The Dragon Mark

The Caravan was speeding ahead. A dozen wagons, tightly bound by thick ropes, moved as one. At the front, the Rhilloos squawked with excitement. These birds, trained for such races, knew what lay ahead, unlike Lysbelle. Her black eyes, filled with confusion and fear, watched the massive storm approaching them at an alarming pace. The reason? They were heading straight for it. The already fast convoy kept accelerating, showing no signs of slowing down. The sharp cries of the Rhilloos echoed across the vast desert, but soon the sound of the wind drowned everything out.

The gusts, growing in intensity, battered the carriages, threatening to overturn them. Currently stationed at the front of the lead wagon, near the entrance, Lysbelle observed Azmiyah. The woman, almost manic, laughed out loud. With a sharp command, she urged the birds forward once more, and with a quick gesture, she changed the Caravan’s direction. It was a mesmerizing sight—each gust was countered by a change in course. While any one of these winds could have toppled the entire convoy, the speed of the birds, coupled with the Phoenix's expertise, kept them steady. A hand landed on Lysbelle's shoulder. It was one of the Caravan's warriors, a man named Basel. He motioned for her to follow him inside, then vanished through the small platform opening. Lysbelle cast one last glance at the Caravan leader before following Basel indoors.

“Well, you sure are steady on your feet! I felt like I’d fly away by stepping outside, and you've been standing out there the whole time.”

Basel, the one who had fetched her, laughed as he spoke. The warrior, about Lysbelle’s height, had a shaved head and wore a scarf around his arm to signify his rank. He was the Caravan's second-in-command. Stocky, with arms that could make an Orox jealous, he was quite the imposing figure. Another warrior chimed in on his comment.

"Well, she’d have to be, taking hits from Az for hours."

Laughter broke out among the few others present in the lead wagon. Even Lysbelle, far from offended, managed a smile.

Protected from the wind, there were five of them, including her, inside the lead wagon. Azmiyah was still outside guiding the Rhilloos, while the rest of the crew stayed in the rear wagon.

The wind made the wagon shudder again, an unsettling fact that didn’t seem to worry anyone. As the warriors’ laughter finally eased her nerves, Lysbelle relaxed slightly. It was at that moment that she felt the pulse of Îme receding from her body back to her Mark. Unconsciously, maybe to stabilize or protect herself, she had drawn on her power. As if to confirm her theory, another gust nearly toppled the wagon, and she found herself on the ground. Her fellow travelers, laughing, watched as she scrambled to her feet.

“How did you manage to stay outside without being blown away?” asked a woman named Rayssa.

Lysbelle grabbed one of the many available handles and stood up, her face flushed with embarrassment. Another man, Maric, if she remembered right, spoke up.

“Quit teasing her! Need I remind you how your last round of jokes cost you a very long night?”

Irritated, Rayssa turned to Maric with an exaggerated look of mock outrage.

"Why do you always have to rub salt in the wound? You’re heartless!"

The bickering between the two continued, completely ignoring Lysbelle. Confused by what was happening, it was Basel and Toris, the fourth warrior, who reassured her.

“Don’t worry about those two; they spend all their time teasing each other, but they’re the best of friends.”

“Yeah, and by the way, if you want a good laugh, I suggest holding on a bit tighter.”

Curious, Lysbelle took the advice and tightened her grip. The next moment, a gust of wind slammed into their wagon, sending the two who had been arguing tumbling to the ground.

The string of curses they let out was barely drowned out by the laughter of Basel and Toris. Even Lysbelle, who had been struggling to relax lately, found herself joining in the general hilarity.

“Get your elbow out of my stomach!”

“I’ll move it when you get off me, you fool! I’m stuck under you!”

Far from learning their lesson, they kept arguing until another jolt sent them flying in opposite directions.

Leaving them to their squabbles, Basel gestured for Lysbelle to come closer. The second-in-command, crouched near the entrance, held a rope in his hand.

“Here, grab this and tie it around your waist. Something’s about to happen that you definitely don’t want to miss.”

Intrigued, Lysbelle did as she was told, fastening the rope securely around her waist. Basel’s face lost its previous humor as he continued.

“This rope is your lifeline. I’d suggest you check two or three times that you’ve tied your knot properly.”

Confused by his change of tone, Lysbelle double-checked her knot before turning her attention back to him. Basel nodded approvingly and continued his explanation.

“Alright, now that you’ve got a safety line, you can head outside.”

“Outside?”

“Of course. No one spends their first storm inside—it’s almost sacrilegious. But we also try not to lose new recruits to the first gust of wind.”

A wide grin spread across his face, one that didn’t bode well. Lysbelle turned to the other warriors, looking for support or some sign that this was all a joke. Unfortunately, everyone’s faces were serious, a stark contrast to the light-hearted atmosphere from a moment ago.

“You… You want me to go back outside?”

In response, Basel opened the door leading to the front of the wagon. A gust of wind rushed inside, threatening to knock everyone over, but no one fell. The wind now howled within the wagon, and Lysbelle couldn’t even hear herself speak. She only saw Rayssa waving her hand, urging her out, before feeling someone push her outside.

Lysbelle let out a small yelp of surprise as a gust of wind slammed her against the now-closed door. Only a small hole, which she had long wondered about, allowed her lifeline to pass through. She tried in vain to open the door. But as she thought of using her Mark's power, a change in direction sent her flying to the left side of the wagon.

One foot in the sand, hands gripping her rope, Lysbelle found herself in an incredibly precarious position. The wind, speed, and sand rushing beneath one of her legs made the usually simple task of standing almost impossible. She muttered a curse under her breath. The Îme surged through her body, and she found the strength to pull herself toward a railing. She grabbed it with all her might. Though still in a precarious spot, she managed to gain some stability and lifted her head.

The sight left her speechless. The wall of sand and wind that formed the storm had closed in at a terrifying speed. What had once been impressive now dominated her entire field of vision. A towering behemoth of shadow, light, and swirling sand, moving in a destructive dance. The tempest threatening to consume everything in its path.

The Rhiloos, far from alarmed, skimmed the ground with surprising agility. Using their wings as tools to stay as close to the sand as possible and avoid being swept away by the gusts, they raced straight toward the wall of wind.

Behind her, the other wagons of the Caravan, firmly secured at several points, followed the lead wagon in a hypnotic rhythm. Every movement was mirrored by the following wagons. Lysbelle thought she saw two or three others in the same situation on the rear wagon. But, it might have been her imagination.

What stood out the most, however, wasn’t the looming sandstorm about to crash down on them in mere minutes. Nor the birds racing through such brutal conditions as if they did not feel the wind. No, the most impressive sight was without a doubt the Phoenix.

Standing atop the first wagon, alone against the storm, with no lifeline, Azmiyah commanded the Caravan with absolute mastery. Her silhouette stood tall, her garment fluttering in the fierce air currents. She wore a look of pure joy, thrilled to face such primal power, welcoming the challenge with open arms.

Maybe it was Azmiyah's aura. Or, perhaps, rivalry or recklessness. But, for some reason, Lysbelle began making her way toward the ladder leading to the top of the wagon. The journey was far from smooth. The wind and sand battered her, and she had to make a dozen attempts before finally reaching it. Climbing wasn’t difficult, but once at the top, she was in for a shock. Every gust, every jolt, every movement seemed magnified tenfold. The sheer effort it took to stand even once was immense, and she only managed it thanks to the overwhelming surge of Îme filling her every muscle. Gripping her lifeline with all her strength, she stabilized herself. She silently thanked Basel for not sending her outside without it. The sturdy rope had played a crucial role in keeping her from flying away. Her knuckles whitened with the effort as she clung to it. Summoning the strength to lift her head, she looked up at the Phoenix.

Azmiyah was watching her, amusement dancing in her eyes. With a swift motion, she secured the Rhiloos’ reins and walked toward Lysbelle. Her steps were light, effortless, and unaffected by the wind. As if the storm had no hold over her and not a single jolt could disturb her balance. Once she reached Lysbelle, she spoke.

“Relax, you’re too tense. Lift your chest and lower your center of gravity. You’ve got a lifeline, it’s not there to be an excuse. Use it to experiment, to try.”

Despite the wind and the approaching storm, Lysbelle heard her voice clearly. As if it resonated in her ears.

“And hurry up. The best part’s coming.”

With those words, she returned to grab the reins of the team and resumed guiding the birds.

Lysbelle focused, but following the advice she'd been given was far from easy, and it required her full concentration. She tried to straighten her posture but got swept away by a gust of wind, only managing to catch herself in the nick of time. Lowering her center of gravity by relying more on her legs, she was thrown off balance again by a sudden jolt. She tried again, each attempt ending in failure. And all the while, the wall of sand only grew closer. Now less than a hundred meters away, it would be upon them in mere seconds.

Lying flat on the top of the wagon, she lifted her head toward the Phoenix. Azmiyah’s demeanor had changed—her lightheartedness was gone, replaced by a steely determination in her stance. If Lysbelle had to guess, she would have bet that the impact would be catastrophic, tearing them to pieces. Even the Rhiloos showed signs of unease. Yet, Azmiyah didn’t flinch; her gaze fixed, unwavering, on the Devil of the Vast Sand.

Just as everything seemed about to end in an instant, the Phoenix leaped. Her speed was extraordinary, and Lysbelle could have sworn she saw fiery flames burst from her feet. In the blink of an eye, Azmiyah was at the front of the Rhiloos, a few meters above the ground, right where the wall of sand began.

If she'd had the chance, Lysbelle would have closed her eyes, but she didn’t have time. A thunderous explosion shook the mass of sand and wind. An explosion so powerful that it blasted a tunnel right through the storm. This opening allowed the Caravan to plunge into the storm’s heart in a flash, just as it sealed behind them. For a moment, light pierced through, red flames lighting up every inch of the tunnel carved by the Phoenix. The next, darkness fell, and anarchy reigned.

Inside the Devil, everything was chaos—wind and destruction. Yet, a glow began to burn, a white flame acting as a beacon, parting the winds before them and guiding their way. Without noticing when she had returned to her position, Lysbelle saw Azmiyah blazing, a torrent of Îme surging from her mark. The Îme contained in the explosion that had once saved Lysbelle from the Reapers was insignificant compared to this. Even the ceremony of the Calling paled in comparison.

Azmiyah, crouched with one knee to the ground, for the first time since Lysbelle had met her, she appeared to be struggling. Whether it was the colossal effort required or the storm’s growing power that even she had to fight against, Lysbelle’s gaze locked on the Phoenix tattoo. The mark, the source of all the Îme flooding out to protect the Caravan, radiated light.

As they pressed on through the storm, Lysbelle lost track of time. But at some point, she began to sense the winds weakening. A faint sensation at first, that grew more noticeable soon. Then, Azmiyah reduced the amount of Îme she was sculpting for their protection. Soon enough, though they hadn’t yet emerged from the swirling sands, the environment became more bearable. Enough for Lysbelle to try standing again. Enough for her to continue practicing. And perhaps it was only then that she fully realized—the Caravan had just charged through a storm.

A hysterical laugh escaped Lysbelle’s lips. In her madness, Azmiyah had pulled off an impossible feat. A feat of unimaginable danger, so reckless it could have cost them all their lives. And yet, deep down, a part of Lysbelle wanted more.