The dread that had seized the trio at the first sight of that monolith of smoke still clung to them, but it had cooled, no longer panic, but a heavy, shared silence. Whatever waited beyond the horizon, they all knew its name.

  Day bled into night. They slept in uneven shifts, curled in the crooks of old branches, flinching whenever a patrol tramped beneath. The air was restless, thin with ash.

  In the distance, the tower of smoke glowed, an orange pillar swaying in the dark, angling toward the kingdom of Vaga. West, first awake, watched it simmer like an omen. His mind, still fogged with sleep, conjured the terrors waiting at the border. Somewhere not too far away, life was still going on: children herded inside, doors barred, prayers whispered at hearths as the sky turned red.

  Tyrus climbed up toward him, quiet as a cat on bark.

  “Does he frighten you?” he asked, settling on a lower branch from West.

  “Who? Dresdi?” West snorted. “Nah. If I’m being honest, you scare me more.” He passed over a slice of fruit with a crooked smile.

  Tyrus accepted it, chewing thoughtfully. “We fought his armies for more than a decade. He’s relentless. The kind of man who’ll burn the ground he stands on just to call it victory.”

  “I heard he can spit fire out of his mouth… that true?” West resumed slicing.

  “They said the fire came from the tip of his sword,” Tyrus answered, the faintest smile tugging at an old memory.

  West glanced over, the humor fading. “Did you ever see him in battle?” He offered another slice.

  “No. The Ura of the East kept his vast army in reserve. Most of our fighting was with smaller battalions. But when the East began to falter, those ‘small’ battalions grew heavier and heavier.” Tyrus accepted the fruit, jaw tightening. He could remember the weight of his own battlefield confrontations, an exhausting strain he carried like armor he couldn’t set down.

  “And with the Ura defeated, nothing stops Dresdi from marching straight into the Western kingdoms. An Evokian victory across the whole continent,” West muttered, reaching for another piece to cut.

  “There is talk that Dresdi, wielder of the sword of Rah-Kell, is destined for the throne.” Tyrus’s fist curled, knuckles white. “I pray I’ll have the chance to test his divinity myself, as my father and brothers did.”

  West hesitated. “Maybe surviving him, and still being here…is your divinity.”

  “To be alive now is no divinity,” Tyrus growled. “It is a disgrace.”

  West shifted, lowering himself until he caught Tyrus’s gaze.

  “This is why I call you crazy,” he said, wagging a finger. “You want to die.”

  A faint rustle below signaled Omni waking. Cloth shifted, followed by a weary exhale. He listened to the low heat creeping into their voices, and only when it threatened to spark did he sit up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “West,” he said gently, “I believe it’s time for us to go.”

  West blinked, then snorted. “Speaking of death wishes. Good night, Master Omni. I’m ready to go walk straight into Dresdi’s massacre machine.” He dropped down a branch toward him.

  “Oh, come now,” Omni replied, brushing leaves from his sleeves as he rose. “Most stories surrounding General Dresdi are rumors and wild speculation.” He began the slow descent to the jungle floor.

  “With all due respect,” West said, following, “seeing half the jungle on fire feels like the sort of thing that validates said rumors.”

  Omni paused and looked back. “If you are truly frightened, West, you may return to the Kesh and wait for me.”

  West swallowed. “Dresdi doesn’t frighten me. He’s only one man. I just don’t want to die.”

  Tyrus descended last, sandals thudding against the leaf floor.

  “There is no shame in fearing Dresdi,” he said, giving West a firm pat. “He is a wolf. And you… You are a cowardly feline.”

  West opened his mouth to protest, but Tyrus had already turned to Omni, expression hardening.

  “But West speaks a hard truth. My path may not be long.” No drama, just certainty. “You and West should return home by a safer route.”

  Omni shook his head, the beginning of a smile forming.

  “I have made my decision. I will travel to Vaga. I wish to see whether Dresdi’s divinity is real… or merely frightened men embellishing his shadow.”

  A distant ember popped in the drifting column above, a reminder of what had set them walking, and what still waited ahead.

  West was about to complain again when something in him snapped taut. An instinct older than language. He froze, eyes narrowing, attention cutting through the night like a blade.

  Omni sensed it next. Then Tyrus.

  “What is it, West?” Omni whispered.

  West tilted his face slightly, nostrils flaring, listening with his whole body.

  “…Food!” he exclaimed.

  As one, the trio slipped behind the nearest trees, muscles coiled, breath low.

  West signaled them still, then slipped into the dark as if it knew him. Tyrus followed with heavier steps; Omni, quieter than expected, completed the line.

  The jungle felt hollowed out; no insects singing, no birds shifting, only the wind whispering through the Meraldin foliage like a warning. Far overhead, the distant smoke still glowed faintly, a silent terror close by.

  West crawled forward, sliding over roots and vines. If he smelled cooking out here, it meant people were close, and in Meraldin, “people” usually meant an Evokian battalion roasting meat before a march.

  Then: footsteps. Bells. Human noise building through the sleeping jungle.

  A flicker. Then, more warm lights blinking between leaves.

  He halted. The others crouched behind him. West scaled the nearest tree, branches barely rustling, and peered over the canopy.

  Not soldiers. Not even an army.

  A caravan.

  A massive one.

  The famed Emerald Chain.

  Even at night, it was a marvel. Several miles of slow-moving life winding through the jungle. Camels with jeweled harnesses. Horses draped in patterned blankets offered cheap. Wagons stacked with crates, barrels, and baskets of spices and cloth. Cattle pulling creaking carts heavy with trade. Lanterns hung from long poles, their green-tinted glass bathing the road in soft aquamarine.

  Most merchants slept in hammocks slung beneath their wagons, but a few watchful traders warmed their hands beside small coals. Snores, muttered dreams, and the quiet clink of shifting cargo drifted like the breathing of a great creature moving through the dark.

  West dropped down and walked toward the caravan’s edge, sticking to the shadows as he fell into step beside it.

  “Hey there,” he whispered to a man atop a camel, trying not to trip on uneven ground. “Didn’t know the Emerald Chain passed this way this time of year.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The man lowered his olive scarf, revealing a tired but kind face.

  “Big celebration in Vaga,” he said. “Some Evokian holiday.” Then the scarf came back up, muffling his breath in the chill.

  West motioned for the others. Tyrus and Omni emerged, eyes widening as the caravan rumbled by.

  “The Emerald Chain…” Omni breathed. Even subdued, the sight stole his words.

  “I’m going to find food,” West declared, already brightening like a child who’d spotted sweets.

  “Wait! West.” Omni caught his arm. “Do you even have coin to trade?”

  West scoffed, tugging free. “Yes, thank you…and honestly earned this time. If you can believe it.”

  Omni grabbed him again, but with a different urgency. “We should buy a change of clothes for Tyrus. He cannot walk around in blood-soaked attire. It will draw the wrong attention from the Emerald guard.”

  West stared at him as if Omni had suggested surgery without anesthetic. “What? No. He brought that on himself.”

  Omni gave him the Master stare. The one that turned arguments into dust.

  “West.”

  West sagged with an operatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m picking the clothes. And I want them back later.”

  Beside them, Tyrus gave a faint, private exhale; part relief, part embarrassment, part lingering pride that resisted needing help at all.

  They stepped into the slow river of dozing traders and half-lit wagons. Lanterns swayed, wagons creaked under impossible cargo, and the air smelled of spice, lamp oil, and cooling grease. Half-slumped wine sellers, snoring cooks, and crates of goods from far-off kingdoms drifted past like pieces of a slow-moving dream.

  At last, they found a small clothing stall; barely more than folded fabric stacked around a wobbly wooden platform pulled by tired plow beasts. An elderly merchant stood atop it, leaning on a cane.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, voice gravelly but warm.

  “How much for the pants and this vest?” West asked, lifting them.

  “Six silver,” the merchant answered with a salesman’s smile.

  “Six? Be serious, old man!”

  The merchant turned to Tyrus, took in the blood-stiffened tunic and battered sandals, then slowly looked back at West.

  “Don’t haggle with me, son. Your friend looks cold and needs new clothes.”

  Omni didn’t bother hiding his impatience. “Just pay the man, West.”

  West groaned loudly enough for nearby sellers to wake. “Fine! Tyrus, you now owe me twelve silver.”

  He rummaged through his many pockets with put-upon muttering and slapped six silver pieces into the merchant’s palm.

  “Thank you, sir.” The old man handed over the clothes.

  West shoved them into Tyrus’s hands. Tyrus slipped behind some crates to change while West turned back to Omni, wearing the face of a man personally betrayed by destiny.

  “Since I am apparently feeling generous tonight, Master Omni…” West rummaged again and produced a small silk pouch. He loosened the drawstring, and a white cap with a bright sapphire orb rolled into his palm. With a dramatic flourish, he bowed.

  “Your brain, Master.”

  Omni accepted the cap with the expression of someone choosing patience on purpose. “Do not make light of these things, West.” Still, he settled the cap onto his head, the orb catching the lantern glow as if it belonged there.

  West’s grin softened. “Forgive me, Master. Only a jest.”

  Omni dipped a small nod, and the trio continued alongside the slow-moving caravan: lanterns swaying, wheels groaning, animals snorting in the sleepy dark.

  After a long, thoughtful pause, Omni spoke again, voice low but steady.

  “So, West… have you decided? Will you return to the Kesh, or join Tyrus and me on the road to Vaga?”

  West laced his hands behind his head in exaggerated contemplation.

  “Well… now that Tyrus owes me silver, I suppose I’m obligated to continue on. Twenty-four silver coins is no small sum.”

  Tyrus sniffed. “Ah, twenty-four now? Is that what finally cured your fear of Dresdi?”

  West spun around, affronted with the pure sincerity only a dramatic young man could muster.

  “Again with this? I am not afraid of Dresdi! I’m simply pointing out that this is a terrible plan!”

  Omni huffed out a laugh despite himself. Their decision felt fragile but real. West’s choice, following from Omni’s earlier conviction, is another quiet commitment. The dark canopy closed over them as they walked, the caravan lanterns drifting like tethered stars beside them, a dreamscape that felt almost safe… if one forgot what waited ahead.

  One of the caravan walkers, having overheard their bickering, slowed his pace and turned toward them. Wrapped in blankets and blinking sleep from his eyes, he managed an earnest and slightly nervous smile as he spoke.

  “There’s no shame in fearing General Dresdi,” the first man said, adjusting his blanket. “People say he eats the hearts of his own officers.”

  West stiffened. “People say a lot of nonsense. And who are you?”

  The man lifted his hands, easy and harmless. “Sams. Just repeating what’s on the road. Fear of Dresdi is the most common language between villages these days.”

  Before West could bite back, another traveler, an older man balancing a basket of dried fruit, joined in.

  “He wins because of that sword,” he said. “The Red Dragon. They say it cut through the Ura army like it was cloth.”

  A young woman leading a donkey laden with strange jars chimed in next.

  “Evokian steel,” she insisted. “Forged from the metal that fell when Paradise burned. My uncle saw a battlefield after one of Dresdi’s victories…whole fields of trampled tents and families searching for bodies. Whatever he carries, it’s real.”

  Sams leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Some say the Red Dragon spits fire.”

  More travelers drifted over, drawn in by the rumors. A man with prayer beads spoke in a reverent hush:

  “They say Dresdi holds the Gods Eye. And when he’s finished with the West, he’ll march on Evokia itself. To take the title of Supreme Evok and end the wars forever.”

  A few nearby crossed their hands over their hearts at the name.

  The beaded man continued, voice trembling.

  “They say the Gods Eye sees beyond mortal sight. Past, future; even thoughts of friend and foe. No one could move against him without him seeing.”

  The crowd muttered; some excited, others pale.

  Omni finally stepped forward. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, steady and thoughtful.

  “If Dresdi truly holds the promise,” he said, “then his conquest wouldn’t just be victory. It would be a cleansing. Entire villages burned, caravans trampled under armies, and children growing up never knowing the countries we stand in now. That is what divine judgment would look like, not scripture, but the world turning to ash beneath one man’s certainty.”

  Silence deepened.

  Omni continued, slower, teaching rather than frightening.

  “The Book of Meshi tells of a time when one man sees with the Gods eye and holds great power. He reflects the people he judges. So, ask yourselves: is Dresdi that man?”

  Sams swallowed. “There’s an argument for it,” he admitted, quieter now.

  Omni inhaled deeply, something old and ancestral burning behind his eyes.

  “Then answer this: If you carried the God’s Eye…would you give it to Dresdi? Would you trust him to judge us all?”

  His voice gathered force like heat catching in dry tinder.

  “Power without vision cannot hold the Eye. Maybe the One meant for it is not lounging on a throne, but walking beside us now. And this dusty road to Vaga may not be chance at all… but the moment destiny finally caught up.”

  Murmurs rippled, hopeful, frightened, believing, and doubting all at once. Sams stared at his hands. And beside Omni, West felt the weight of those words settle. Not abstract prophecy, but something aimed directly at him.

  Omni’s smile softened the tension in the air.

  “Let us pray that our visions, small as they may feel, are threads in the greater tapestry. Otherwise…” He lifted a shoulder. “…what good is a prophecy we don’t live long enough to witness?”

  His grin was light, but his eyes remained solemn. Then he cupped his hands, bowed his head, and began to pray.

  Around them, the small circle dispersed back into the caravan line. Even those who had scoffed at holy texts earlier now lowered their heads, not wanting to offend whatever ancient forces might be listening.

  West looked around.

  Sams bowed.

  The caravan guards bowed.

  Even the weather-beaten trader with the bad hip bowed.

  And Tyrus. Tyrus, who looked carved from a quarry wall, inclined his head as well. Not in belief, but in genuine respect. West stared at him, surprised; Tyrus seemed like the sort of man who had never been moved by stories, yet here he stood acknowledging one.

  West turned back to Omni. The man’s conviction was unshakeable, carved in the same certainty as the monolith blackening the horizon behind them. West had no argument that could pry faith out of him. Worse, some small, traitorous part of West feared Omni might be right. If the world truly had a design, he might already be standing in the middle of it.

  The three continued with the caravan through the mist-choked jungle and into the cold desert night. Dust clung to armor. Sand scraped skin. Conversations grew quieter. Even the wind fell back, as if remembering the smoke still trailing from the distant monolith and deciding silence was wiser.

  And then, rising from the red plains like a crown of stone and iron;

  The gates of Vaga stood before them.