Her brothers and sisters in training.

Her mother met her gaze, and for the first time, something flickered in those cold, calculating eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment.

Expectation.

"You still do not understand, do you?" Mevrah leaned forward, her expression carefully neutral. "You will never be one of them, Zahra. You were not trained to serve. You were trained to rule."

The words left Zahra’s mouth before she could stop them.

"Rhael was trained to rule."

The chamber fell silent.

"And look where that landed him."

The words hung in the air, sharp and jagged, cutting through the heavy quiet like the edge of a blade drawn too fast. Zahra felt them as soon as they left her tongue—felt the sharp sting of them in her chest, felt the raw, bleeding grief behind them.

But she wasn’t the only one who felt it.

For the first time, her mother faltered.

It was a flicker, a moment, barely more than the shift of her breath. But Zahra saw it.

A glimmer of pain. A wound buried but never healed. A single crack in the unbreakable facade of Lady Mevrah Solrathen.

They both knew the truth. They both missed him. They had both loved Rhael—Zahra’s brother, the son, the rightful heir.

He had been everything they were not. A natural leader. A golden prince. The one everyone had believed in—the one who was meant to restore the Sandborn to their former strength.

But Rhael was dead.

Killed in the night, taken from them by Tideborn assassins during their last attempt to breach Solrath. It had been only days ago. The people of Solrath were still reeling. His name still echoed in their prayers, in their mourning halls, in the heavy silence of the streets where his banner had once flown.

And yet, life had moved on.

His mother still sat on the throne. His sister still stood before it. And neither of them had the luxury of grief.

Zahra saw the flicker of agony in her mother’s crystalline eyes—then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Her mother exhaled slowly, then straightened.

"You are officially removed from the list of Sunforged trainees," she said, her voice once more smooth, hardened. "From this day forward, you will serve directly under me."

Zahra felt something fracture inside her.

It was not grief. It was not sorrow. It was rage.

Zahra forced her hands into fists at her sides. She could feel the nobles watching, waiting for a reaction. Dain stood just behind her, no doubt smirking at her failure.

No.

No, she would not give them the satisfaction.

She drew herself up, spine straight, chin high, and crossed her arm across her chest, fist over her heart. The salute of the Sunforged.

Her mother’s gaze did not waver.

Neither did Zahra’s.

A sharp intake of breath cut through the chamber’s silence.

"With respect, Lady Mevrah," a voice broke through the tension, firm yet controlled. "This is a mistake."

Zahra stiffened, her fists clenching as she turned toward the voice. Commander Aedric Voss—one of the highest-ranking Sunforged instructors. A man who had drilled her into the warrior she had become. A man who had seen her fight, bleed, and rise stronger.

The silence in the chamber shifted, uncertain.

"Zahra has earned her place among the Sunforged," Aedric continued, stepping forward. His dark eyes flicked to Zahra for only a moment before fixing on her mother. "She has outlasted, outperformed, and outmatched half of those who stand in its ranks today. To cast her aside is not only a waste of talent but an insult to the very ideals we uphold."

Zahra’s heart pounded, caught between gratitude and anger. She had spent years proving herself, but here, now, even her defenders spoke of her like an asset to be used, not a person with her own will.

Her mother’s expression remained unreadable, but the coldness in her voice was unmistakable. "Commander Voss, your objections are noted. The decision is final."

Aedric did not back down. "With respect, my lady, I do not believe you are considering—"

"The decision is final," Lady Mevrah repeated, sharper this time. "Zahra will serve where she is needed."

A beat of silence. Aedric’s jaw tightened, but he gave a slow, measured nod. "Then allow me to say this, my lady—when the time comes, and you realize the mistake you’ve made, do not expect us to welcome her back so easily."

A threat? A promise? Perhaps both.

Zahra met Aedric’s gaze, searching for something—an opening, an alternative, a different path. But there was none.

The moment was over.

She turned on her heel and strode from the room, her boots striking the stone floor in perfect, measured beats.

The silence in the throne room was deafening.

No one stopped her. No one dared to speak.

Only the echo of her footsteps remained, fading into the city beyond.

She did not stop walking.

Through the palace halls, through the sunlit corridors where crystalline reflections danced across the polished stone, through the winding paths of the city she had never truly belonged to.

Only when she reached the edge of the training grounds did she stop.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

Rhael was dead.

The realization hit her like a blow to the ribs, knocking the breath from her chest. The moment the doors shut behind her, the moment she left the court's prying eyes, its weight crashed down on her.

The prince they had loved. The ruler they had waited for. The son their mother had shaped, molded, and prepared for decades to take her place—to stand at the head of Solrath, to guide their people with wisdom and certainty, to be everything she had built him to be. He was the future, the golden heir, the one whose name had been whispered with reverence in the streets, whose presence had steadied the uncertain, whose voice had commanded without ever needing to shout.

Her brother.

The one who had held her when she was small, who had steadied her when she stumbled, who had shielded her when the weight of their mother’s expectations had pressed too heavily upon her shoulders. The one who had cared when it seemed no one else did—the one who had been loved.

And now—he was gone.

And now there was only her.

The spare heir. A warrior without a sword. A girl who had never been meant to rule.

Zahra pressed her palm against the wall, staring out at the training fields below, where the Sunforged still trained without her.

Her place was down there. Not in the council halls, not standing in her mother’s shadow.

She had spent years fighting to prove herself, and in a single breath, it had been stolen away.

The war had taken her brother, the council had taken her future, and her mother had ensured she could never get either back.

Unless…

Her grip tightened.

No. She was not going to accept this.

She was going to take back her fate.

One way or another.

Zahra sensed her before she saw her.

Years of training, years of learning to listen, to read the weight of footsteps, the shift in breath, and the presence of a body before it fully arrived made her hyper-aware of the people around her. Even now, with her mind clouded in frustration, she recognized the rhythm of the person who fell into step beside her.

She didn’t need to look; she didn’t need to speak.

Aelynn.

She moved like a whisper, her feet silent, as fluid as a shadow slipping through torchlight. Aelynn had never needed the noble’s lessons, never been forced to balance council meetings with battle drills. She had been born in the training grounds, shaped by the heat of the forge, raised among warriors who only knew steel and sand.

And yet, she had never once looked down on Zahra.

She had been her mentor, her sparring partner, her closest friend.

Now, she was silent.

Not unusual for Aelynn. She rarely spoke first. She waited. And Zahra, still burning from the confrontation with her mother, still seething at the weight of her stolen future, did not feel like speaking.

So they walked.

The streets were bustling, as they always were at this time of day. Sunlight poured in through the crystalline ceiling above, reflecting off mirrored panels strategically placed along the cavern walls. The light scattered into warm hues of gold, copper, and soft blue.

The marketplace was alive with noise. Merchants shouted from their stalls, offering rare alloys, fine silks, and weaponry charged by the last great storm. Skiffs hovered just above the smooth sandstone roads, laden with goods, gliding through the air like fish through water.

None of it felt real to Zahra.

The city had always felt too polished, too curated, too disconnected from the world above. A kingdom buried beneath the sand, thriving on what it could take from the land while refusing to be part of it.

Maybe that was why she had always longed to be on the surface.

Zahra barely noticed the people moving around her, barely heard the market’s clamor. Her mind was still back in that throne room, still lingering on her mother’s cold decree, on the weight of duty pressing down on her ribs.

She clenched her fists.

"Your training with the Sunforged is over."

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, looping, and then settled in her chest like a stone dropping into deep water.

Over.

She wanted to laugh, to spit, to rage. Over? As if all those years—years of waking at dawn to train until her muscles shook, years of proving herself against every warrior who doubted her—could be dismissed so easily?

She was still a warrior. She was still Sunforged.

Her mother could strip away the title, but she could not strip away what Zahra had bled for.

She exhaled sharply, forcing her rage down, gripping it like a blade she wasn’t ready to draw.

They turned a corner, the streets widening toward the lake district. The scent of water and mineral-rich stone filled the air, damp and cool against the desert heat that trickled in from the tunnels above.

Only then did Aelynn speak.

"It should have been your choice."

Her voice was calm, even. No anger. Just a simple, undeniable truth.

Zahra did not answer at first.

What was there to say?

She had known since the day Rhael died that her choices were gone. Everything she wanted, everything she had worked for, had been reduced to ashes at his funeral pyre.

She should have fought harder. She should have seen this coming.

But she had wanted to believe she could still have something of her own.

"It doesn’t matter," she said finally, her voice quiet. "It’s done."

Aelynn didn’t argue. She never argued when Zahra was like this.

But she also didn’t agree.

They walked on in silence.

The lake district was quieter than the marketplace, a place of reflection and rest. The water stretched deep beneath the cavern ceiling, fed by underground rivers and kept alive by the unseen currents that ran beneath and through the city.

Zahra stopped at the edge of the lake, staring at the rippling surface.

She felt Aelynn watching her.

She already knew what her friend was thinking.

Zahra was not the kind of person to accept a loss or bow and retreat.

Zahra closed her eyes.

"I’m not done."

Aelynn exhaled softly. Not quite relief, not quite approval.

"What are you planning?"

Zahra didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But deep in her chest, the fire that had been smothered for years had begun to burn again.

For Zahra, fighting had never been meaningless.

Every strike of the blade, every measured breath before a blow landed—it all carried purpose. It all carried rage.

Her father had died fighting the Tideborn, cut down in battle; his body never recovered from the wreckage of the ships they burned. She had been young, too young to understand the weight of war, but she had understood loss. She had understood grief.

And she had sworn, even then, even before she could hold a blade properly, that she would finish what her father had started.

She would cut them down the way they had cut him down.

The years since had hardened her. Every morning, every night, she had thrown herself into training, into the burn of exhaustion, into the sharp sting of blisters and bruises. She let the anger shape her, sharpen her.

And now, with Rhael gone, that fire only burned hotter.

The Tideborn had taken everything.

Her father. Her brother. Her right to fight.

And her mother?

Zahra’s jaw clenched.

Lady Mevrah was content sitting in her throne room, playing the part of ruler and politician, building alliances, maintaining trade routes, and expanding their reach beneath the sands.

Had she ever cared about vengeance? Had she ever truly wanted justice for the men they had lost?

Zahra felt a pang of guilt even thinking about it. Of course, her mother had cared. She had been there. She had seen it firsthand. She had watched the flames consume what was left of their father’s fleet and had heard the screams of the dying. She had been the one who had ensured Rhael was wrapped in golden cloth, the one who had burned his body herself, hands steady even as tears stained her face.

That was the only time Zahra had ever seen her mother cry.

And then, just as quickly, she had sealed herself away again, untouchable. Unbreakable.

So why?

Why, if she had felt that pain too, was she taking away the one thing Zahra had left?

"I’ve been training for both of them," Zahra murmured under her breath. "Not just for me."

Aelynn glanced at her but said nothing.

They reached the edge of the lake, where the water lapped gently at the carved sandstone. The cool ripples swirled around Zahra’s ankles as they stepped into the shallows, walking toward the source of the sound—one of the massive underground rivers that fed into the lake.

The water swirled around Zahra’s ankles, cold against her skin. The current was slow but steady as it bled away into the darkness of the cavern tunnels. She stood motionless, letting the coolness creep up her legs, numbing the heat simmering beneath her skin. It didn’t help. Nothing did.

This river. This lake. This city.

It was all built on ghosts.

Zahra stood motionless, watching the ripples twist and spiral outward. The movement was hypnotic, pulling her gaze deeper and deeper toward the point where the current slipped into the cavern’s veins and was swallowed by the dark. The water looked black there, an abyss hidden within the shimmering blue where the light could not reach. It churned, restless, and alive in a way that sent a chill up her spine, though she would never name it fear.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the depths and let it drift upward.

The city of Solrath rose around her like a dream cast in stone and crystal.

Buildings stretched high into the cavern, carved into the rock itself. They were towering structures of sandstone and polished obsidian, their surfaces catching the fractured glow of the great crystalline spire that loomed above. Veins of sun-infused crystal threaded through the city like rivers of molten gold, weaving light through the streets and illuminating market squares, bridges, and towering archways. Even the water glowed faintly where the light touched it, reflecting the warm brilliance of Solrath’s heart.

And yet, for all its radiance, the city was never fully illuminated.

Zahra’s eyes traced the alleyways that split the grand structures, deep pockets of shadow pooling between the buildings like ink spilled across a page. Some streets were entirely swallowed by darkness, untouched by the crystal’s reach, their pathways winding away into unseen depths.

There, in the voids between light, anything could lurk.

Her mind filled the shadows for her, unbidden. The recesses of her thoughts conjured figures within the blackness—watching, waiting, breathing just beyond the reach of her senses.

Tideborn assassins, clad in the colors of the sea, knives glinting with poison. Traitors in the dark whispered her name as they reached for their blades. The ghosts of her father and brother were waiting for her to join them.

Her fingers twitched at her belt, brushing against the hilts of her throwing knives. The weight was silent and familiar—a promise of steel, control, and retribution.

If something moved within those shadows, if something reached for her, she would end it.

But nothing did.

Nothing came crawling from the darkness.

Only the city remained, glittering, waiting, stretching high and away from the lake as if trying to claw its way back to the surface, to the sun, to a world that had abandoned them long ago.

Zahra exhaled, forcing herself to let go of the tension coiled in her shoulders, though her fingers remained close to her knives.

The river whispered as it fled into the blackness. The crystals hummed with stolen sunlight.

She followed the water with her eyes, watching it twist and disappear into the stone. Miles away, beyond this tunnel, it would break free from the caverns and rush toward the ocean—toward them.

The very same Tideborn who had destroyed everything.

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and let the memories rise like embers in a firestorm.

Once, her people had stood beside the sea, not beneath the sand.

Once, they thrived in cities carved into the cliffs, woven into the rock itself. Their golden towers stretched over the waves, their trade fleets stretched across the horizon, and their harbors bustled with commerce, power, and wealth. They were a people of stone and sun, of trade and ingenuity, of endurance. The desert had never been kind, but the ocean had made up for it.

And then the Tideborn had taken that from them.

She could still remember the stories. Everyone could. The elders whispered them like sacred oaths; the younger generations repeated them as war cries, and the Sunforged burned them into their skin as lessons to never forget.

The Tideborn had come like a storm. They had gathered their fleets and wielded their channelers like weapons, their mastery over the sea turning the tides to their will. And they had drowned Zahra’s people beneath the waves.

The cliffs had crumbled, the harbors had shattered, and the great sandstone towers had been ripped apart as massive and merciless waves crashed against the coast, swallowing entire districts.

Hundreds of thousands had died.

Men, women, children—entire bloodlines lost beneath the flood, dragged to the depths, suffocated in a grave of salt and ruin. The survivors had screamed for help and reached out to the ships that hovered on the horizon, watching.

But the Tideborn had done nothing.

They had not offered aid. They had not pulled a single survivor from the wreckage. They had left them to die, standing on the decks of their warships, watching as the waters swallowed everything.

And when the tides finally receded, when the sea had taken its due and left only bones behind, the Tideborn had turned away. They had abandoned their former trade partners, cutting off routes, severing ties, and turning cold and distant as if the Sandborn were no longer worth acknowledging.

That had been the true betrayal.

Not the waves. Not the war. Not the destruction of their cities.

But the silence that followed.

The Tideborn had washed their hands of the slaughter, stepping back as if it had not been their channelers who had summoned the waves as if they had not unleashed devastation on people who had once been allies.

The Sandborn had begged for aid. They had sent envoys, sought alliances, and pleaded for even a sliver of the trade that had once kept their economy thriving.

But they had been met with cold distance.

The Tideborn had looked upon their suffering, upon the ruin they had wrought and turned away.

And so the war had begun.

A war that had never ended.

Because how could it?

How could you forgive the people who had drowned your home?

How could you negotiate with those who had slaughtered your families and pretended it had never happened?

Zahra’s people had been left to pick up the shattered remains of their kingdom, to drag what little they had left into the sands, to survive where no one should have survived.

And they had.

They had endured. They had built new cities beneath the desert, carved homes from stone, and created something that even the Tideborn could not take from them.

And the hatred?

That had never faded.

The war had burned for generations, passed down like an heirloom, a blade sharpened with each new ruler. The Tideborn had tried to starve them out, cutting off supply lines, seizing merchant ships, and ensuring that the Sandborn would wither in isolation.

But they hadn’t.

Because the Sandborn were not so easily broken.

And now, they had taken from Zahra personally.

Not just a home. Not just a city.

Her father. Her brother.

The thought sent a pulse of white-hot anger through her veins. She sucked in a breath, clenched her fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

She could see Rhael’s body, wrapped in gold, lying in the chamber of the dead. She could still hear the stories of how he had been taken in the night, assassins slipping through the palace, ending his life before he could even fight back.

And now her mother wanted her to do nothing?

Wanted her to sit in council meetings, to negotiate, to build treaties, to smile and pretend the world had not carved its claws into her and left her bleeding?

No.

She would not waste away in politics while their enemies still breathed.

She turned to Aelynn, voice cold and sharp.

"I will not let them take anything else from me."

Aelynn exhaled, looking at her carefully and reading her. Judging her.

Zahra already knew what she was thinking.

That she was reckless. That she was angry. That she was walking a path that would only end in blood.

Zahra did not care.

Her mother had taken her future.

The Tideborn had taken her family.

But she was not done.

She was not done.

She would not bow. She would not submit. She would not let the people who had burned her world steal anything else from her.

And if the only way to get her future back was to force them to see her, to force them to recognize her worth—

Then she would do it.

She would become the warrior they could not ignore.

She would step into the storm and come out stronger.

Zahra turned to Aelynn, the world narrowing to one simple, undeniable need—release. Her fingers were already at her belt, already curling around the hilt of her dagger. The familiar weight of it steadied her, an anchor against the storm still raging in her chest.

She drew the blade, the whisper of steel against leather barely audible over the water’s steady rush. The tension inside her had built too high, too hot, too fast, and she knew herself well enough to recognize that she was close to breaking. If she didn’t let it out now, it would come out later in a way she wouldn’t be able to control.

Aelynn had always understood that about her.

"Spar with me," Zahra demanded, her stance already shifting, blade angled, body poised. "Now."

Aelynn didn’t hesitate. She never did.

Aelynn moved first. She always did. A flash of steel, a twist of motion so fluid it barely seemed real, a shift in weight so seamless that Zahra almost didn’t see the strike coming. Almost.

Zahra ducked low, twisting away from the feint before the real blow came—a quick flick of Aelynn’s dagger meant to slip beneath her guard. It was a good strike, precise, controlled, measured. The kind of strike Aelynn always delivered. The kind that should have forced Zahra back.

But Zahra didn’t retreat.

She lunged forward, not back, forcing Aelynn to disengage and step away from the lake’s edge as Zahra pressed forward. She pushed, her anger shaping her movements, burning through her like wildfire, driving her blade toward Aelynn’s ribs, her strikes coming faster than thought, faster than reason.

Aelynn deflected, spinning on her heel, the sand beneath her feet shifting as she maneuvered to Zahra’s side, but Zahra was already there, already bringing her dagger down in a brutal arc.

Aelynn grunted as she blocked, steel clashing against steel in a sharp, ringing cry.

Zahra’s pulse thundered in her ears.

She struck again. Harder.

Aelynn blocked.

She struck again. Faster.

Aelynn turned, twisting away, but not fast enough.

Zahra’s blade kissed the edge of Aelynn’s sleeve, carving through the fabric, nicking flesh. A shallow cut. Barely anything at all.

Zahra’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She had to keep moving, keep striking, keep pushing because if she stopped, even for a second, she would drown in everything she was trying to escape.

The anger. The loss. The suffocating helplessness.

So she fought harder. She let the fire burn.

Aelynn was on the defensive now, her movements not quite as sharp or fast. Zahra saw it, felt it—that small, rare moment when she was winning.

Her heart pounded. Her arms burned.

She didn’t care. She didn’t think. She just moved.

She fought like she was trying to carve her pain into the air itself.

Her blade came up, cutting through the sunlight. Aelynn deflected. Zahra twisted, sweeping low, forcing Aelynn back toward the water. Aelynn deflected. Zahra lunged again, an overhead strike, bringing her dagger down with all the force she had left—

Aelynn didn’t block.

She stepped aside.

And suddenly, Zahra’s momentum betrayed her.

Her body lurched forward, thrown off balance as her blade sliced only empty air. The force of her attack turned against her, her exhaustion setting in like a vice around her chest, squeezing her lungs, robbing her of air.

And then—

She was falling.

Her knee hit the sand, her palm slamming against the wet stone beneath her. The fight had been ripped from her hands before she even realized it was gone.

Aelynn stood over her, barely a scratch on her.

Not even winded.

Zahra’s hands clenched against the ground, rage still boiling beneath her skin. But it wasn’t rage at Aelynn.

It was rage at herself.

She had lost.

Because she hadn’t been fighting like a warrior, she had been fighting like a storm.

And storms burned themselves out.

She breathed heavily, the world around her blurring at the edges. The lake lapped at her knees, cool and indifferent. The sky above the cavern glittered with refracted light from the crystalline tower, beautiful and cruel because none of it had changed.

She had fought. She had burned. And it had not mattered.

Her breath came shallow, her body shaking, exhaustion creeping in like a whisper of death.

Aelynn didn’t speak. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t chastise.

She had let Zahra wear herself down.

Let her burn herself out.

Because she had known.

Aelynn had seen Zahra’s anger for what it was—had let her pour it into something safe before it could destroy her.

Zahra hated her for it.

And she loved her for it.

Her body was wrung dry, stripped of everything it had; the last dregs of her fury siphoned away with each labored breath.

She looked up.

Aelynn was standing over her.

Zahra had been winning. Or so she’d thought.

She knew now that Aelynn had let her.

Aelynn had seen what Zahra needed and had known that this wasn’t a fight—it was a release.

And she had given it to her.

Zahra’s pride flared, hot and humiliated. She should be angry. Should be furious. But when she met Aelynn’s gaze, there was no mockery. No pity.

Only understanding.

Aelynn didn’t call out her mistakes. Didn’t lecture her, didn’t tell her what she already knew. She didn’t remind her that feeling got you killed in the war, that emotion made you reckless, that rage without direction was weakness.

She didn’t say any of it.

Because she didn’t need to.

Zahra already knew.

She had learned the lesson in the pain of her exhaustion, in the way her body had failed her, in the way she had spent all her fire and had nothing left to show for it.

The rage inside her wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t quelled. It was still there, still smoldering, still clinging to her ribs like embers in a dying fire.

But now, she could think again.

Her body was spent, but her mind was clear.

And so she knelt, pressing her hands into the cool water, drinking deeply. The liquid was cold, crisp, untouched by the heat of the desert above. It rushed over her hands, over her wrists, seeping into her skin, cooling the fire still pulsing through her blood.

She drank, then exhaled, her breath slow, steady.

Aelynn knelt beside her, silent, cupping her hand and bringing water to her mouth, drinking deeply.

She didn’t ask Zahra what she was thinking.

Zahra watched the water drip from her fingertips, droplets catching the golden glow of the crystal veins overhead, scattering the light like fragments of a shattered kaleidoscope across the fabric of her Sunforged uniform. It shimmered across the deep reds and bronzes of the tunic, tracing the embroidered insignia at her shoulder—the emblem of warriors who stood unyielding against the storm.

This may be the last time she would wear it.

She pressed her lips together, the thought curling in her chest, bitter and unwelcome.

"I’m not ready," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The words sat heavy in her mouth, raw, aching, real. They were the kind of words she never let herself speak, never let herself think. But here, with Aelynn beside her, the truth slipped out, carried away by the whisper of the river as it bled into the tunnels beyond.

Aelynn did not scoff, did not give her some meaningless reassurance. She merely nodded, trailing her fingers through the cool water, watching as the ripples spread outward, breaking against the reflection of the cavern lights above.

"You’ve done well, considering," Aelynn murmured, her voice calm, steady.

Zahra exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"Not well enough."

She stared down at her reflection, the water warping her features, the ripples distorting the sharp angles of her face. But her eyes remained twin amber flames, burning even through the shifting surface.

She had always hated her reflection.

Despite living beneath it, her bronzed skin was kissed by the desert sun. Her dark hair—thick and wavy, bound back in tight braids and woven with thin cords of golden thread—was a sign of her bloodline, her status, and the expectations that had always weighed against her shoulders. And her eyes.

Those cursed amber eyes caught the light even in darkness, gleaming like molten gold. They were a mark of her lineage, of her mother, of everything she was meant to be.

She clenched her jaw and looked away.

Aelynn was right. She had done well. But not well enough.

Not enough to stand among the Sunforged. Not enough to be her brother’s equal. Not enough to be anything other than what her mother had dictated.

"Unlike you, I barely have time to train."

She hated the bitterness in her voice, hated that it sounded like an excuse, like weakness. But it was the truth. Aelynn had spent her years shaping herself into a warrior, dedicating herself fully to the path Zahra had only been allowed to glimpse.

It was never supposed to be Zahra’s life.

But she had made it hers anyway.

"I can’t stop now," Zahra muttered, curling her fingers into a fist, feeling the dampness of the water cool against her palm. "I’m so close. I just need more time. More training. I need—"

She hesitated, then met Aelynn’s gaze.

"Will you keep teaching me?"

Aelynn’s lips twitched, the hint of a smirk dancing across her face.

"Of course, I will," she said, dipping her hand into the water again, watching as droplets slid down her wrist. "It’s not my skin that’s at risk when Lady Mervah finds out."

Zahra scoffed, but the tension in her chest eased just slightly.

Aelynn was right about that, too.

But Zahra had never feared consequences.

Zahra’s voice was steel. "I will not stop."

The words came easily, without hesitation, as though she had already decided long before she had spoken them aloud because she had. Because she was not her mother’s puppet nor the quiet heir of a forgotten throne. She was a warrior. And she would not break.

"I will train in the hours after my lessons, after the council meetings, after every miserable, suffocating lecture she forces upon me. I will train in the secrecy of night when the city sleeps, and the eyes of the court no longer watch me. I will find time—steal time—carve it from the stone if I have to. I will not stop. I will not let her take this from me."

Zahra exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the fabric of her Sunforged tunic, feeling the weight of it, the truth of it. No. This was not the last time she would wear this uniform.

Aelynn was quiet for a moment, trailing her fingers once more through the water, watching as the ripples swirled outward, warping their reflections, distorting their faces. She did not meet Zahra’s gaze as she finally spoke.

"Of course," Aelynn said softly, standing fluidly, brushing the sand from her hands. But her voice held something else.

Something Zahra did not hear. Something she did not see.

The hesitation. The tension in Aelynn’s fingers, the slight curl of them, as if she were holding something back, gripping onto something unsaid.

Zahra turned away from the lake and back toward the city, her mind already alight with her next steps and the war she was waging inside herself. She did not look back as Aelynn fell into step beside her, silent, her presence steady and unwavering. But Zahra knew her. She knew Aelynn like she knew the shape of her breath and the tempo of her heartbeat.

And yet, at this moment, she did not see the doubt flicker in Aelynn’s eyes. She did not hear the quiet weight behind her agreement.

All she heard was the sound of thunder rolling through the caverns.

The storm outside raged.

Lightning flickered, and as it struck the desert above, its light bled through the crystal veins of the city, a jagged pulse of raw, untamed power coursing through the heart of Solrath. The reflection shimmered in the streets, splitting across sandstone and polished glass, warping in the lake’s restless surface.

It crackled. It surged.

It pulsed like something alive.

And inside her, the storm raged as well.

Zahra felt it curling beneath her skin, the crackle of lightning in her veins, the pulse of something that did not yet have a name. She did not recognize it for what it was—not yet—but she knew its hunger, its thirst.

Revenge. Justice. Retribution.

Her father’s blood had been claimed by the sea, swallowed by the tide, and lost beneath the waves where no grave could mark his passing. Time had buried the memory, but it had not erased it—his absence still echoed in the hush of council chambers, in the weight of her mother’s silence, in the quiet, unspoken grief that settled over Solrath like dust.

And she would not let that stand.

She would play the game. She would sit through every meeting, lesson, and mind-numbing lecture. She would nod in all the right places, smile when expected, and let them believe she was bending and becoming what they wanted her to be.

She would pretend to be what her mother expected.

But in the night, she would fight. She would train. She would sharpen herself against the edges of her fury.

And when the time came—when she was ready—

The storm outside howled.

Zahra walked into the city, her fists tight, her breath steady, her fire unquenched.

It was not the last time she would wear this uniform.

It was only the beginning.