Lukas felt like he was floating between consciousness and oblivion, his body turned to dust, removing any control he once had over it. He could not move nor could he scream, though his mind clawed desperately against the stillness that pressed in on him from every side.

It was not like when his body had turned into liquid water through the Divinity of the Seas—that was natural for he was a son of the Seas.

This was something entirely alien.

His body did not flow; it scattered. It stretched thin across the desert winds, broken down into something far smaller than he could comprehend. Each particle of him—each grain—was part of an endless, shifting tide of sand. His essence was everywhere and nowhere, carried by the burning winds of Khaitish. The dunes moved around him, vast and unending, and still he could sense the faint presence of others—Makhulu, the Magopo Brothers—traveling as scattered fragments beside him, their own bodies diffused into the desert through the spell that Makhulu had cast.

It was clear that his was the Divinity of Sand, giving Makhulu control over these dunes.

Through it all, pain was the only constant. Not sharp, but heavy and grinding, like the endless shifting of sand against itself. But it did not come from Makhulu's magic but from deep within, his wound festering and eating at him. It scraped at his being, reminding Lukas that he was not yet dead. The agony had a rhythm of its own, slow and ceaseless, and in that rhythm Lukas lost all measure of time. Hours could have passed, or days, or centuries—it made no difference. The dunes seemed eternal, and so too was the torment.

He began to realize that Makhulu's spell was no mere means of escape.

It was not teleportation, not a simple blink through space. It was transformation—cruel and raw. Flesh to sand. Bone to dust. Makhulu had bound them to the desert itself, using the very grains as vessels to carry their broken forms across Khaitish's burning expanse. It was ingenious but it was also terrifying for there was nothing Lukas could do but allow Makhulu's magic to guide them through the sands of Khaitish.

Other than pain, Lukas only had the faint awareness of being drawn forward, a current of power guiding him through the boundless sea of dunes.

Then, suddenly, there was air.

A gasp tore itself from his lungs, harsh and desperate, as his body pulled itself back together from the dust.

Lukas collapsed forward, half-buried in sand, his throat burning as he dragged breath after breath into a body that felt both foreign and familiar. The sensation of solidity returned all at once—the weight of flesh, the pulse of blood, the sting of heat on skin.

The desert had changed since he had last seen it.

The sun had risen high over the dunes, its golden light painting the endless sands in cruel beauty. Each ridge shimmered like molten glass and the heat pressed down on him like an anvil.

Once, the warmth of Khaitish had been a blessing, a reprieve from the fever that plagued his broken body.

Now, Lukas could barely feel it at all. His skin was numb, his veins sluggish and his breath shallow.

Still, the dragon moved.

Fingers clawed through the sand, pushing himself upright. Grains clung to his skin and hair, falling from him in rivulets as if reluctant to let him go. His vision swam for a moment before it cleared momentarily and what greeted him was a sight unlike any other he had seen thus far.

What lay before him was not the barren emptiness he had expected of Khaitish. Rising from the sands like a mirage given flesh was a city—real and alive, glittering beneath the harsh morning sun.

It was civilisation amidst the endless desert.

They had always spoken of the beastkin as savages—marauders born from blood and fury, creatures who knew only the laws of tooth and claw.

Yet here was something that defied every story that had been told of them.

Towering structures of sandstone and ivory stood firm against the shifting dunes, their curved edges carved with intricate runes that shimmered faintly in the light. The walls themselves seemed to breathe, built not for war but for harmony with the desert wind. Each dome was painted in pigments drawn from crushed minerals—deep ochre, sun-baked red and even pale gold that reflected the heat in waves of color.

Within and between those walls, life was abundant.

Lukas could hear it—the laughter echoing from open courtyards, the rhythmic clang of metalworkers at their forges, the low hum of merchants calling out their wares beneath silken awnings.

Beastkin of every kind filled the streets—some tall and sleek, with feline grace; others broad and furred like the mountain bears of the north; still others walked on digitigrade legs, tails swaying with every step.

Despite such a large variety in their forms, they moved with a shared rhythm, an easy familiarity born of community. Children darted between stalls, their laughter bright as chimes, while elders sat in shaded alcoves, their eyes sharp and knowing.

It was not a city of conquest. It was a city of creation—a place where the desert had been forged, not broken, into something beautiful. It reminded him so much of Linemall that he could almost feel his emotions get the better of him. Lukas stared, awestruck, the wind carrying the scents of spiced meat and burning incense toward him. This was the future he had imagined, one where the rest of Hiraeth could live just like this.

For a fleeting moment, Lukas allowed himself to imagine that peace could exist here, even in a land so steeped in conflict.

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Then came the scream.

It cut through the air like a blade, high and shrill, breaking the spell of tranquility in an instant.

Lukas turned toward the sound, his heart lurching, and saw the horror unfold before him.

Blood splattered across the pale sand, dark and wet, stark against the light.

A beastkin warrior—one Lukas recognized even through the blur of shock—fell to his knees, clutching at the ruin of his throat. The mark upon his armor confirmed it, he was of the Morningeyes Clan, one of Rowan's beastmen. He must have been caught in Makhulu's spell during their retreat, dragged through the dunes just as Lukas had.

Standing over him were two familiar figures.

The twin brothers—the same ones who had faced Jesse with blind fury—now stood like executioners in the desert sun. Their faces were twisted with grief and rage, their fur still matted with the dust of battle. Lukas could see it in their eyes: the anguish of losing their youngest brother, the venom of helplessness turned into wrath.

A wrath that had found victim in the corpse that now lay in the sand before them.

The beastkin warrior's body crumpled lifeless into the sand, his blood soaking into the thirst of the earth.

The silence that followed was heavier than the scream itself.

Then their eyes turned.

Lukas froze as both of them looked his way. There was no mistaking it—the fire in their gaze had found its next mark.

His pulse quickened. His limbs felt sluggish and weak, but instinct screamed at him to move. Lukas pushed himself up again from the sand, his breath ragged, his heart hammering in his chest.

The world tilted and the horizon swayed.

He saw only two blurs of motion, claws flashing in the sun, the sand exploding beneath their strides. Then they were already upon him before he knew it. Lukas raised an arm—not in defense, but in sheer reflex—as their shadows fell over him. He could see the glint of teeth, the flex of muscle and the murderous intent burning in their eyes.

But the strike never came close to the King of the Dragons.

The desert shuddered.

A low tremor rolled through the dunes, and before Lukas could even register what was happening, the sands around him erupted upward like a living tide. Two colossal hands—each one sculpted from compacted grains that glittered under the sun—burst from the ground, their fingers closing around the twins. The two of them roared in fury, clawing and thrashing against their prison of sand but the hands only tightened their grip, lifting them effortlessly from the earth.

Lukas fell backward, shielding his face from the whipping winds stirred by the spell's force.

When he looked again, he saw the familiar figure standing behind him—tall, composed, and cloaked in power.

Makhulu.

The eldest Magopo Brother stood like a monument amid the swirling dust, his shadow stretching long across the sand. His expression was cold and calm but beneath that calm surface were depths of emotions that Lukas did not even know he could comprehend.

His eyes were fixed on his brothers who bared their fangs at him, muscles tensed, voices vibrating with growls that echoed through the stillness.

Then Makhulu's gaze shifted. His eyes fell upon the fallen warrior—the beastkin from the Morningeyes Clan, still lying where he had fallen, his lifeblood darkening the sand.

For a long, heavy moment, Makhulu said nothing.

The desert wind howled softly around them, carrying the scent of dust and death.

Lukas watched the subtle change in his face—recognition first, then something older, something...heavier.

Grief.

Perhaps Makhulu and that warrior had fought side by side once, Lukas thought. Perhaps they had shared in victories long buried beneath the dunes. But now that bond was reduced to silence and blood.

Makhulu's jaw tightened. The beastman cosed his eyes briefly, as though to steady himself, and when they opened again, they burned—not with fury, but with the kind of controlled power that could shake mountains. The sand beneath their feet rippled as his voice erupted in a roar that shattered the fragile stillness of the desert.

It was not a roar of rage alone; it was one of authority. It was a voice that demanded obedience from all who heard it.

The twins fell silent. Their snarls softened to panting breaths, their claws lowering slightly as they stared at their brother.

For a heartbeat, Lukas thought the brothers would allow grief and fury would consume them all in violence. He tensed, waiting for the sands to turn red again.

But then Makhulu's expression shifted once more. The hardness in the beastman's gaze melted into something raw and vulnerable. The anger in his eyes dimmed, leaving behind only weary eyes filled with sadness.

Makhulu took a single step forward.

The hands dissolved back into the ground, releasing the twins gently onto their feet.

Makhulu's arms opened—not in challenge, but in invitation.

For a heartbeat, the twins hesitated.

Then, as though a dam had broken within them, they rushed forward—not with claws bared, but with tears burning in their eyes.

They collided into him, collapsing against his chest, and Makhulu wrapped his arms around them both without hesitation.

Lukas could only watch as the Magopo Brothers—feared as monsters across Khaitish—became nothing more than grieving souls, mourning together beneath the relentless desert sun. The rest of their kin stood at a respectful distance, the noise of the city fading into reverent silence. Even the wind softened, whispering gently through the dunes as if unwilling to intrude upon their grief.

The twins trembled in Makhulu's arms, voices breaking as they tried to speak.

"It was Scar," one whispered, choking on the name. "It was my baby brother…"

Makhulu closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against theirs. The lines on his face deepened—not with age, but with the weight of loss.

"I know," he murmured, voice low and steady, carrying across the sands like the hum of the earth itself. "I know."

They stayed that way for a long time—their power forgotten, their rage spent and their hearts bound not by battle but by shared pain. The sun hung high above them, unmoving, as if even time itself dared not interrupt the mourning of the Magopo Brothers.

It was easy to romanticize violence and bloodshed as a fighter, a warrior.

But this was the price of violence. And someone had to pay it.

Today, it was the Magopo Brothers who were handed the bill.

This was the reality they lived in. And it was one that Lukas would not and could never accept. Not anymore.

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