Shæz was leading the stranger boy through winding dust paths and into the kind of place that stories usually start with "you shouldn't be here."
It was Zela, the hidden city tucked deep in the dry heart of Senedro. A place that looked a little too much like Earth during a heatwave. Sand for days, rust-colored cliffs, and an angry sun that stared like it was owed something.
But this wasn't just another hot desert. Zela was one of the last pockets of resistance. The only place left that didn't bow to the Ozeleans or the Setrums. The entities of Zela had been burned before. Jessen himself had once convinced them that things were "totally under control" because there was a night rider. Then Mua died.
And just like that, belief in the Setrums evaporated faster than water in Zela's noonday heat.
Now, they trusted no one. Not even other Denefremims. Too many had already crossed lines, joining Hennekas, drawn in by fear, power, or just a bad sense of loyalty.
So yeah, bringing a stranger here? That was a big deal.
They reached the sand gate—this hulking, ancient wall made of sandstone and suspicion. A lone guard stood watch, arms folded, eyes sharp. His name was Gulutel, and he looked like he hadn't smiled since the last eclipse.
"Shæz, you know our rules," he said, voice low and disapproving, like an older cousin catching you sneaking snacks before dinner.
"I'm not going in without him," Shæz replied, chin up. "He's Shean. And he's a Denefremim. You can tell."
Gulutel's eyes shifted to Jim. "Shean, where are you from?"
Jim's mouth opened, then promptly forgot how to do words. He waited for Dias to chime in.. y'know, that mysterious, all-knowing celestial narrator voice—but… nothing. Nada. Radio silence from Team Spiritual GPS.
So Jim did what any overwhelmed half-human accidental night rider would do. He stared. Quietly.
Shæz didn't miss a beat. "See, Gulutel," she said, like that somehow proved everything.
Gulutel narrowed his eyes, stared a little longer, then sighed and stepped aside. He opened the gate.
Turns out, in Zela, the royal Denefremims didn't explain themselves. That whole silent, mysterious vibe? Total cultural flex. And Jim, in his awkward, panicked silence, passed the test without even knowing he was taking one.
They walked into the camp as the gates sealed behind them.
"You're strong, Shean," Shæz said, giving him a little nod of approval.
Jim smiled like someone who'd just survived a pop quiz in a language he didn't speak.
"Yup. Super strong. Totally meant to do that."
But behind them, Gulutel kept staring.
Something was off.
Not just with the boy, but with the air itself.
They edged closer to the main square, where the crowd pulsed like a living thing and the Commandatee stood on a raised platform, fire in his voice and a storm in his eyes.
"We know what we are!" he declared, fists clenched and raised high. "And we know what we fight for!"
Every ear in Zela locked in. Every heart beat faster.
"The Miteons have withheld the rain! The mortals will suffer!" he thundered, and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"The Setrums? Oh, they sit high and glowing, sipping light and watching worlds burn. They don't need mortals. But we do! We can't survive with endless wars on earth. We cannot keep hiding!"
People started nodding, fists rising, a chant building.
"Let us rise, brethren. Let us rise, comrad
The energy spiked.
"We have enemies—and not just the Miteons. War with me! Stand with me! Let us fight against Hennekas! And if we thrive, with this bond, with this fire—"
He paused, voice dropping low before rising again—
"Let us take war unto the Setrums!"
Boom.
That hit like thunder. And Zela erupted.
Fists in the air. Cheers. Chanting. Dust flying. Victory already being tasted like a sweet, forbidden fruit.
Shæz lit up like sunrise, her eyes shimmering with pride. That was her father up there, moving souls with words like a spiritual DJ dropping the anthem of rebellion.
But Shean—Jim—he stood still.
No cheers. No fist pumps. Just that sinking gut-feeling that came when you realized the beautiful place you just stepped into might be on fire in ten minutes.
Because if they really turned their swords toward the Setrums?
That wasn't rebellion anymore.
That was apocalypse.
Shæz looked over at him, the corners of her lips dropping for just a second.
Jim caught it. And then, because he didn't want to be that guy in a raging crowd, he threw up a fist and let out a solid, medium-volume "YEAH!"
Close enough. The moment passed. The drums rolled. The crowd swelled with purpose.
As the Commandatee stepped down from the platform, still glowing from the adrenaline of near-mutiny, Shæz tugged at Jim's hand.
"Come," she said, smiling, proud, warm.
"Meet my father."
And all Jim could think was:
"Perfect. Let's go shake hands with the man who just declared war on heaven."
Jim hadn't lifted a blade.
Hadn't performed a single supernatural flex like the other Denefremims who were throwing fire from their palms and casually arm-wrestling trees.
But still, he got drafted.
No tests. No initiations. No long monologue about heritage or proving his worth by fighting a sand beast in front of a crowd. Nothing.
Just vibes. Mysterious vibes.
Because Shæz? She'd vouched for him.
And Shæz had what the people of Zela called "a strong eye"—basically the spiritual version of a gut instinct mixed with prophecy and a dash of "don't argue with her."
And when she told the Council about how three Miteons bailed the moment they laid eyes on Shean—well, that was enough. Word spread fast. The kind of fast that turns suspicion into applause overnight.
"That look he gave them? Instant storm repellent."
"Boy's got anti-Ozelean aura, I'm tellin' you."
"Shæz don't miss."
And that was it. He was in.
The Commandatee didn't waste time.
He didn't care if Jim was ready, trained, or even clear on who they were actually fighting.
He needed bodies. He needed soldiers.
And here was a stranger—quiet, mysterious, maybe cursed, maybe chosen—but willing to fight.
That's all that mattered now.
So Jim found himself standing in a lineup of warriors, sand swirling around his boots, someone handing him armor like, "hope this fits," and a Denefremim beside him whispering, "Don't worry, first battles are mostly screaming."
Jim just nodded slowly.
Inside, he was screaming already.
And Zela was ready, ready to cause unrest in Senedro.