The midday sun burned high in the sky, drenching the world in gold and white. The Luzde Desert was a vast and unforgiving place. The sand stretched long and endless in every conceivable direction, dunes rolling like frozen waves, their peaks sharp and bright beneath the merciless light. Air shimmered at this time of day, thick with heat, distorting the edges of the oasis town below.

But at the highest point of a particularly tall dune at the edge of town, where the sand fell away steeply on either side, the ladies of the Vellamira Household danced.

Marisol's glaives slid against the shifting grains, her breaths harsh, her muscles aching, every fibre of her body burning as she struggled to keep up with her mama. Her movements were stiff, erratic, her weight shifting wrong, her balance breaking apart with every misstep. The sand beneath her was treacherous. It swallowed the tip of her glaives and pulled her down when she needed to rise.

Below the two of them—watching, waiting, judging—was the entire town.

She could feel their eyes. Their whispers. Their silent awe. It pressed into her back, into her ribs, turned her pulse jagged and uneven. She wasn't used to this. She should be used to it, but she was almost ashamed to admit that right now, she was more used to fighting than being stared at. Not this. Not performing. Not moving for the sake of movement. Not stepping onto an empty battlefield with nothing but her own body as the enemy.

She was shaking. She couldn't stop shaking.

But her mama was weightless.

Old Miss Vellamira twirled across the sand like it wasn't even there. Like the desert was merely a stage built for her alone. The hem of her dress flared with every turn, a ribbon of movement, her arms flowing like water, her bare feet gliding effortlessly atop the golden grains. Not once did she stumble. Not once did she break rhythm. Even after ten years confined to a bed, her body still remembered the most basic step routine.

Glide. Spin. Pause, raise arms. Twirl and caper. Sharp turn. Sharp pivot. Then jump—soar.

Marisol swallowed the knot in her throat.

Her mama glanced at her mid-spin, those sharp eyes catching every flaw, every faltering step in her own routine.

"Focus, Mari."

Marisol exhaled sharply through her nose, her teeth grinding.

She'd waited to sand dance with her mama for ten years, but right here, right now—drenched in sweat, aching, exhausted—she couldn't feel anything.

She was too aware of the crowd. Too aware of her own clumsy limbs. Too aware of the way her breath hitched, the way her heart pounded, the way her balance teetered like she was still a girl chasing after her mother's shadow, desperate to keep up.

Her routines repeated, refining, sharpening, each mistake carving itself into her bones. Her body burned, her lungs screamed, her thoughts blurred into movement, into sweat, into the never-ending rhythm of the sand beneath her feet.

Time bled away as she repeated her routines, refined them, sharpened them. The sun continued crawling across the sky, the town below continued shimmering like a mirage, and the desert continued stretching infinitely beyond her.

Two hours passed before she finally collapsed.

She hit the sand hard, her back pressing into the heated grains. Sweat slicked her skin. Her limbs felt leaden, and every inch of her burned from the inside out. The world tilted and swayed in her vision, bright, hazy, and distant.

And yet—above her, in front of her—her mama was still dancing.

Her fingers curled into the sand, gripping nothing, grasping for something solid as she turned her head.

"Ma," she rasped, voice dry, cracking. "You… You should be resting." She swallowed past the rawness in her throat, forcing out words between gasps. "You just got healed. You should be lying down, not—"

"I've been lying down for the better part of ten years." Her mama only hummed, a small smile curving her lips as she spun at the edge of the dune. Her foot touched down, effortless, smooth. "I wanna move a little."

Marisol didn't know what to say to that.

So she just watched as the world narrowed to the sway of her mama's body.

She sat frozen in the sand, breathless, spellbound, watching as her mother danced along the razor edge of the dune. The sun carved gold into her skin, the wind tugged at the loose folds of her dress, and her feet barely seemed to touch the ground as she moved. She was caught in a rhythm older than time itself. Flowing through the steps as if she'd never been locked away, never been robbed of ten years, never been anything less than alive.

And for a moment, Marisol could only watch.

She'd fought monsters. She'd cleaved through chitin and flesh alike, danced her own dance with death, and carved a path through carnage with her glaives flashing like streaks of blue fire, but this—this—was something else.

This was effortless.

This was untouched by hesitation, by doubt, by the weight of the past. This was a woman who'd been still for far too long and had decided, finally, that she'd never stop moving again.

Then, a sound shattered through her trance.

Low. Deep. Growing.

The air twisted. The sky darkened. Marisol whirled around as a howling roar echoed across the dunes, swelling, shifting, tearing through the silence like a war horn. A column of sand writhed in the distance, spinning, howling, moving—and the dust devil's course was set.

Stolen novel; please report.

Straight for the oasis town.

Marisol lurched upright, her body moving before her mind could catch up. The sight of it—the sheer size of the dust devil—sent a pulse of raw, instinctive panic hammering through her chest, but she pushed past it. She shoved one glaive into the sand, then another, her knees buckling to launch her forward—

And then she froze.

Her breath hitched. Her arms seized.

Something cold coiled around her ribs, her spine, her lungs, squeezing tight.

She tried—gods, she tried—to move. To force her body forward, to carve through the rising dust devil with the same recklessness she'd wielded against so many foes before, but… this wasn't a foe. This wasn't a beast, or a soldier, or a monster that bled and broke and screamed.

The dust devil came from the world itself.

Her stomach twisted violently. Her throat locked.

She was scared.

It wasn't the kind of fear that sharpened her, nor the kind that made her faster, made her alive. No. This was the other kind. The kind that rooted her in place, that made her limbs feel foreign, useless, weak. She could hear her pulse in her ears. Too fast. Too erratic. The wind was roaring now, the dust devil closing in, and she still couldn't make herself move.

Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

"Ma! You have to run! It's gonna—"

Her mama twirled and kicked the storm.

The impact cracked through the air like a thunderclap.

The moment her mama's foot struck the swirling core of the dust devil, its path snapped sideways. The entire towering mass of sand and wind buckled, shuddering like a wounded beast, its momentum thrown into chaos. Then it veered violently away, twisting and collapsing as it tore itself apart, swallowed back into the dunes.

Silence.

But Marisol's ears still rang.

She stared, her mind blank, her body locked, her breath still stuck somewhere in her throat. Her mama—her once frail, sick, bedridden mama—lowered her leg slowly, exhaling. The soft rise and fall of her breath was the only sound left in the world.

Marisol let out a weak, breathless laugh.

"T-That's…" Her voice stuttered out, hoarse and uneven. Then she shook her head, her entire body still trembling, still unable to stop the violent shudders wrecking her limbs. "That's bull."

Her mama turned toward her, head tilting slightly with a sly grin.

A sudden heat rose in her chest. Frustration. Confusion. A tiny, tiny bit of anger. "But you don't… you don't even have a system," she whispered. "Or mutations. Or Arts. How did you…"

She didn't understand.

She hated this feeling.

This uncontrollable trembling.

…

Soft footsteps pressed into the sand.

Marisol barely registered them before warmth settled in front of her. A shadow fell over her shaking form.

Then, gentle fingers threaded through her hair.

Her mama knelt before her, silent, steady, as if nothing in the world could shake her. Her palm rested against Marisol's head, neither heavy nor light. It was simply there: a quiet, grounding warmth, unfazed by the storm raging inside her chest.

She sucked in a sharp breath—one that hitched, caught, then broke.

But her mother, calm and unshaken as ever, only let out a soft hum.

"I'll be honest," her mama murmured, thumb still gently brushing through her hair. "Even with the message you sent me—even after everything you just told me about the past eleven months—I don't think I get half of what really happened out there on the great blue."

Marisol swallowed hard.

"But," her mama continued, watching her closely, "it sounds like you had a bit of fun here and there, no?"

A sharp, breathy sound rasped out of Marisol's throat. Something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Yeah," she admitted, voice hoarse. "I did."

"And that Victor man," her mama said, tilting her head slightly. "He sounds like a good mentor. I would've liked to meet him at least once."

"You would've."

"Was he strong?"

"Very strong."

"Was he brave?"

"Stupid."

Her mother studied her for a moment, then exhaled through her nose. "And do you think he'd want you to be here," she asked, "while you still have unfinished business in the west?"

Marisol stiffened.

"My business… is finished," she muttered, the words falling flat as sand in her mouth. "I'm done with the great blue."

She'd told herself that before. Told herself that coming back meant everything was over—that she'd done her part, fought her battles, made her choices. The Harbour City wasn't her home. The west wasn't her fight.

To begin with, she wasn't supposed to be there.

But to that, her mama stepped closer and wrapped her hands around Marisol's own. Warm. Firm. Steady. A grounding weight against her trembling fingers.

"... Do you know why your hands are shaking?"

Marisol's breath caught. Her fingers twitched against her mother's grip. "I—" She faltered. Her throat locked up. "I don't know."

Her mama didn't let go.

"That's fear," her mama said simply. "You're scared."

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to pull away, wanted to argue, wanted to deny it—but she couldn't.

Scared?

Of what?

Of Rhizocapala?

Of the black tide he's leading to the Harbour City right this moment?

Of the lightning in her veins that could very well burn her to a crisp?

Her mother squeezed her hands again, just enough to remind her she was here. Not anywhere else.

"But a Sand-Dancer loves fear," her mama murmured. "We don't let it stop us. We let it carry us forward."

Marisol's heartbeat pounded in her ears.

"We love the adrenaline," her mama continued. "The speed of the dance. The shifting world beneath our feet. The wind in our hair, the sand against our skin, the fright and the instability and the exhilaration of it all—we balance grace with power, and we live on the very edge of our feet.

"You're afraid now—and what it is, I'm not exactly sure about—but haven't you been afraid before?

"Out there, on the great blue, haven't you been shaken like this before?

"Has fear not made you stronger and faster than ever before?"

…

Faster.

She thought of the storm-churned seas, the cloudless blue sky, and the way the sea had blurred past her in streaks of steel and blood and fire.

She thought of the old man's voice, sharp and mocking, soft and reassuring.

She thought of the battles that'd left her breathless and thrumming.

Despite the fear inside her, cold and sharp, wasn't there one last thing she knew she had to do no matter what?

"What do you want to do, Marisol?" her mama asked, eyes dark as the deep desert sky. "Don't you want to finish your ten-year-long journey with a powerful bang?"

Marisol inhaled sharply, then exhaled, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers clenched. Her breaths shook. And yet—

"... I want a bang."

Was what she murmured.

And she let the word settle into the space between for a moment before lifting her head, meeting her mama's gaze.

Her hands were still trembling, and her lips were still quivering, but her eyes?

Lightning.

At least, she hoped they were lightning, but even if they weren't?

She'd reached the Whirlpool City without lightning.

She could do it again.

Her mama watched her, her expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, she smiled. A knowing smile, one full of pride, full of understanding, full of something that couldn't be put into words.

"Take care, Marisol," her mama breathed. "Do not forget: you are 'Mar', of the far western seas we came from, and 'Sol', of the far eastern sun we live in. A Sand-Dancer never looks behind her, because… well." A wry chuckle. "I'm sure, with those blades for legs, you won't be able to look behind you while you're moving faster than a hundred Sand-Dancers combined."

Marisol huffed a short breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh, and they both shared a look. A small grin, a flicker of something warm.

Then her mama's gaze shifted, settling just past her shoulder.

"That box." Her mama tilted her chin towards the wooden box resting in the sand. "It gives off a funny feeling."

Marisol looked over her shoulder. "Does it?"

"Your senses have grown dull if you can't even tell there's something weird coming from it." Her mama whacked her over the head, tilting her head at the box again. "Open it. You said it's a gift from someone you know, right?"

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