Chapter 1

The sun hung low over the Aknuq peninsula.

On the western side, desert dunes shifted like waves. Nomadic tribes roamed the semidesert areas. These regions blended into patches of shrubland. Here, tough plants clung to life. Their roots dug deep, searching for hidden moisture in the parched ground.

Evenings brought a welcome change. Cool breezes replaced the day’s scorching heat. The landscape transformed into a stunning sight. Shades of orange and purple filled the sky as the sun sank below the horizon.

Two major cities, Khaod and Kauzlud, lay on the oasis in the desert. The nomadic tribes hunted, gathered, and cultivated small plots of fertile soil. But they also faced conflict. Wars broke out among tribes fighting for resources and survival. When the tribes or clans wage in the battle, the victors usually kill the men and take the women and children as bounty.

Formidable mountain ranges rose in the middle of the peninsula. Their jagged peaks stretch toward the sky, casting long shadows over the desert below. These mountains are remnants of ancient volcanic fields. The paths smelled of a hint of sulfur in the air.

On the eastern side, dense forests thrive next to a winding river. Tall trees reach high, their canopies letting in just enough light. The forest hums with life. Birds chirp, leaves rustle, and you can hear the river rushing nearby. This river flows like a silken ribbon through the woods. A river carved its way in the middle of the forest.

The Vuzembi tribe held power in the western Aknuq peninsula. They weren’t just one group. Several clans made up this group. Many of these clans viewed each other as brothers.

Their main focus? Hunting. They took pride in their warriors, dressing them in bold red and black stripes. These colors represented strength and courage.

Clan leaders often played a key role. They acted as mediators during disputes. This helped maintain peace among the clans. Unity was important to them. They marked this bond with scorpion tattoos on their forearms. These tattoos symbolized their strength and dominance in the region. However, the jealousy of other clans led to wars and wiped out the entire clan.

But hunting wasn’t all they did. The Vuzembi also excelled in spice harvesting, agriculture, and gem mining. Their numbers gave them an edge. They commanded respect not only in combat but also in protecting trade routes.

The Zalameen and the Nariq lived alongside the Vuzembi. Both tribes had their distinct strengths.

The Zalameen thrived on trade. They controlled important routes through the desert. This gave them access to resources and wealth. They were the first to navigate the tricky paths to the east of the peninsula. Their connections with the Teshi Empire helped them grow even richer. By maintaining good relationships with ambassadors and merchants, they secured exclusive deals.

How did they do it? Bribery played a big role. The Zalameen managed to monopolize trade with the Teshi and Aknuq tribes. In their bustling markets in Khaod and Kauzlud, Zalameen traders exchanged spices, silk, and gems. Ornate jewelry sparkled on their necks and wrists. Fine fabrics adorned their homes, showcasing their wealth.

The Zalameen hired Vuzembi warriors for protection. With the bandits lurking in the shadows, the Vuzembi tribes provided protection.

The Nariq lived a hard life. They were few in number and often ignored. For generations, they served the Vuzembi and Zalameen. Their days were long. They toiled in fields and mines. They worked as slaves, never getting a break.

Inside the houses of Vuzembi and Zalameen, their tasks didn’t end. They cleaned, cooked, and did chores. This wasn’t just work; it was survival.

The three tribes held similar beliefs. They worshipped multiple gods, each with their own unique pantheons. The Vuzembi looked up to a god of war and the sun. The Zalameen focused on a goddess of wealth and prosperity. The Nariq, however, honored the earth goddess.

Each tribe built temples for their deities. They were proud of their places of worship. Yet, one tribe chose not to visit the others. They preferred to stay apart.

On the surface, they seemed friendly. They exchanged pleasantries. But in private, they insulted each other’s gods.

Centuries ago, a golden meteorite crashed into the city of Khaod. The tribes believed it was a divine gift. Each claimed it as a sign from their god. The three tribes came together and built a temple for it. They surrounded the stone with idols, hoping to honor their deities. This was the only temple in the peninsula where all three tribes ventured. The tribes then called it Khaod Temple, and thus the city was born. The tribes made pilgrimage to the city every year.

Khaod became a busy financial hub. Traders flocked from every part of the desert. The city blended wooden and stone buildings. Gleaming temples towered above, showcasing the land’s wealth.

In contrast, Kauzlud thrived with lush greenery. An oasis brought vital water to crops and livestock. This agricultural haven stood as a stronghold of food and resources. Some Vuzembi clans dedicated themselves to farming. Meanwhile, the Nariq worked as slaves for these clans.

Markos was born on the edge of Khaod. Dust filled the air where the city met the vast desert. He was part of the Rukh clan, not very wealthy. His father was a famous warrior but died in a fight when Markos was just a baby.

His mother faced tough times. Raising him alone was hard. Widows and orphans didn’t get much help. Sadly, when Markos was two, his mother fell ill and passed away. Life was unkind.

Then came his grandfather from Kauzlud. He led the Khig Clan. They were strong. Markos’s grandmother had Zalameen roots, giving him a mix of heritage. But when Markos turned three, his grandfather also died.

He returned to his paternal uncle, Khabox, the new leader of the Rukh clan. Loss surrounded him. It shaped his early years.

The Rukh clan didn’t reject Markos, but they didn’t welcome him either. Being an orphan carried a sense of bad luck.

He felt the sting of whispers. He noticed the coldness in their looks. It was clear. He was an outcast.

Kids were cruel in particular. They turned games of tag into taunts. Laughter rang out, but it wasn’t for him. The adults kept their distance too. They believed his sadness might spread.

One evening, he felt the weight of loneliness. He needed a break from it all. That’s when he found a mountain cave outside the city.

It became his refuge. It served as a haven from the agony he was experiencing. As he stepped into the shadows, he felt smaller. The cool air inside was a relief from the burning sun outside.

Inside the cave, he found comfort. The walls echoed his sobs. It was a sanctuary for his aching heart.

At ten, Markos received an unexpected call from his uncle, Khabox.

Khabox sat in his tent, his expression serious. But a small smile flickered on his lips. “You’re strong for your age, Markos. Clever, too. It’s time you learned the ways of the desert.”

Markos listened closely as his uncle continued. “I’ve secured you a place among the guards of the caravans. You’ll protect wealthy merchants and their goods on the trade routes. It’s an honorable job. You’ll learn a lot.”

He nodded silently.

The thought of the world beyond the Aknuq peninsula excited him. But then he remembered the risks. Bandits roamed the sands.

The first caravan set off under a blazing sun. Heat pressed down on his neck. The wind stung his eyes. Camels groaned under heavy loads. Their bells jingled, marking the rhythm of the journey ahead. Traders spoke softly, eyes darting across the horizon. They were alert for danger.

Markos, the youngest guard, had a crucial task. He watched the rear. Dust clouds rose and fell behind them, swallowing the city of Khaod. It faded into a distant memory. His eyes scanned for movement, hand resting on his dagger’s hilt. This blade, cold and heavy, was his only inheritance from his father. It represented new responsibilities.

The caravan moved like a serpent through the desert. Shadows stretched long as the sun dipped. The air cooled, and the scent of cooking fires wafted around. Campfire stories filled the night. Tales of bravery and cunning stirred something deep within Markos. He longed to prove himself on these sands.

Every day on the trade routes brought fresh challenges and lessons. The desert’s vastness mirrored his dreams. The caravan felt like a family. Merchants taught him negotiation skills and the value of knowledge. Other guards shared their expertise, transforming his youthful energy into disciplined strength.

The camels marched on, their steady pace a backdrop to the desert’s symphony. Markos grew into his role. His eyes sharpened. Reflexes quickened. Each moment prepared him for what lay ahead.

When he was twelve, Markos received a call from his uncle Khabox. “We’re going to Jugyik,” he said. “It’s the border town of the mighty Teshi Empire. You’ll see wonders beyond your imagination.”

The caravanserai buzzed with life. The air smelled of spices. People spoke in many languages. As they neared the town, the impressive walls came into view. They shone with marble and gold. This was a sharp contrast to the simple desert around them.

Jugyik was a mix of cultures. Merchants from faraway lands filled the streets. Each brought their goods and beliefs. They carried their own gods and stories.

Markos’s eyes widened with each new sight. He marveled at the gleaming armor of Teshi soldiers. He admired the colorful clothing of traders from the East. The cobbled streets felt like a tapestry woven from different worlds.

In the town, Markos discovered the Teshian gods and their impressive temples. These deities had animal faces, a strange yet captivating idea.

Markos’s curiosity grew stronger. He often watched the traders as they displayed their goods. They spoke in hushed tones about the miracles of the Teshian gods.

These divine images adorned their weapons and armor. Tales of epic battles danced in the air, filled with themes of love and betrayal.

One evening, the caravan rested under the great walls. A beggar approached Markos. His eyes sparkled with the desert dust that seemed to rise above his ragged clothes.

“Young one,” he croaked, “I know your thoughts. I can share secrets of these lands and the gods who reside here.”

Intrigued, Markos nodded at the beggar.

“I see your heart is full of questions,” he continued in a low voice. “I have answers if you want to hear. But it will cost you some coins.”

Markos felt his heart race. He studied the man. After a moment, he reached into his pocket. A few coins emerged. The beggar took them, grinning. His teeth were yellow and rotting.

The beggar claimed to be a seer. He began to speak of a prophecy. It foretold of a single god who would unite all lands. This god would bring peace and end the tribal wars.

“This deity,” the beggar said, “will be born of a desert flower. It will rise from the sands, untouched by the greed and blood of our many gods. It will be a symbol of hope.”

Markos felt a spark inside. His heart raced. “How will I know when this god arrives?”

The beggar looked deep into his eyes. “You will feel it in your soul,” he whispered. “It will call you when the time is right.”

Suddenly, the seer’s gaze turned distant. He stood, coughing into a dirty hand. He said, his voice fading. “But if you wish to hear more, you must pay more.”

Markos felt doubt creep in. He had only a few coins left. But his thirst for knowledge pushed him forward. He handed over what little he had. The beggar accepted the offering and vanished into the shadows.

The next morning was cool. The streets of Jugyik were just waking up. As Markos walked back to the caravanserai, he spotted a figure on the cobblestones outside a tavern. It was the beggar. His eyes were shut, and his breathing was weak. The bright blue of the night before had turned to a dull gray.

The tavern owner, a burly man with a thick mustache, was shouting at his employees. “Move this piece of shit away from here,” he grunted. “Bastard, he spent all night drinking ale and slept in front of my door.”

Markos felt the sting of his naivety. Cheated. The prophecy now felt like just another one of the beggar’s stories. But those words? They stuck in his mind, like a stubborn melody that wouldn’t fade away.

The beggar deceived him. But then there was the prophecy. The image of a desert flower rising from sand and conflict resonated with him. That image sparked something in him.

As the caravans rolled back to Khaod, the desert felt more familiar. He felt betrayed. But now? A fire ignited within him. Never trust.

In the mountain cave, the air was cool and still. It felt just like when he was a child. But Markos had changed. He was no longer a lonely kid. He had a purpose now.

He pulled out the dagger from his father. The metal shimmered in the flickering light. Memories flooded back. Back in Khaod, Markos immersed himself in his work. The caravans grew longer. The risks became more real. Still, he felt stronger. Each step in the desert sand brought him closer to something bigger.

He earned the trust of other traders. His sharp instincts and quick actions became tales of bravery. Though still a kid in his early teens, Markos’s reputation soared. He gained the respect of the adults around him.