In an unknown desert, two figures walked—one man, one boy. Their purpose? Unknown.
As they wandered beneath the sun's cruel gaze, a group of travelers approached. Their leader, a merchant with a warm smile, offered them water and company. "It's dangerous out here," he said. "Bandits, monsters, worse. You should travel with us."
The man agreed.
The group turned out to be an escort company, on their way to Solakrin, a famed oasis in the heart of the desert. They were friendly, generous even—offering food, laughter, and most importantly, clean water.
The boy, never having known kindness before, accepted it all with wide eyes and a grateful heart.
They traveled for days, fending off a few petty bandit groups along the way. The guards made short work of them. Spirits stayed high. It was almost peaceful—until the final night before reaching the city.
As the two slept under the stars, the merchants whispered among themselves.
"We should kill them now while they're asleep. I already drugged their water."
"Idiots. Walking through the desert with just a sword—who do they think they are? That man's dressed like a noble. Bet he's loaded. And the kid? We can sell him to the slave markets in Solakrin."
Prince Lucas, lying motionless, heard every word.
With a flick of his finger beneath his cloak, he pulsed his aura—just enough to reach the boy.
Alaric's eyes snapped open. Disoriented, half-dreaming, he caught the tail end of the conversation. What he thought was kindness… had been a trap. His heart pounded. He reached for the Prince, tried to shake him awake—but the drug had taken hold.
Lucas wasn't waking up.
Alaric gritted his teeth. He had no choice now. No weapons. No training. Just desperation and dirt-born instinct. He had to buy time.
Slipping into the shadows, he vanished from the camp. The plan came to him as he moved: Distraction. Escape. Delay.
He found a torch and set one of the wagons ablaze.
"FIRE! THE GOODS!" shouted one of the merchants.
Panic spread like the flames. Guards scattered for water buckets.
Alaric darted for the horses, grabbed the reins of the nearest one, and pulled it toward the prince. He threw Lucas over the saddle as quietly as he could, then climbed up behind him.
But one problem remained.
Alaric didn't know how to ride.
He was a peasant. He'd never touched a horse before.
The guards, now realizing their animal was gone, turned toward him.
"YOU DAMN THIEF!"
Thinking fast, Alaric kicked the horse's side. The beast lurched forward—wild and fast. Lucas began to slip from the saddle.
"Shit—no, no—" Alaric reached out, barely catching the prince by his robe. One of Lucas's legs dragged against the sand, kicked up dust as the horse barreled into the night.
"Forgive me, sire," Alaric muttered, arms straining to keep them both balanced. "For treating you this way…"
Behind them, the merchants screamed. But it was too late. They were already far off.
Later, in the quiet between their ragged breaths and the thunder of hooves, Lucas stirred.
And then he laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not a mocking one.
But something honest. Warm.
"Seems," he said between chuckles, "this boring journey just got interesting."
And for the first time in Alaric's life, he smiled too.
From afar, the merchants gave chase.
They weren't giving up that easily.
"Kid! You shouldn't have taken our horse!" one of them shouted, dust rising at their heels. "We fed you—this how you repay us!?"
Alaric turned, eyes blazing.
"Bullshit! You tried to kill him—and sell me to slavers!"
The words cut through the desert heat like daggers.
Prince Lucas, behind him, laughed again. Carefree. Amused. As if none of it truly mattered.
But suddenly—he froze.
His body tensed like a bowstring.
The laughter stopped.
A deep, guttural sound echoed from beneath the sand. A rumble, rhythmic and unnatural.
Thud… Thud… THUD.
Then—eruption.
A mountain of sand exploded into the sky.
From the shifting dunes burst a colossal creature—its gaping maw rimmed with rows of jagged teeth, its body like a writhing tower of muscle and carapace. A sandworm. Bigger than any beast Alaric had ever imagined.
The merchants froze in terror.
Panic swept through them like wildfire.
"The burned goods," one of them gasped. "It must've drawn it here!"
"You damn boy!" another shouted, pointing at Alaric with rage and fear. "You've doomed us all!"
And then—like cowards—they turned.
The merchants began to retreat, pushing Alaric and Lucas forward—using them as bait.
That was their plan all along.
But before they could take another step—
Lucas moved.
In a flash, he appeared before them, his blade unsheathed in a single soundless motion.
With an almost casual grace, he dragged the tip of his sword across the sand, carving a perfect, glowing line before their feet.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"I'll kill the sandworm," he said.
"But if anyone crosses this line... they die by my blade."
Everything fell silent.
Even the horse, still trembling from earlier, stopped dead. Its instincts took over. Whatever the merchants thought of Lucas—the horse knew what stood before them was more dangerous than anything hiding beneath the sand.
Even the sandworm.
The Prince didn't look back.
He walked toward the approaching beast, sword in hand, cloak fluttering in the rising desert wind. His presence felt like a storm held back only by his will.
And for the first time, the merchants weren't afraid of monsters.
They were afraid of him.