The air still held the bite of night when Zafran stirred beneath his cloak. Overhead, the sky was shifting—no longer deep navy, not yet gold. That liminal gray where even the stars knew it was time to leave. Somewhere, an ox coughed. Metal clinked. A wheel creaked as someone rolled their gear into place.
But what woke him wasn’t the usual morning murmur of the caravan.
It was Elsha’s voice, sharp and tired, cutting clean through the dawn.
“Ysar. Pack your things. Now.”
Zafran didn’t move at first. He blinked at the paleening sky, let out a long breath, and listened.
“I am packing!” came Ysar’s all-too-familiar whine.
Zafran finally sat up and looked toward the wagons.
Near one of the smaller carriages, Elsha stood with her arms folded tight, her stance rigid as a pulled bowstring. Her ponytail hung long down her back, swaying as she shifted her weight with that distinct, unimpressed tilt of the hip.
Ysar stood across from her, somehow already disheveled despite just waking up. A leather satchel hung halfway open over his shoulder, and a waterskin was strapped upside-down at his belt. His saddle lay abandoned in the grass behind him.
“If you’re packed,” Elsha said coolly, “then what’s your saddle still doing there?”
Ysar turned, saw it, and gave a weak shrug. “That’s not packing. That’s… optional equipment.”
“It’s part of your gear,” she said, voice flat. “Your horse can’t carry imagination.”
“I was gonna do it next.”
“Like you were gonna tie off your rations?”
“That was a calculated delay.”
Zafran couldn’t help the slight smile curling on his face. This was routine. The bickering, the small fires of frustration that sparked between them every time they were assigned to a mission together. Elsha was precise, methodical. Ysar was chaos in a tunic. They were opposites—and somehow, they worked.
Ysar flopped onto a crate and waved a dismissive hand. “You’re too uptight about this. We’re going into a desert, not a war zone.”
Elsha gave him a long, silent look. No scowl, no sigh—just the weight of her stare, sharp enough to draw blood.
“Just fix it,” she said.
That was Zafran’s cue.
He stood, stretching his back until it cracked, then wandered toward them with the easy gait of someone trying to delay responsibility by five more minutes.
“You two always this dramatic before sunrise?” he muttered.
Elsha didn’t look at him, but her voice softened by a fraction. “You’re up early.”
“You’re arguing loud enough to wake the cattle.”
Ysar pointed an accusing finger. “She’s being unreasonable.”
“He’s being unprepared,” Elsha replied.
Zafran glanced at the forgotten saddle, then at Ysar. “She’s right.”
“She always is,” Ysar muttered. “It’s exhausting.”
Elsha finally let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
Zafran didn’t comment on it. He just nodded and moved to check their own gear.
They had a single reinforced carriage for this trip—wood paneled, canvas-covered, and built for rough trails. Four desert-bred horses were already saddled, restlessly stomping and snorting in the chill air. The rising sun touched the metal fittings on their harnesses, turning them briefly to gold.
Elsha disappeared into the wagon to double-check the supplies. Zafran knew she’d packed them the night before, but that wouldn’t stop her from counting every ration, every waterskin, every arrow. Twice.
Ysar, meanwhile, had finally taken the driver’s seat and was casually adjusting the reins like he hadn’t just lost a minor argument about saddles.
“So,” Ysar said, glancing sideways, “this Karin girl… Think she’s just mad, or one of those nobles playing at being an adventurer?”
Zafran gave no answer.
Elsha’s voice floated from inside the wagon. “She said she was sent by the Academia. Ocean Tide’s magic circle. She’s looking for The Flame Ash.”
Ysar groaned. “Of course. A rich scholar chasing a ghost story.”
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “Well, if she turns out to be beautiful, I guess that makes it worth it.”
Elsha stuck her head out of the wagon, arching a brow. “You’d follow a complete stranger into the desert just because she’s pretty?”
“I’d follow her halfway,” Ysar replied. “Then blame the horse.”
Elsha didn’t dignify that with a response. She disappeared back inside.
Zafran stood beside the carriage, adjusting the strap on his sword belt. He didn’t say it, but the mission didn’t sit right with him. Flame Ash. A myth. A name whispered in campfire stories—ashes that never cooled, left behind by a god’s death long ago.
And twenty gold coins.
That was the part Elsha and Ysar didn’t know.
They thought Karin had paid handsomely. They thought this was a high-stakes escort. If they knew how thin the coin purse actually was, they’d probably walk back into camp and throw Zafran into a barrel.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Hope she pays in advance,” Ysar muttered, running a hand through his messy hair.
Zafran said nothing. His eyes were on the eastern edge of the camp—where the shadows were receding fast, and footsteps were approaching.
The sun was just starting to bite when Karin arrived—hood drawn, pack slung over one shoulder, and dust on her boots that didn’t match the crispness of her robes. She looked like she hadn’t slept, but her stride was steady as she approached the carriage and the trio waiting beside it.
Zafran gave her a help, putting all her baggage inside the carriage.
“You’re late,” he said.
She blinked, surprised. “It’s barely sunrise.”
He stepped aside and motioned to the wagon.
Ysar leaned over from the driver’s bench. “Don’t mind him. He wakes up grumpy and stays that way.”
Karin nodded politely, then turned to Zafran. “I’m ready.”
“Alright.”
Without another word, she climbed into the carriage. Zafran followed, settling across from her while Elsha climbed up beside Ysar, reins already in hand.
The wheels groaned as they rolled forward, leaving the last shapes of the camp behind them. The path was dry, well-worn, and stretched endlessly east. Tall grass bowed in the wind. The world felt both too quiet and too wide.
Ysar held the reins with one hand, occasionally flicking them like he was trying to wake the horses from a nap. Elsha sat beside him, alert and watching the road like it might shift under them.
Inside the wagon, Zafran sat with arms folded, his back to the sunlit flap, eyes closed. Karin sat opposite, quietly checking the straps of her satchel, adjusting the folds of her robe.
Of course, the silence couldn’t last.
“So,” Ysar called over his shoulder, “you some big-shot scholar or just rich enough to buy yourself into trouble?”
Karin blinked, caught off guard.
Elsha didn’t look away from the road. “Ysar.”
“What?” He shrugged dramatically. “It’s a fair question.”
Karin opened her mouth, but Zafran beat her to it. “Don't pry into others' business .”
Ysar sighed. “You’re not fun at all.”
Elsha smirked faintly. “Not fun if you keep embarrassing yourself.”
Unfazed, Ysar tried again. “So, mage, right? Aren’t you spellcasters usually holed up in towers? What brings one of you out into the sand?”
Karin tilted her head, voice calm. “I can handle myself.”
Zafran glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You heard her.”
Ysar leaned back in his seat, grumbling. “Could’ve just said she was spoiled. Would’ve saved me the trouble.”
“Or,” Elsha said flatly, “you could mind your own business.”
Ysar chuckled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The wagon creaked on, rolling steadily toward the horizon, toward sun-bleached sands and stories too dangerous to speak aloud.
The sun climbed steadily, casting long shadows behind the wagon as it rolled through the thinning plains. The breeze still carried the cool of morning, but the warmth was rising—creeping in through the canvas walls, pressing against their skin with a steady, growing weight.
Ysar, of course, didn’t know how to leave a silence alone.
“You know,” he began, stretching theatrically across the driver’s bench, “I once crossed the Silent Desert with nothing but a waterskin, a knife, and my wits.”
From inside the wagon, Zafran didn’t even glance up. “You’ve never been to the Silent Desert, let alone the wits.”
Ysar made an offended noise. “You don’t have to shut me down that fast.”
Elsha gave a slow sigh, eyes still on the road. “Better now than letting you run with it for an hour.”
“I was building tension,” Ysar muttered. “There were going to be giant scorpions. Possibly a sandstorm duel.”
“No need,” Zafran said, voice dry as dust. “Reality’s bad enough.”
Karin, sitting across from Zafran, looked up from adjusting the straps on her satchel. There was a flicker of amusement in her expression—quick, but genuine. “You’ve all traveled together long?”
Elsha nodded without hesitation. “Most of our lives.”
Karin’s gaze shifted to Zafran. “And him?”
Elsha gave a small shrug. “He’s been with us long enough.”
Ysar grinned. “Which is the polite way of saying ‘he doesn’t talk about himself.’” He leaned back, arms behind his head, looking far too pleased with himself. “But tell me, Zafran—honestly—is it really as cursed as the stories say?”
Zafran let out a breath through his nose. “It’s not cursed. Just… unforgiving.”
“Oh, come on,” Ysar groaned. “No ancient spirits? No buried cities full of gold and forgotten gods? Not even a single monster king sleeping under the dunes?”
“Just bandits,” Zafran replied.
Karin frowned. “Bandits? Out here?”
Zafran nodded once. “They’re the real danger. Nothing to patrol the roads, no laws. They know the land better than most and disappear into it just as fast. Plenty of ravines, canyons, dried-out riverbeds. Easy to get ambushed. Hard to get out.”
“Lovely,” Ysar muttered. “I’d just charm my way out.”
Zafran gave him a flat look. “They don’t take hostages.”
Ysar blinked. “…That’s unfortunate.”
Elsha shook her head. “Stick to driving.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ysar mumbled. “I’m just saying, a little mystery wouldn’t hurt. Lost ruins, cursed artifacts—something to make the stories worth telling.”
Zafran leaned his head back against the wooden frame. “We’re not here to make stories, Ysar. We’re here to survive them.”
Outside, the grasslands were fading fast, giving way to rougher terrain—drier, flatter, sunbleached. The horizon shimmered faintly ahead, where the land would soon turn to sand.
Night fell slow and wide across the plains.
By the time the horses had been watered and tied, and their simple camp was set, the light had all but vanished beyond the horizon. The stars blinked into view one by one, quiet and unbothered above a world that still hadn’t learned to rest.
A single fire crackled at the heart of their small camp. Around it, the four travelers sat—tired, dust-covered, and held together more by necessity than trust. But fire had a way of softening edges.
Ysar leaned back against his pack, arms behind his head, stretching like a man who’d spent the entire day sitting and still wanted praise for it. “You know,” he said, voice casual, “a train would’ve made this trip a lot easier.”
Elsha gave him a look without turning her head. “Right. Because laying rails across the Silent Desert sounds perfectly reasonable.”
“Hey, we’ve tunneled through mountains. Why not flatten some sand?”
“Because sand moves,” Elsha said flatly. “Mountains don’t.”
Karin, seated cross-legged near the flames, chuckled softly. “You sound like the engineers back in Fyonar.”
Ysar perked up. “You’ve been there? That city’s obsessed with shiny stuff. Ever ride one of those new trains?”
Karin nodded. “A few times. But the real obsession isn’t trains anymore. It’s electricity.”
Ysar blinked. “Electricity?”
“Like lightning,” she explained, “but controlled. Stored. People are building machines—things that run without magic. Lights. Engines. Doors that open themselves.”
Ysar made a face. “That still sounds like magic.”
Karin smiled. “It isn’t. No planar breath, no casting, no symbols. Just science.”
“Still sounds like lazy magic,” Ysar grumbled.
Elsha smirked. “That’s because you don’t understand either.”
“Hey, I understand plenty. Magic has rules. Electricity just… works? That’s creepy.”
“That’s why some people fear it,” Karin said, her tone softening. “Especially mages. Magic takes years to master—discipline, talent, control. But with electricity? Anyone can use it. Anyone can own power.”
Ysar raised an eyebrow. “Wait… magic’s not something you’re born with?”
“Sometimes,” Karin said. “Some are gifted. But if you're not born with it. you can just study and train.”
Ysar stared at her. “No way.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Zafran said quietly, still staring into the fire. “You should try”
“That’s insane,” Ysar muttered, poking the flames with a stick. “But now you’re saying that this 'electricity' is replacing magic?”
“It’s not replacing magic,” Karin said. “It’s challenging it.”
Ysar let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Steam, lightning… next you’ll tell me someone’s trying to fly.”
Karin grinned. “Actually—”
“NO.”
Everyone laughed—except Zafran, who rubbed his temple as if warding off a headache.
“You talk too much,” he said.
“Someone has to,” Ysar replied, flopping onto his back with a groan.
The laughter faded, replaced by the steady pop and hiss of the fire. Beyond it, the plains stretched silent, the wind carrying the scent of distant sand and the sharp chill of oncoming night.
They sat for a while longer—watching sparks drift upward like fading stars, letting exhaustion settle where words no longer needed to fill the space.
Tomorrow they would ride again, deeper into unknown lands.
But tonight, they rested—between old magic and new machines, between silence and story.
And for now, it was enough.