The Desert Star

There was something wicked about the desert when the white shine of the full moon glazed along the elegant slopes of the sand dunes, undisturbed and silent besides the enigmatic lull of a wind unseen.

That wickedness existed between what was seen and what wasn’t; just along those dunes awaited her an uncut fate that has, over many moons, coiled around her neck like a chain, one of which those ancient bastards had no qualms of tugging when she got too comfortable.

Where she was now, exhausted, sand-ridden behind a ruined column riddled with markings of tongues unknown to her, and with her wounds seething red behind the tattered garb she bartered markets away from where she rested, was one of those instances; she was comfortable, too comfortable for her limbs to really find solace in the quiet.

Every instinct was unnerved. Better for her to bleed through the dunes than stay stagnant, but she looked up then, finding a friend just as stagnant as she was, and relief quickly followed.

With a bloodied lip, she grinned at them.

If Eha wasn’t as wounded as she was, she would have almost believed that the stars stitched far beyond her fingertips glinted at her in recognition. She blamed delirium for her actions; she raised a hand upwards, using the points of her fingers to connect one to the others nearby with one eye closed and the other attentive.

Any other night, maybe then, she would have created their story in her head.

Priadi had called them spirits in some of her stories, ancestors in others; their presence in the middle of their creation consistent to the tales. They were protectors of some kind, looking over those who believed in them, and even those who didn’t, existing in the dark spaces of an infinite dark veil—for what, Eha didn’t know.

She didn’t care for them enough to venture into their mysteries.

Unlike her village, Eha’s nights weren’t ever dedicated to prayer. This spoke truer when taking rest under the tarps of clay homes in the back alleys of sparse villages looked far more enticing to her than taking to her knees to pray, to barter away the state of her wellbeing in return for an uncompromisable devotion to worship for her earthly protection.

Of all things, really.

The gods her people spoke of, the very same ones her guardian muttered through the night while Eha laid awake in her bedroll beside her sleeping, orphaned brothers and sisters, weren’t the ones that guided her along through the dunes, through the forbidden and abandoned cities. Those gods didn’t grace her with anything, much less the abilities she acquired through the rough mundane of her insignificant life on the streets of her small village.

All prayer seemed worthless.

There was nothing to be felt, no divinity to be seen.

The runes that marked her skin didn’t prove their existence either, as much as Priadi wanted to make her believe that they did, but the delicate black loops on her tawny skin weren’t earthly charms, and the only thing they ever offered her was the subtle eyes of judgement that followed her every step. Priadi was a woman of worship, a holy believer, and as much as their beliefs clashed through the many years they spent together, there was always one question that never failed to pit her friend into a deafening silence.

Where were they then? Where were these ancient do-gooders?

Eha knew they weren’t there when those soldiers massacred her village. They weren’t there as she trekked through the deserts. They weren’t there through every escape, every little nick her skin, every broken sob. If they weren’t there in her dreams, or her nightmares, then where they these ancient gods?

Eha sighed.

To resent those beings was a useless pastime for her, but her bitterness was ridiculously insistent.

Instead of mulling unseen beings like a child, she let out a huff and fell back against the column with a wince, her body going slack. She looked down at herself and counted the angry splotches on her clothes with a tired gaze. Her dark eyes moved languidly from the ends of her boots to her pant-cladded legs, until she reached her midriff.

There were five wounds in total.

She ignored the minor scrapes and the bruises, the light scars on her brown skin, and, instead, kept her gaze glued to the one they managed to nick during her escape. When she pulled back her shirts, Eha noticed the visible rip that went through her layers, and she had multiple of them.

She let out a quick hiss, the sound caught between her teeth.

The wound was curved deep, dark, and red, beginning from the bend of her side to end in a vile tear to the middle of her stomach. The gash was thicker than the others, and every breath she inhaled delivered prickles of pain across her upper body.

The corner of Eha’s lips curled downwards into a scowl.

The Pulyrian guards were getting desperate, and aggressively careless.

Eha could have laughed at the absurdity of it all if she wasn’t so agitated.

Thousands of soldiers must have been deployed by the tyrant-prince himself, numbers having doubled since she’s left the bustling city of Aklun with a grin so roguish that it left more than enough of those curious nobles amused, and yet still they had the nerve to pride themselves in the armor they wore when they haven’t been within a hair’s breadth of securing her capture in their pretty shackles.

She was meant to be their menace, the greatest peril to their empires, but those foolish low lives couldn’t even understand the width span that their blades held. Those poor citizens, having to jump out of the way of the guard’s incompetence was truly a tragedy. It took nothing more than a stolen dagger and the quick wit of her feet to escape with her head.

Eha chuckled, but the sound felt weak in her throat, and a haggard cough quickly followed by as consequence.

As much solace as the broken pieces of the temple brought her, the air felt frigid against her forehead, which was still slick with sweat. Eha allowed herself a moment’s time with the stars and the stable ground beneath her before she remembered that her end would come earlier than she anticipated if she stayed a second longer.

As she finally made to move, one hand splayed on the floor and the other gripping the column behind her, she staggered to her feet with a ragged gasp, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Overwhelmed with a pain far too familiar for her, Eha couldn’t control the weight of the sting and, without much control, fell against the column, the sweat on her forehead gliding down to the curve of her jaw.

Her breathless laugh, one coated with the thick gauze of bafflement, broke the barrier between peace and solitude found underneath the silent moon and the quiet howl of the sand wisps.

“Fuck me,” she breathed with a wild grin.

There was no moment spared for her to dig through the few scraps left in her leather satchel, because she could hear them, those bastards. The hooves of their horses grew nearer, she could feel them beneath her feet, but Eha was even closer to their borders. They would spot her; she knew they would—and they would notice the gleam of her runes when she neared the white walls of Ilkaria.

If she ran, she could make it.

She would.

But there was one thing that made her hesitant.

What if her runes, the very same ones that have caused her nothing but grief, didn’t gleam like the archaic tomes prophesied that they would? The Ilkarian guards wouldn’t pay her much mind if her runes didn’t glow. She hardly doubted they would even see her as nothing more than a dotted hindrance from the scale of their walls, her with her tattered garb and her knotted hair, or her black runes and bloodied limbs.

Even with all the variables leading towards less than fortunate outcomes, Eha wasn’t a woman of caution, the transparency of her will to live sheer; after everything she’s had to deal with, everything she’s had to witness, all of which was done without the help of the ancient ones, she couldn't afford to end all of this in some stagnant demise.

She had to push for this.

For them, for her people, for Priadi and her siblings now ash to the earth.

With her pain stubbornly embedded deep away from the surface of her resolve, Eha gathered any strength still left in her limbs and sprinted away from the sanctity of broken temple and towards the pristine walls of Ilkaria.

Every heavy breath was bated as she neared, her footing on the sand stubborn, the shine of her eyes dull in color, but heated with purpose. As agile as she was, she knew it would only be a matter of time until the hooves of their horses thundered closer towards her, but she pushed on anyways.

She ran, and she ran even faster than she’s ever done so before, ignoring the throb of her calves and the hot hiss of her lungs begging her to rest—but there they were!

The high walls, white and blinding against the browns of the desert, securing a city that hid behind them. She could see the decorative spears and towers of a grand palace, the peaks and domes, the balconies and golden arches of the King and his people's homes, and it looked as blinding as the walls that held them near.

With an outstretched hand, she saw her stars, and for a brief instant, she saw the pale eyes of Priadi, felt the comb of joy she only ever felt from the laughter of her siblings, and within that single moment of memory, she glowed.

The black of her runes disappeared under the white radiance that replaced them.

She saw it, she saw them, but she also saw the wide loop of a rope thrown from behind her before it captured and tightened around her neck.

Her fall to the ground was a muted thud.

Ropes were thrown, looping around her ankles and her arms, now bound.

The thunder of hooves and the quiet neighs of their horses surrounded her.

She clawed at the twisted, coarse coils holding her immobile on the sand. She kicked at nothing, her breath lost and her curses restrained.

The harsh tug of their ropes seared her skin, and she muffled a cry into the sand, squirming like a snake full of will to be free when they tightened. Even through her teary glares, Eha knew these men through their black clothes and the insignia of the tyrant-prince they pledged their loyalty to. Their faces stayed hidden behind their cloth masks, but Eha still sought the dullness of their eyes.

Another cruel tug urged a scream, and Eha almost sobbed when they started to pull her away from the giant doors of Ilkaria. Her runes glowed, but there were no saviors, no gods to play a gentle hand to her existence.

The walls kept its silence as they dragged her across the sand, the white of her runes dimming the farther they pulled her away. Eha’s screams and her pleas would be for nothing, so she fell into her misery and allowed her fortune to turn bleak, but just as the tendrils of her hope slithered away from her eyes, from the force of her limbs, the whistle of an arrow broke through them and into the chest of one of the men.

The Pulyrian soldiers holding the ends of the ropes twisted away from the sudden wave of arrows seemingly appearing from the sky. Eha watched with tired eyes as they yelled at each other, their words too garbled for her to understand as they pulled back on the reins of their horses and steered away from the attack.

Through the landscape of the sand dunes, they fled.

Whether they would be severely punished for their cowardice, Eha didn’t care. The sound of the gates being opened made her twist her neck around to see multiple soldiers clad in their own silver armor coming towards her.

The ones leading them wore long white robes, the sides of their heads adorned with wreaths spun in gold, and the expressions of their faces were left open for Eha to study. There was concern there in the furrow of their brows, but one of them rushed forward, falling to their knees beside her head.

There was an undeniable warmth in their hands as they pressed their knuckles gently against her cheekbone. Eha’s eyes were half-lidded, glazed over from an exhaustion that she finally allowed herself to feel in their care, but she forced herself to focus on the markings hidden beneath the billowy sleeves of their robes.

Unlike her, their marks paled in different colors; swirls of blues, and greys, some orange, others brown, but none of theirs looked as stark as hers.

Without so much as an order, some of them cut away at the rope with translucent opal daggers, fingers so nimble, she could almost believe that the force of the wind is what set her unbound. 

The one beside her head allowed their knuckles to linger on the slope of her cheek with eyes so warm that Eha almost wept in relief.

Catching her dark eyes, they finally smiled.

“Welcome home,” they said, their voice settling over her like the deep hymn of a lost song, “radiant daughter of our Ilkarian King—”

“Ehalia,” Eha interrupted with a disarming grin, her manner of disturbance well-intentioned. Her breaths were still short, the rise and fall of her chest rapid, but she didn’t dare look away from the widened eyes of her saviors.

“My name is Ehalia,” she forced through her bloodied lips. “But, please, for the love of those damn gods, just call me Eha.”

Silence followed her words, much to her brief disappointment, but it went as quickly as it arrived when she noticed that many mirrored her grin, and the low chuckle of the one beside her head. Their eyes, which looked almost as identical to the pale shade of Priadi’s, shifted away from her to order the men and women around her with a voice full of stoic command, their touch still on her cheek.

They worked dutifully, being careful as to not jostle her too roughly while they waited for a cart to take her towards the city and inevitably tend to her wounds. The world around her started to quiet down, and there was nothing left but the delicate force of her breath and the thud of her heartbeat.

As they neared the gates, Eha’s runes turned blindingly white once again, much to the subtle delight of the Ilkarians, until the color stayed permanent and docile on her skin, finding a home over the harsh glare of her previously black marks. The cart shook as it carried her away, but her saviors stayed by her side.

Eha’s head lolled around until her gaze drifted upwards.

The night sky was still a dark veil, the white shine of the moon still followed the slope of the sand dunes, and the stars—well, the stars would remain where they were long after the new cycle of its moon mother, and long after the fallen empires around her.

As much as she didn’t believe in the ancient gods, and as much as Priadi’s words about them didn’t stick to Eha like she had wanted them to, she figured it wouldn’t be outlandish to believe that they were up there, caring over each other, her siblings, her guardian, all well rested and at home in a welcoming darkness that would be left undisturbed by mortal motives.

As the people of Ilkaria wheeled her away, their demeanors warm and sincere, Eha could almost swear those stars glinted at her in recognition, as if the shine of her runes made them remember their earthly companion, the last of their village, who would be, within her own right, welcomed as the lost heir of the great King.