More raiders slipped behind, circling. Intended to corner them.
Eryndor inhaled as the Scripture breathed with him. Words crawled across his forearm, shifting like living fire.
"He who walks the way of Paragon shall not fall." A voice whispered in his head.
He raised his hand and slammed his palm into the ground. The words followed, erupting in a burst of golden force beneath the sand.
The earth cracked and shifted violently, as the pressure flattening the dunes and the ground swallowing the raiders before they could scream. Sand collapsed over them, burying their fate beneath the desert. Silence followed, broken only by the low hiss of settling dust that hung in the air.
Lirien stared at him in silence, assessing.
Her gaze shifted to the last man standing.
The leader had not fallen.
He spat blood, gasping, lips muttering guttural syllables as his veins darkened with black magic. Shadows—pitch-black and entirely unlike elven magic—coiled around his blade.
Lirien froze, eyes widening slightly as she spoke warily.
"That's… soul-binding. Forbidden warcraft."
Eryndor glanced over, unimpressed.
"I seem to attract only the best company," he muttered.
The raider lunged, slashing at him with the cursed blade. The moment it struck Eryndor's arm, it shattered—harmless.
The leader froze mid-strike, disbelief draining the color from his face. He stared at Eryndor, dumbfounded.
Eryndor met his gaze and shrugged.
"Unlucky," he said softly.
Even he found it absurd. The golden script flared across his skin as the Absolute Scripture rejected the corruption like oil against flame.
Without wasting time, Eryndor clenched his fist. Light condensed around it, humming with thunder.
He struck once.
The leader finally snapped out of his shock and tried to block with what remained of his blade.
The ground split.
When the dust settled, the raider was gone—nothing left but drifting sand far in the distance.
Silence returned, save for the whisper of the desert wind.
Eryndor exhaled, sat down, and rubbed his shoulder. Looking up at the sky, he spoke,
"You know… I think I preferred getting chased."
Lirien glanced at him, ignoring the sarcasm. As she sheathed her blade, she said,
"You fight like a novice protected by divinity. Arrogant."
Eryndor shrugged. "And yet, still alive. A miracle, really."
"Or a curse that refuses to die," she replied after a pause—almost smiling.
The faint glow beneath his clothes faded silently. The Scripture retreated into dormancy, its words dimming like cooling embers.
For a while, they listened to the night wind.
Two wanderers from different worlds, bound by chance—or by something older, something written before either of them was born.
The night deepened as cold wind whispered through the dunes. Eryndor and Lirien set up a small campfire amid the sand, sitting before it in silence, their faces dimly lit by the glow.
The world had shrunk to a fragile circle of warmth in the endless desert.
They were exhausted—too tired to speak, yet too alert to sleep.
After a long silence, Eryndor spoke softly, almost lost to the crackling fire.
"You could've run, you know."
Lirien turned toward him, faint annoyance tightening her expression.
"Did you not hear what that raider said?" she replied.
"I became their target the moment they noticed me."
Eryndor smirked mischievously, shrugged his shoulder lazily.
"Really? I Must have missed that part."
Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he added,
"Admit it. You're starting to like me."
"I tolerate you. For now." She glared at him, then returned her attention to the fire.
Flames crackled, throwing long shadows across the dunes.
The world felt wide, broken, and beautiful again—and for the first time, Eryndor didn't feel entirely alone.
"So," she said, still watching the fire. "Historian."
"Yes?" he answered, sleepy and relaxed.
"Wait—didn't I tell you my name? Or did you forget already?"
Eryndor blinked, feigning confusion. She ignored him and continued.
"Do you always find history by nearly getting murdered?"
Eryndor lay back against the sand, folding his arms beneath his head as he gazed at the stars.
"Well, the best stories usually start that way, don't you think?"
He smiled faintly.
She didn't respond, only to look at him briefly then returned her focused on quietly cleaning the blade.
He took her a glanced and shook his head.
"Again with disregard." He murmured with a smile.
Eryndor stood and tried—and failed—to boil water in a dented cup.
"You're terrible at this," she finally said.
"Oh, I know," he replied. "But my failures build character. And occasionally soup."
That earned a soft laugh—brief, but real. A sound that didn't belong to the desert or its ghosts.
"You're insufferable," she said quietly.
"You'll get used to it," he replied with a smile. "Everyone does. Eventually."
For a heartbeat, something like peace settled between them—fragile, unspoken, undeniable.
Under the moon and stars, the first thread of companionship was woven—not from trust, but from weary understanding.
Dawn came pale and slow, bleeding gold through torn clouds. The desert softened under the light, stones no longer bled shadow, and the night's violence felt like a dream.
Eryndor sat cross-legged by the dying fire remains of their campfire, poking at the ashes. His cloak was dusted white with sand, faint lines of golden script occasionally shimmering across his collarbone before fading.
Lirien approached, carrying two tin cups filled with bitter-smelling brew. She handed one to him.
"Found this in what's left of their supplies. Smells like regret."
At first, he was stunned then chuckled as he accepted it.
"Ah. My favorite flavor."
He grimaced at the first sip, then stared toward the horizon, where dunes shifted like waves—and beyond them, the outline of something half-buried.
"They weren't just raiding," he said suddenly. "They were searching for something."
Lirien tilted her head.
"How do you know?"
Eryndor remained silent for a moment, eyes on the distant ruins.
"They dressed and behaved like raiders, but there were too many of them. And their strength." He glanced at her.
"Even their leader was at least Noblesse tier, highly likely beyond. A High Mortal at that level wouldn't move so openly unless…"
"Unless there's a war," she said, finishing the thought.
"Or they have a specific target."
He nodded.
"And the most important clue is—"
"The forbidden warcraft," Lirien interrupted, arching a brow.
"You know quite a lot about this, don't you?" She asked.
A small smile tugged at Eryndor's mouth.
"I've only been a wanderer recently," he replied. "There's still a lot I need to learn."
"You're remarkably good at attracting bad luck," she said with a sneer.
He clutched his chest dramatically.
"What a terrible thing to say, young lady. I'm wounded."
His smile, however, betrayed nothing but amusement.