Orin Alpheratz (15 years old) Location: Solaris Date: Year 873 / Crow Cycle (3) / Archer's Day (13)

  The wind tore across Orin’s face.

  At first, the height had unsettled him—but little by little, the fear dissolved into something else.

  Freedom.

  The griffin beneath him was steady, disciplined. Its wingbeats were powerful but controlled, allowing even someone with no experience to remain secure. The reins responded smoothly when he adjusted his grip.

  After several minutes, the forest began to thin behind them.

  Mountains rose ahead.

  Orin couldn’t stop staring back at the sea of trees they had left behind. Shadows gathered beneath the canopy. Countless dangers could still be hiding there.

  And Nina…

  He clenched his jaw.

  I hope you’re safe.

  Before reaching the mountain range, the griffins shifted formation sharply, banking to the side in perfect synchronization. Their course changed drastically as they began skirting the rocky slopes instead of crossing directly over them.

  “Balabar lies ahead,” Altair announced over the wind. “We approach the plains without drawing attention. The city is currently under the control of the Church of Luminia.”

  Orin stiffened.

  For a brief moment, his chest tightened.

  Balabar…

  He had originally meant to arrive there with Rick and Loki.

  A flicker of guilt surfaced—sharp and unwanted.

  If things had gone differently…

  He forced the thought down.

  In the distance—beyond the stone ridges—

  A city.

  Balabar.

  It was larger than he expected. Its structures spread between mountains where vegetation thinned into sparse, dusty growth. Beyond it, the land already hinted at the desert waiting farther south.

  The griffins descended in wide spirals.

  They landed atop a vast plateau covered in brittle yellow grass. Dry. Windswept. Immense.

  It hardly felt like a mountaintop.It felt like a plain carved into the sky.

  Altair guided them toward a cluster of withered trees—bark cracked, branches skeletal and bare.

  He dismounted first.

  The others followed.

  “Who exactly are we meeting?” Felis asked, glancing around with mild distaste. “Even I find this place oppressive.”

  “One of Balabar’s nobles,” Altair replied curtly. “That is all you need to know.”

  His tone made it clear no further details would be offered.

  “We must report the situation in Balabar to the Oracle without delay.”

  Orin leaned closer to Aran and lowered his voice.

  “Why report to the Oracle? Wouldn’t it make more sense to report to a king?”

  Aran shook her head gently.

  “There is no king in Dhamarr,” she explained carefully. “The Oasis city isn’t a kingdom. It’s… sacred ground. The Oracle resides there, and he is the highest authority within the city, but...”

  “Dhamarr has only one city, Orin. That is where we are headed.” Altair continued seamlessly, having overheard. His gaze shifted toward the distant desert horizon. “However, the Oracle’s authority rarely extends beyond its walls.”

  He folded his arms behind his back.

  “Most Duradeen—what you call Star Children—are nomads. They cross the desert year-round, returning to the city once or twice at most. To them, the Oracle is a spiritual guide… not a ruler.”

  Orin frowned slightly.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if everyone unified and lived in the city?” he asked. “If you cooperated, opposing Solaris would be far more effective.”

  “It isn’t that simple,” Altair replied evenly. “We are nomadic by nature. The Oasis city was built solely for religious purposes—the home of the Oracle. Those who remain within its walls do so out of devotion.”

  He gestured toward the horizon.

  “But beyond the city… there are five nomadic tribes. Each has its own customs, ambitions, and priorities. Some are not interested in fighting Solaris at all.”

  He paused before continuing.

  “Their leaders are known as the Five Princes of the Sands,” Altair went on. “And any decision as significant as declaring war requires the agreement of all five.”

  “And that almost never happens,” Felis added with a faint sigh. “In my entire life, I’ve only seen the Princes gather twice. The last time… it did not end well.”

  Altair’s expression hardened slightly.

  “There are rivalries. Old grudges. Blood debts that span generations. That is why those of us who dwell in the city choose to serve under the Oracle’s guidance. But make no mistake—the word of the Five Princes carries far greater weight among the tribes.”

  Orin lowered his gaze.

  He had lived his entire life under Solaris—a single Empire, a single authority, one centralized power.

  Dhamarr was different.

  Fragmented. Spiritual. Political power divided like shifting sands.

  Before he could voice another question, the wind shifted.

  Footsteps.

  A silhouette appeared in the distance, walking toward them across the plateau.

  Two figures flanked the central one.

  Orin instinctively straightened.

  Their meeting had arrived.

  As the figure approached, Orin noticed the white mask beneath the hood.

  Its surface was smooth. Expressionless.

  There was no way to distinguish his features.

  Silence settled over the plateau as the masked man stopped before them.

  Altair stepped forward.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, voice low but firm. “Unfortunately, we cannot linger. Do you have what the Oracle requested?”

  The masked man nodded. From within his cloak, he withdrew a sealed envelope and handed it to Altair.

  “I trust this will suffice,” he said. His voice was unmistakably male. “If the Luminian soldiers discover this exchange, I’ll be hanged in the square.”

  Altair examined the seal carefully.

  “Your risk will not be wasted,” he replied. “This may be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

  He lifted his gaze.

  “What is the situation in the city?”

  The masked man remained silent for several seconds.

  When he spoke again, his tone was darker.

  “It worsens by the day. The soldiers of Luminia distrust everyone. Suspicion alone is enough for imprisonment. Or execution.”

  Orin swallowed.

  When he had fled the Academy, he imagined Balabar as refuge.

  Even if he had arrived here with Rick and Loki…

  Would they have walked straight into soldiers anyway?

  He would never know.

  “All the more reason to move swiftly,” Altair said sharply. “The Oracle must be informed at once.”

  The masked man hesitated.

  “Forgive the intrusion… but the ones accompanying you—”

  “They carried out the retrieval,” Altair confirmed.

  The masked man’s masked gaze shifted.

  “Then the white-haired boy is him.”

  Orin felt it—the weight of being observed.

  “Yes,” Altair replied. “And I believe his presence—combined with this letter—may alter the course of this conflict.”

  A soft chuckle escaped from beneath the mask.

  “So the Oracle foresaw this even before his passing,” the man murmured. “The other nobles will be pleased. It seems everything unfolds according to plan.”

  He paused.

  “Balabar’s independence draws nearer.”

  Independence.

  The word struck Orin harder than expected.

  He had known Balabar maintained close ties with the Star Children. Even in Solaris, that was common knowledge.

  But secession?

  A thin trail of cold sweat ran down his back.

  His origin was in Dhamarr.

  But he had lived his entire life on Solaris.

  He had trained to become a knight of the Empire.

  And now—

  He stood among those conspiring against it.

  He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel.

  Before that confusion could settle, Felis stepped forward.

  “Hold,” he said calmly, though there was tension beneath it. “Perhaps I’m overstepping. But an independence movement now?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Even with Dhamarr’s support... we struggle to defend our own territory. A campaign beyond our borders would stretch us thin.”

  “You’re not wrong,” the masked man replied. “Which is why we intend to secure Dhamarr’s full backing... The support of the Five Princes of the Sands.”

  Both Felis and Aran stiffened.

  Altair did not react—but his silence deepened.

  “I understand how unrealistic that sounds,” the masked man continued. “But this has been in motion for a long time. The Oracle and the Prince of Balabar began laying the groundwork years ago.”

  His tone grew heavier.

  “The current crisis has simply accelerated matters.”

  Orin realized he was listening to something far larger than himself.

  Something he might not have the right to hear.

  Still—

  He spoke.

  “And Solaris?” he asked quietly. “Will the city simply reject the Empire?”

  The masked man turned fully toward him.

  “Boy,” he said, not unkindly, “we hold no hatred toward Solaris.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Long before the Alchemical Wars, Balabar was a sovereign kingdom. Our only misfortune was geography.”

  His voice sharpened slightly.

  “We stood between two incompatible worlds—Solaris and Dhamarr. We chose neutrality to preserve both relationships.”

  A short, bitter pause.

  “Solaris interpreted neutrality as weakness.”

  Orin remained silent.

  “They annexed us,” the man continued. “That was many years ago. Enough time for resentment to fade.”

  Orin frowned slightly.

  “If there is no resentment… then why?”

  The masked man seemed to anticipate the question.

  “It is not revenge,” he said calmly. “It is correction.”

  He stepped closer.

  “The Prince of Balabar believes indecision is what doomed us. We will not remain between worlds again.”

  His voice carried quiet resolve.

  “Officially, Balabar intends to align itself with Dhamarr.”

  Felis’ eyes narrowed.

  “If independence succeeds,” the masked man added, “the Prince of Balabar will announce his candidacy to join the Five Princes of the Sands.”

  This time, neither Felis nor Aran bothered to hide their reaction.

  “One of the Five Princes of the Sands?” Felis repeated.

  For someone who usually carried himself with effortless composure, the disbelief in his voice was unmistakable.

  “That’s… I can’t even picture such an outcome.”

  Aran remained silent, but the tension in her posture said enough.

  Altair, however, did not look surprised.

  Concerned—perhaps.

  But not incredulous.

  Which meant this was no exaggeration.

  Silence lingered on the plateau, heavy as the dry wind sweeping across the yellow grass.

  After a few moments, Altair spoke.

  “We leave for Dhamarr,” he said firmly. “Night approaches.”

  The sky had already begun to bleed into shades of red.

  The masked man inclined his head.

  “Then I will await good news.” His tone softened slightly. “As always, it is a pleasure dealing with you.”

  He paused.

  “Convey my respects to the new Oracle. May her path be guided by the stars.”

  Altair bowed his head in solemn acknowledgment.

  The meeting seemed concluded.

  But before anyone could move, Orin stepped forward.

  Unexpected.

  Even to himself.

  “There’s something…” he began, drawing the masked man’s attention. “Do you know Rick and Loki?”

  A brief pause.

  “They were students at Solaris Academy. From Balabar.”

  The masked man remained still.

  “Yes,” he answered quietly. “I know them well. Good boys.”

  A faint shift in his voice.

  “How fare they at the Academy?”

  Orin’s fingers tightened unconsciously around his sleeve.

  His throat felt dry.

  “The truth is…”

  And he told them.

  From the escape.

  To the pursuit.

  To Morlem.

  To the moment the two boys were cut down before his eyes.

  The sky deepened into crimson as his words filled the plateau.

  No one interrupted.

  No one moved.

  By the time he finished, the weight he had been carrying since that night finally shifted.

  Not gone.

  But lighter.

  His vision blurred.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve.

  Not until now.

  The masked man stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Orin’s shoulder.

  “You did well to tell me,” he said in a steady voice. “I will inform their families personally.”

  A solemn pause.

  “And I give you my word—no one else in this city will suffer the same fate under Luminia’s shadow.”

  Orin nodded silently.

  After a final exchange of farewells, the masked noble departed with his two escorts, their figures gradually swallowed by the dimming horizon.

  Altair rested a large hand atop Orin’s head.

  “Ready to move?” he asked, his tone deliberately lighter. “Next stop—Dhamarr.”

  Orin nodded again.

  They returned to the griffins waiting among the withered trees.

  Moments later, wings spread wide.

  And they took to the sky.

  The mountains passed beneath them as twilight settled fully.

  Once they crossed the final ridge, Orin saw it.

  An ocean of sand.

  Endless.

  Unforgiving.

  It stretched beyond sight in every direction.

  He couldn’t even begin to imagine how someone could locate a single city within such immensity.

  “Sandstorms frequently obscure the Oasis,” Altair explained, pointing ahead.

  A massive wall of swirling sand loomed in their path.

  “We pass through the storm to reach it.”

  His gaze shifted briefly toward Orin.

  “Brace yourself. Dhamarr’s storms are not gentle.”

  Moments later, they entered the cloud.

  Visibility vanished instantly.

  The world became wind and grit.

  Sand lashed against Orin’s face, forcing his eyes half-shut. Violent gusts shoved him sideways in the saddle. He tightened his grip on the reins, knuckles whitening.

  For several long minutes, he could see nothing—not even the other griffins.

  He thought he might be thrown off more than once.

  But the griffin beneath him remained steady.

  Unshaken.

  Even the strongest crosswinds failed to destabilize it.

  Then—

  Suddenly—

  The winds weakened.

  The sand thinned.

  Clear air returned.

  “We’ve arrived,” Altair’s voice carried through the open sky—almost cheerful, an uncommon note from him.

  Orin looked down.

  And saw it.

  The City of Dhamarr.

  It rose from the desert like something born of the sand itself—vast and radiant beneath the fading light.

  Golden domes shimmered.

  Ivory towers pierced the sky.

  At the heart of it all stood a monumental palace, its architecture both elegant and imposing.

  And behind it—

  A lake.

  A massive body of water reflecting the twilight sky.

  In the middle of the desert.

  Orin’s breath caught.

  As the griffins began their descent, Altair gestured toward the grand structure at the city’s center.

  “This,” he said, “is our destination.”

  His voice regained its usual gravity.

  “The Desert Palace.”