Chadwick Rye

The battered war table groaned beneath the weight of maps, tactical markers, and the armored fists of frustrated commanders. Outside the tent, the unforgiving winds of Lumenvale’s northern plains carried the sounds of five thousand soldiers preparing for tomorrow’s march. Inside, Captain Gareth Ironheart stood rigid as his superiors debated their next move.

“The eastern route adds four days to our journey,” Lord Commander Hawthorne argued, his weathered finger tracing the winding path along the coast.

Duchess Valewind, resplendent even in practical battle attire, shook her head. “Four days that could mean the difference between reinforcing Highkeep before or after it falls.”

“Then we cut through here,” the Lord Commander insisted, jabbing at a vast ochre expanse on the map. “The Duskfall Desert. Three days at most.”

The tent fell silent. Even the battle-hardened officers around the table seemed to hold their breath. Only the Duchess maintained her composure, her silver eyes narrowing slightly.

“No,” she said firmly. “I will not sacrifice my soldiers to that place.”

Captain Gareth cleared his throat, immediately regretting the sound as all eyes turned to him. But having begun, honor demanded he continue.

“With respect, Your Grace, the Duskfall truly is our most direct route. Perhaps if we knew what dangers,”

“You wish to know why the Duskfall Desert is forbidden, Captain?” The Duchess’s voice cut through the tent like a freshly honed blade. “Very well. Since you’ve served the Crown faithfully for fifteen years, you’ve earned the truth rather than merely orders.”

She gestured for the others to leave. When only Gareth remained, she poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter, offering one to him.

“Twelve years ago, before you joined the Royal Guard, I led three hundred of Lumenvale’s finest soldiers through the Duskfall,” she began, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “A rebellion had erupted in the southern provinces, and like you, I sought the quickest route to quell it.”

Gareth sipped the fiery liquid, saying nothing as she continued.

“The locals warned us against it, superstitious nonsense, I thought. Tales of crimson sands that thirst for blood, of ancient beings that slumber beneath dunes, of winds that whisper secrets better left unheard.” Her fingers traced a thin scar along her jawline that Gareth had always assumed came from conventional battle. “Three hundred soldiers entered the Duskfall. Twenty-seven emerged, most of whom took their own lives within a year.”

“What happened?” Gareth asked, unable to reconcile this tale with his image of the unflappable Duchess.

“The first night passed uneventfully,” she continued. “By noon the second day, the crimson sands began to… sing. Not with voices as we understand them, but with vibrations that resonated inside the mind rather than the ear. Beautiful harmonies that made the world seem brighter, made us forget our thirst and fatigue.”

She drained her glass before continuing.

“By nightfall, soldiers were wandering away from camp, drawn to mirages that showed them their deepest desires. Some claimed to see loved ones beckoning from behind dunes. Others found shimmering pools of water that dried to blood-red dust when touched. I ordered a strict buddy system and doubled the watch.”

Gareth listened, transfixed, as she described the third day, how the sand itself seemed to shift beneath their feet, opening pathways that hadn’t existed moments before, separating groups despite their precautions.

“The worst came at sunset,” the Duchess said, her composure finally cracking. “The dunes… moved. Not as sand blown by wind, but as creatures awakening from ancient slumber. Massive shapes rising and falling like breathing chests, opening chasms that swallowed soldiers whole, then closing as though they’d never existed.”

She refilled her glass with a hand that trembled slightly.

“We fought… something. Neither beast nor man nor spell, but something that used the desert itself as both weapon and armor. It didn’t simply kill, it unmade. Those it touched didn’t die cleanly but seemed to… unravel. Their screams changed pitch as they dissolved, becoming part of that terrible singing.”

The tent fell silent save for the distant sounds of camp activity. Gareth found his voice after several moments.

“How did you escape, Your Grace?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I remember running until my legs gave out, until blood filled my boots. I remember the singing growing louder, more discordant as it pursued us. Then nothing until we were found at the desert’s edge by a caravan of spice merchants.”

She fixed him with a stare that seemed to pierce his very soul.

“The Duskfall Desert is not simply dangerous, Captain. It is hungry. It is patient. And it is awake.” She rolled up the map with finality. “We march east along the coast. Better to arrive late than to feed more souls to that accursed place.”

Later that night, as Gareth made his rounds through the camp, he found himself staring south toward the distant red haze that marked the Duskfall’s beginning. Though miles away, he could almost imagine he heard a faint melody carried on the warm breeze, beautiful, enticing, and utterly wrong in ways his mind couldn’t articulate.

He silently thanked the Duchess for her warning, understanding now why veteran soldiers avoided even mentioning the crimson sands. Some places in Lumenvale held dangers that could be faced with steel and courage. Others concealed horrors that no mortal weapon could hope to defeat, ancient, patient evils that remembered when humans were nothing but a future possibility in a world ruled by powers now mercifully forgotten.

The Duskfall Desert was one such place, and Gareth Ironheart, Captain of the Royal Guard, silently vowed he would never set foot upon its singing sands, not for glory or duty or even by royal command. Some boundaries existed not to challenge a soldier’s bravery, but to preserve humanity itself.

As if sensing his thoughts, the breeze suddenly died, leaving only an unnatural silence that felt more like a held breath than true quiet. Gareth turned back toward the safety of torchlight and familiar voices, unable to shake the feeling that something vast and ancient had briefly turned its attention toward him, and found him wanting as prey.

At least for now.