“Fawkes!” I called out, my voice bouncing through the stone corridors of Sandspear Hold. The treasury was dark and cluttered, bullied with dust that kept finding its way down my throat. My boots clanked against the cold, hard floor as I stepped deeper into the room, eyes straining to adjust to the gloom. The only light came from a few weak torches smiling weakly in their sconces. Though the building was very well occupied and used regularly, it still felt abandoned.
“Over here!” came Fawkes’s voice, muffled and distant. I followed the sound, weaving my way through piles of old armour, rusted weapons, and crates filled with who-knows-what. It was the graveyard for the spoils of war from a thousand battles that would never be remembered. I finally found him hunched over a small table, his ashy hair sticking out in every direction and his pale eyes fixed on something in his hands.
“Fawkes, what in the hells are you doing?” I asked, peering over his shoulder. He was holding a strange, spherical object, about the size of an apple, made of some dark, smooth metal. It had a pin sticking out of the top, and I noticed a scrap of paper tied around it, the writing on it faded and nearly illegible.
“Look at this thing,” Fawkes said in awe. His fingers were tracing the contours of the sphere as though it were a golden arrow. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. Feels…heavy. Like it’s hiding something inside.”
“Doesn’t look like something you should be messing with,” I replied, eyeing the note. “What does that say?”
Fawkes squinted at the paper, his lips moving silently as he tried to decipher the scrawl. “Says…’Do not pull the pin.’ Not much of an explanation, but I reckon it’s serious.” He looked up at me, his face pale in the torchlight. “Could be dangerous or a great big nothing. Who knows with these people?”
I felt a chill creep up my spine. “Just…put it down for now. Anything that will definitely be useful to us in here? Like a map?”
Fawkes sighed and reluctantly set the sphere back on the table, giving it one last look before turning his attention to the mess around us. “You see, I thought of looking for a map first too, or just anything to give us a sense of direction in this godforsaken place. But this treasury’s a maze, and it’s easy to lose track of time without a window or a sun. Might’ve been here for hours for all I know.”
I frowned, glancing around at the piles of oddities. “So, did you find anything?”
He nodded, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a rolled-up piece of parchment. “Found this. More of a sketch, really. Shows the desert with all the major Novak Chief camps marked out. But the thing is,” he unrolled it and spread it across the table, “it’s all in relation to this place, Sandspear Hold. No indication of where the desert ends or where the Kingdom begins. It’s like you step into a new world at the edge of the sand.”
I leaned over to look at the map. The camps were drawn in roughly, little circles with Novak symbols next to them. The lines between them were faint and irregular, like whoever drew it wasn’t sure of the distances. “So it’s good for planning our attacks, but useless for when we want to leave.”
“Direction’s kind of a funny thing in the desert,” Fawkes said with a bitter smile. “You walk one way thinking you’ll get somewhere, but all you find is more sand and the same burning sun. I guess the Kohinata have been stuck here so long, they stopped caring where the edge of the desert is and decided to just make a home.”
I gritted my teeth. The frustration bubbled up in my chest, but I forced it down. “Well, we’ve got to care. We’re not like them, Fawkes. We need to find a way out of here. We’re not dying in this place.”
Fawkes gave a slow nod, his eyes lingering on the map. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. We’ll find a way, Daman, we just have to keep looking.”
But as I glanced back at the strange device on the table, I also thought that maybe some things in Sandspear Hold were better left undiscovered.
Fawkes was still staring at the map, his fingers tracing the rough lines and symbols. But I could see his mind was elsewhere. “King Alphonse Woodgairrd II,” he eventually muttered, almost to himself. “They called him The Novak.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “He was Emannar’s grandfather, wasn’t he? How’d he earn the name?”
“It’s not exactly a title they’d want you to call him by these days,” Fawkes said with a wry smile, still looking at the parchment. “But that’s what he was known as, back when he was King. Because of all the raids. Endless raids on Novakia. He was obsessed with wiping them out and spreading the Kingdom into the desert. Came closer than any King before him, or after.”
“His ghost must have been looking down disappointed then when his son let the Novaks be so he could focus on his fancy courts and nobles’ games.”
“Exactly,” Fawkes said, his voice growing more bitter. “Alphonse spent his whole life trying to push them back, to break them. It wasn’t just war, it was his life’s work. He nearly had them, Daman. The Novaks were on their knees, their tribes scattered, leaders killed. If Alphonse had lived just a few more years, there might not even be a Novak threat left.”
I tried to imagine that—an empty desert, devoid of the raiders that haunted our every step. The endless skirmishes, the bloodshed, the fear that lingered in the back of every soldier’s mind…all of it gone. Maybe even replaced with human civilisation. The thought of it made my chest tighten.
“But Grimm became King,” he said. “And he let his father’s work all go to waste.”
Fawkes nodded, his gaze finally breaking away from the map. “Grimm scrapped everything his father did. Called off the campaigns, pulled back the troops. Said the Novaks weren’t a threat anymore. But he was wrong, wasn’t he? They came back. Stronger, smarter. And now here we are, stuck in this desert, with the Novak threat bigger than ever.”
“And yet the King only sent the three of us to deal with them. I know there are bigger problems closer to home for them, but it still feels like a sick joke. If Alphonse had finished what he started, we wouldn’t be in this mess. We wouldn’t be crawling through the sand, trying to find a way out of this damned place. The Novaks would be history.”
“Just imagine what could have happened. Maybe we’d be fighting someone else, somewhere else. Maybe we could’ve been sent to Colbagne or Lakewell to sort out the Stunn-Foler civil war. They have lovely wet hills there, and fresh lakes, and pretty girls…here we are, though, stuck here, scavenging through junk, hoping for a miracle.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. It was true, and the truth felt like flame to the gut. We were paying the price for royal ignorance. And the more I thought about it, the more I hated the Crown for it. But hate wasn’t going to drag us out of the sand. Neither was wishing for a different past. But damn, how much easier it could have been…
“I suppose nothing’s ever easy, is it?” I muttered. Before Fawkes could reply, we heard the heavy tread of boots before Howard Barrett appeared in the doorway. He crossed his arms, leaning against the frame with a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Fawkes mate, you’re still in here?” Howard drawled. “Didn’t realise you planned to take up residence in the treasury. Maybe the Novaks will just pass you by, thinking you’re one of the Clan’s ancient relics.”
Fawkes didn’t even look up, his focus still on the strange device that had found its way back in his hands. “Maybe I’m just making sure we’re not leaving anything useful behind,” he shot back. “Unlike you, I think ahead.”
Howard chuckled, shaking his head. “Thinking ahead, huh? And how’s that going, finding anything that’ll save our skins out there in the sand?”
“Plenty,” Fawkes said, finally glancing up at Howard. “This place is full of things we might need. Tools, weapons… even this.” He held up the device, careful not to touch the pin. “No idea what it does, but I’m betting it’s important. And we’re going to need every edge we can get.”
Howard’s smirk didn’t fade, but I could see the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Right. Well, just don’t grab anything that’ll blow us all to bits, alright?”
“Funny,” Fawkes muttered, rolling his eyes before turning to put the device back on the shelf.
I stepped forward, feeling the need to back Fawkes up. “He’s right, you know. The Clan has a lot of useful stuff in here. If anything goes wrong, if they decide to turn on us, this place could be our saving grace. We should know what’s in here, just in case.”
Howard raised an eyebrow, the smirk finally fading into a more serious expression. “Yeah, I suppose it was lucky we stumbled onto Sandspear Hold. Can’t say I expected to find a whole treasure trove out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Lucky for us,” I agreed, then added, “And lucky for King Styve too, I guess. Even if he was daft enough to think sending three rangers would be enough to deal with the Novak threat.”
“Three rangers,” Howard scoffed, shaking his head. “The King’s just as clueless as his father. But it wasn’t just Styve who was blind. His brother sent four, may I remind you, three of them being us! Just goes to show how out of touch the royals are with what’s really going on out here.”
Fawkes turned to face us, a grim smile on his face. “They’ve been sending men to die in the sands for years, Daman. We’re just the latest in a long line of fools sent to clean up their mess.”
“We’re not going to die in these sands,” I swore, my voice firm and steady. “Not here, not now. I’ll protect both of you with my life if I have to.”
Howard scoffed, though there was a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Kid, I don’t need your protection to live. I’ve proven myself far more times than I care to count. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
I nodded, knowing he wasn’t just brushing me off. Howard had seen more than Fawkes and I combined—he’d survived things that would’ve killed most men. But that didn’t change my resolve. We were in this together, and I’d do whatever it took to keep us all alive. Fawkes and I shared a look, a silent understanding passing between us. Then we both started putting the oddities back in their places, making sure everything was exactly as we’d found it. We couldn’t afford to leave any sign that we’d been rummaging through the Clan’s things.
Once the last item was returned, I took one last glance around the room. There’d be time to worry about the future later. For now, we had to focus on surviving the present. We stepped outside the treasury and felt the slight increase in coolness of the air, though it was still thick with sand. The corridor ahead led towards the Inner Keep, where Onnan Kohinata, the head of the Clan, resided. The Keep loomed in the distance, its ancient walls a fortress within a fortress, impregnable, daunting. But what caught my eye wasn’t the Keep itself, it was the Sunspire Garden at the base of the staircase leading up to it. The garden was like nothing else in Sandspear Hold, an oasis of life in a land of carrion. Twisting vines crawled up the stone walls, their leaves dark and rich, while desert flowers bloomed in a riot of reds, yellows and purples all vying for attention under the fat sun.
At the garden’s centre stood the Sunspire, a tall, slender obelisk that seemed too elegant for a place like this. It was made of a glass-like stone that shimmered as it caught the sunlight, reflecting it in a thousand different hues. Right now, in the afternoon light, it was a deep amber, but when we were led here, we were told it would shift as the day wore on—fiery red at midday, a soft blue at sunset. We paused at the edge of the garden, all of us staring at the Sunspire. It was hard not be drawn to it, the way it pulsed with life, as if the stone itself was breathing on us.
Howard’s voice broke the silence. “I heard something about that thing,” he said, nodding towards the Sunspire. “If it ever glows fiery red at any time other than midday, it’s an omen. Means it fears destruction.”
Fawkes snorted, crossing his arms as he gazed up at the obelisk. “What if it fears destruction at midday? How are you supposed to know?”
Howard shrugged, his expression grim. “No idea. Maybe you can’t, and whatever happens next is out of your hands. You’ve seen the way the Clan reveres that thing. They think it’s a sign from their gods or something. If it goes, well…so does their hope.”
He was right; scattered around the base of the obelisk were deliberate, carefully placed offerings. Bits of dried meat, coins, trinkets, even a few scraps of cloth, all arranged as if pleading for the Sunspire’s favour, for mercy and protection.
I glanced at Fawkes, who was staring intently at the Sunspire, his ashy hair catching the same light that made the obelisk glow. “You think it’s true?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer right away, his eyes still fixed on the obelisk. Finally, he sighed. “Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. If the Clan believes it, they’ll act on it. And that means we’d better be ready for whatever happens. People get desperate fast in places like this.”
“You think the gods are listening out here?” I asked.
Howard, walking a step ahead, turned his head slightly. “You don’t?”
I shook my head, my voice low and firm. “Not in the desert. Out here, it’s just us and the sand. You want something, you take it. You want to live, you fight for it. Gods or no gods, that’s the one bestial truth that matters.”
Fawkes glanced at me, then back at the offerings, his expression unreadable. “People need something to hold on to,” he said, almost as if he was explaining it to himself. “Something to believe in when everything else is gone.”
I didn’t reply. I understood the need to believe in something, but out here, it felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford.
“Come on,” Howard said, tearing his gaze away from the Sunspire. “We’re keeping Kohinata waiting.” We only managed to continue walking for a bit before Fawkes slowed down again, his eyes narrowing as he looked ahead. “There’s Arik,” he said, nodding towards the far side of the garden.
I followed his gaze and saw him: Arik, the Clan’s mercenary and the captain of their guard. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a scar running from his left temple down to his jawline. His skin was weathered from years under the desert sun, and his eyes were sharp, always scanning, always assessing. He looked like he found meaning in life through determining the most efficient ways to kill everything he saw. It looked like he was training some of their new recruits.
Arik was the one who’d found us when we were barely holding on, worn out from days in the desert with nothing but sand and death around us. He’d taken one look at us, recognised our desperation, and brought us to the Clan. I couldn’t tell if he’d done it out of kindness or if he’d simply seen us as useful assets to the Clan, but either way we owed him our lives. The recruits he was training were young, some barely older than me, but Arik didn’t go easy on them. He barked orders, correcting their stances, making them repeat drills until their movements were second nature. His voice was gruff, demanding respect, but there was something else there too—a hint of frustration, maybe even anger. Like he was trying to mould them into something they weren’t, something they couldn’t be.
We passed by and Arik glanced our way, but he didn’t stop his training. He turned back to the recruits and pushed them harder.
“Arik doesn’t mess around,” Howard remarked, watching the mercenary with a mix of respect and caution. “He’s tough, but he gets results.”
“That’s because he knows what it takes to survive out here,” I replied. “He’s seen it all, the battles, the bloodshed. He knows there’s no room for weakness.”
Fawkes nodded in admiration. “He’s a survivor,” he said quietly. “Just like us.”
Up ahead was the blacksmith, Fennor Lisbeth, his muscular frame hunched over an anvil as he shaped a glowing piece of iron. He was older than most of the Clan members, his hair a streaked blend of grey and black, and when he noticed us approaching, he straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with a calloused hand. “Ah, the newcomers,” he greeted us with a rough but warm voice. “How are you settling in, lads?”
I exchanged a quick glance with Howard and Fawkes before stepping forward. “We’re settling in fine,” I said. “Your people have been…welcoming.”
Fennor nodded, satisfied. “Good to hear. Not everyone takes to the desert so easily. It has a way of testing your limits.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “How did you end up here, Fennor? The desert doesn’t seem like the kind of place most would choose to call home.”
He let out a deep chuckle, the kind that comes from someone who’s lived through more than their share of hardship. “No, it’s not. But the desert found me, you could say. I was once a blacksmith in a town near the border, but when the Novaks came, they burned everything to the ground. Lost my family, lost my trade… had nowhere else to go. Ended up wandering until I found the Clan. Onnan took me in, gave me purpose again. Been here ever since. And what about you three? Where do you come from, what names do you carry?”
Howard was the first to speak. “Barrett. From a small village in the eastern plains. It’s gone now, but that’s where I was born.”
“And you?” Fennor said, looking at Fawkes. Fawkes remained silent, his eyes lowering to the ground. It wasn’t a secret that he didn’t know his family, he’d told us as much when we first met. Still, the silence stretched uncomfortably until Fennor, understanding, didn’t press him further.
“I’m Daman Pargion,” I said. The name had always felt like a rock on my tongue.
At the mention of my name, Fennor’s brow furrowed slightly, his hammer pausing mid-air. “Pargion, you say?” he repeated, his tone thoughtful.
I nodded. “That’s right.”
Fennor seemed to mull it over for a moment before his expression hardened with sudden resolve. “You three need to speak with Onnan. Urgently.”
“What is it?” I asked, hoping for some sort of explanation, but Fennor was already turning back to his forge, his face now a mask of focus.
“Just go,” he said firmly. “It’s important.”
We nodded and passed through the archway, through corridors narrow and winding. The scent of burning incense was present, a smoky, woody aroma. As we rounded a corner, I felt a slight brush against my arm, something soft and unexpected in this place of hard edges. I turned to see a girl moving past me, her steps light and swift, almost like a whisper against the ancient stone. She was unusually pretty for the desert. She had dark hair that cascaded down her back, tangled and wild, and deep, striking green eyes, almost too vivid for this world, framed by long lashes that seemed foreign here. Her skin was sun-kissed but smooth, and she was wearing nothing that the other members of the Clan entertained, tribal in nature, with intricate patterns and beads that jingled softly as she moved. She had a vitality about her that was impossible to ignore.
Howard’s voice broke the silence. “That lass has got Elia’s eyes,” he murmured, his tone distant, almost reverent. Yes, the eyes of girls like Howard’s late wife, girls from the Kingdom that danced among the green. It was unheard of for Novak women to have anything but brown eyes. She was something more.
“She could be half-and-half,” Fawkes said. “A woman abandoned by her tribe, maybe. Or one who chose to leave. Could be why she’s dressed like that.”
We kept walking but I couldn’t help but think about the girl. It had been so long since I’d even seen one. The last pretty girl I could remember was Sylvina Slait, and even she always had something off about her, always muttering about demons and shadows. The desert was a place of survival, not beauty, and people like this girl were exceedingly rare here. My mind wandered, imagining what it might be like to talk to her, to get to know her, maybe even… I shook my head, pushing the thoughts aside. This wasn’t the time to distract myself.
We stepped into Onnan’s office. The room was dimly lit, with a single torch in one corner. Onnan Kohinata sat behind a heavy wooden desk, his broad shoulders hunched as he pored over a parchment. His hair, streaked with grey, framed a face claimed by the sands. He looked up as we entered, his eyes narrowing in faint irritation.
“Finally,” he grumbled, his voice rough like the sand outside. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten your manners, wandering around my Hold without so much as a greeting.”
Before I could respond, the man standing beside him, a wiry figure with a hawkish nose and narrow, distrustful eyes, interrupted. “Onnan, don’t entertain these strangers. They’re not like us. Send them away before they bring misfortunes we can’t afford.”
Onnan waved a dismissive hand, not even bothering to look at the man. “Forgive my old friend, Keldan Dutz,” he said, his tone slightly mocking. “He’s got a habit of seeing shadows where there is only sun. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
Keldan shot us a glare before storming out of the room, clearly unhappy with being brushed off. The door creaked closed behind him, leaving us alone with Onnan. The tension in the room eased, but only slightly.
Onnan leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. “You’d have thought his ale went bad last night. You’ll have to excuse him,” he said, his tone more relaxed. “He means well. We don’t see many new faces out here, and the ones we do see often have the nerve to try to scamper off with our resources. It’s hard not to be a little paranoid. Though, I find the paranoia a bit pointless. If someone’s untrustworthy, at least they’ll make a decent meal once roasted.”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just making a dark joke, but it sent a shiver down my spine. Howard and Fawkes exchange uneasy glances, and I forced a chuckle to hide discomfort.
“Actually, Onnan, we were told to come speak with you,” I began, trying to steady my voice. “Fennor Lisbeth recommended it when I told him my surname—Pargion.”
At the mention of my name, Onnan’s demeanour shifted dramatically. His eyes widened, and a broad smile spread across his face, transforming his gruff features into something almost warm, like I’d handed him the key to a treasure chest.
“Pargion?” he repeated, leaning forward in his chair. “You’re a Pargion? By the gods, this is a day I thought I’d never see! Ebon Pargion…he was a legend. Served under Grimm Woodgairrd himself as High Earl, one of the finest men I ever had the honour to fight beside. And now, here you are, his very blood standing before me. It’s almost too much to believe. Keldan and I served in His Grace Grimm Woodgairrd’s Guard back in the day. He sent us out into these damned Novak sands to raid their camps, promised to send us regular messages, aid, reinforcements. But the messages stopped, and the aid never came. We were cut off, left to fend for ourselves in this hellhole. Some of us…well, didn’t make it. Those of us who did, we formed this Clan. We had to survive, and we made the best of what we had. Turned the camps we pillaged into our own base, turned the loot into our lifeline, and soon we built Sandspear Hold. And here we are, still kicking.” He paused, then sighed deeply, his eyes focusing back on the present. “I even met a Novak woman out here. Strong, beautiful… she was like the desert itself. We had two children together—a son and a daughter. But she’s gone now. The desert takes more than it gives.”
I felt an unexpected connection then to a past I’d never known. He had been discarded and still managed to forge a whole Clan from the last scraps of his former life, and now it was a thriving civilisation. I found myself in great admiration of his achievements.
“But tell me,” he said, leaning in closer. “What news do you bring from the Kingdom? It’s been…how long?”
“Thirty years,” I replied, watching as his eyes widened in shock. “Must be about thirty years since you were sent out here, Onnan. A lot has changed. Grimm Woodgairrd…well, he ended up becoming a tyrant in the eyes of most. He was eventually overthrown by his son, Emannar, who took the throne. They call it the Stormholme Schism.”
Onnan’s expression darkened, his face twisting with disbelief. “Emannar?” he muttered, almost to himself. “That boy… he was always a good lad, strong and smart. But to betray his own father? To take the throne like that? It doesn’t make sense. Grimm was a great man, a glorious king. How could anyone see him as a tyrant?”
I could see the pain in his eyes. He had spent thirty years keeping faith that somewhere on the other side of the sand his King was ruling gracefully with an iron fist, beloved by all. And then we came and crushed that faith. I didn’t want to shatter his fond memories any more than necessary, so I lied. It was too risky to tell him that my grandfather supported Emannar’s claim, denounced Grimm for being a tyrant and even personally struck him down.
“And my grandfather Ebon Pargion,” I said, carefully choosing my words, “was loyal to his King until the very end. He never wavered, even when the rest did.”
Onnan’s eyes softened at that, and he nodded slowly. “Good,” he murmured. “Your grandfather was a man of honour. I’m glad to hear he stayed true.”
I took a deep breath, knowing there was more to tell. “But Emannar’s gone now too. There’s a succession crisis back in the Kingdom—his sons, Styve and Kase, are fighting for the throne. It’s a mess. The Kingdom’s in chaos, and it’s hard to say how it’ll all end.”
Onnan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Styve and Kase… I remember them as toddlers. Can’t believe they’re old enough to be fighting for the throne now. Time… it has slipped away from me faster than I realised.”
“And your father?” he asked, suddenly turning his gaze back to me. “Is he… little Alavin?”
“No,” I replied. “Alavin died during the Schism. My father is Simon.”
Onnan’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Little Simon…I remember him. Just a boy back then. And now he’s a Lord. Well, the world keeps turning, doesn’t it?”
There was a brief silence as the wheels turned in his mind. Finally, he spoke again, this time with a hint of a smile. “And the Royal Guard? Still as strong as ever, I hope?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think there’s anyone left from your day,” I admitted. “Too much time has passed, and the Guard has changed.”
Onnan’s face fell slightly, but he nodded; he had expected as much. The silence that followed was broken by Howard, who suddenly spoke up.
“We passed a girl,” he said, his voice cautious. “With green eyes. Who is she?”
Onnan chuckled, the sound filling the room. “Ah, Mira. She’s a special case. We found her in a Novak camp, half-starved and barely alive. She doesn’t talk much about where she came from, but I have my suspicions. I believe she’s Grimm Woodgairrd’s daughter.”
The shock on our faces must have been obvious, because Onnan’s grin widened. “Surprised? Don’t be. Grimm had a habit of…enjoying the company of Novak women during his time as a desert ranger. Back when his father, Alphonse was King—The Novak, they called him, for how thoroughly he pillaged these lands. Grimm might’ve let the rangers do the fighting, but he was always keen on picking out women from the aftermath, siring children left and right. Mira’s got his green eyes, no doubt about it, though her skin’s darker—like a true Novak. She dresses like them too, so I’m sure she was raised among them. But she’s got Grimm’s blood in her, for certain.”
He leaned back, chuckling to himself. “Only the gods know how many sons and daughters of Grimm Woodgairrd are out there. Could be a dozen, could be a hundred. But Mira… she’s here now, and that’s what matters. She’s part of this Clan, just like all of you. You’ve been through a lot to get here, I can see that. This desert tests you in ways you can’t even imagine. But you’re here now, and that means something. You’re welcome to stay, as long as you prove yourselves worthy of our love.”
“Yes Sir,” I replied. For a moment he just looked at the three of us, perhaps wondering how such a band of people had gotten together and become so close.
“Daman, I’d like a private word with you,” Onnan finally said, which concerned me. As Howard and Fawkes nodded and exited the room, the door creaked shut behind them, leaving me alone with him.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, hands clasped together. “Daman, he began, his voice low and deliberate, “why did you come out here? Why did you choose the desert, of all places, to stake your life?”
I hesitated, caught off guard by the directness of his question. I had anticipated inquiries about the Kingdom, about our journey—but not this. Not a question that struck so close to the core of who I was. But I had an answer ready, one I’d told myself enough times that it felt like the truth.
“The Supreme Witanegemote Gregory,” I began, “declared me an estranger’s son the day I was born. It’s a prophecy, or a curse, depending on how you see it. It means I’m destined to bring misfortune to my family, a bad omen. They sent me to the desert to get rid of me, without causing a scandal.”
“And how do you feel about being unwanted, Daman?”
“I like it here. It’s far better than all the boring politics,” I replied.
He studied me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened. The silence stretched out between us, portly and suffocating. Then he leaned back in his chair, and for a moment, I thought he might let it go. But then he laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that echoed off the stone walls.
“You’re lying,” he said, the laughter still in his voice. “Or rather, you’re lying to yourself. You want to believe you prefer this. You want to believe that being cast out was a blessing in disguise. But it wasn’t, was it?” I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Before I could think or say anything, he continued, his tone turning serious, almost harsh. “Let me tell you something, lad,” he said, leaning forward again. “Your siblings, back in the comfort of their castle, are living life to its fullest. They’re attending banquets, engaging in courtly games, making alliances to secure their futures. They have their names engraved in the annals of history already, simply by virtue of who they are and where they were. And you? They don’t want to remember you. You’re out here, in this wasteland, fighting a war that nobody in the Kingdom cares about. You’re the undesirable, the one they sent away because they didn’t know what to do with you.”
He…was right. My siblings were living lives that were worlds apart from mine. Not easy ones, but still far easier than this. And they were safe, comfortable, and already halfway to securing their legacies. Not me. I had been denounced because of a stupid prophecy. I was fighting to survive another day.
“They’ll be remembered,” Onnan continued. “They’ll have their portraits hung in grand walls; their names will be sung in ballads. But what will be left of you, Daman Pargion, when the desert finally claims you? Will anyone even remember your name? Tell me truly, how does that make you feel?”
I was an inconvenience. A threat to the carefully constructed lives of the Pargions. It didn’t even matter if the prophecy was real, once it had been made, I was no longer useful. A bitter sorrow welled up inside me, a deep, gnawing pain that I had kept buried for years. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to suppress it, but it was no use. The sorrow was there, and Onnan had dragged it out into the open.
Finally, I met his gaze. “It makes me feel angry,” I admitted. “Angry that they cast me out, that they never wanted me. Angry that my name, my life, is nothing. And I hate that they live on, in comfort, in luxury, while I die out here in the desert and become carrion.”
Onnan nodded. “Good,” he said, his voice firm. “It’s good that you feel that anger, that you acknowledge that sorrow. But what are you going to do about it, Daman? How will you turn that sorrow into something more than just bitterness? How will you ensure that there are songs about you?”
There was only one path forward.
“I’m going to destroy the Novaks,” I said. “I’m going to force them to fear me. I’m going to kill every last one of them. And I’ll become so important that the world will be afraid to forget me. And I’ll carve my name into the history of this land, not as a Pargion, but as the man who conquered Novakia.”
Onnan smiled—a grim, knowing smile that sent a chill down my spine. “Then you’ll need to be ruthless, boy. More ruthless than you’ve ever been. The desert doesn’t care about your anger or your sorrow. It only cares about strength, about survival. If you want to be remembered, you’ll have to become something more than just another man fighting a war. You’ll have to become a legend.”
Dylan Brennan 
Leave a comment