The Dragon Mark

The Caravan, composed of dozens of wagons, rested lazily by the edge of the oasis. With an inviting appearance, large, stretched cloths draped the various carts, casting much-needed shade. Around ten of them were arranged in a protective half-circle.

Just a few meters away, the powerful birds that pulled the wagons were grazing. Standing on strong, long legs wide enough not to sink into the sand, these creatures, called Rhiloo, had been led a bit away. They averaged two meters in height. Their feathers were white and sandy-colored, except for their wing tips, which were a surprising violet. These birds, exceptional runners, were the most common beasts of burden used by the nomadic Caravans. Two of them were enough to pull a fully loaded wagon across the desert. Yet, their most remarkable feature was their speed—according to some legends, the fastest among them could outrun a storm, moving faster than the wind itself.

At the center of the half-circle, a bustling crowd was in motion. Every man, woman, and child had a role to play, participating in a dance that showcased impressive choreography. In the heart of the group, a large fire was lit, serving both as a source of light after sunset and as a cooking station during the day. As the two travelers approached, it was mealtime.

Hungry and thirsty, Lysbelle nearly felt faint from the almost intoxicating aroma that filled the air. After days without a proper meal, she felt as though she were mere meters away from paradise.

It was a child who spotted them first. Sitting on the edge of a wagon, swinging his feet, he pointed them out while announcing their arrival to the nearest adult. What followed happened in a flash: initially cautious, a few men and women approached them. Then Lysbelle recognized one of them from afar—the man leading the group was, luckily, an old acquaintance of her mother. She had crossed paths with him several times before, along with the Caravan they were now heading toward.

"Sadris!"

Now, a few dozen meters away, the man froze when he heard his name before a surprised smile spread across his face. He glanced toward Tyrell, murmured an inaudible order to one of the women beside him, and then walked toward Lysbelle with a broad grin. As he was about to welcome them, Tyrell stepped in.

"We need medical attention and food. I also need to speak with your leader."

A flash of disapproval crossed Sadris’s eyes before he nodded in agreement with the traveler’s request.

"I figured as much. We will take you to our mender, and you will have a place at the meal."

Still smiling despite Tyrell's blunt statement, Sadris turned back to Lysbelle.

"Lysbelle, I’m glad to see you again. When your Caravan didn’t arrive a few days ago, I feared the worst. Come, follow me; we’ll take care of you. After that, you will explain what is happening."

The reunion between Lysbelle and Sadris could have been joyful. But the travelers' poor condition and the circumstances dampened the mood. As soon as they arrived, they were taken to the healer. Though Lysbelle felt injured and exhausted, her condition remained far less serious than Tyrell’s. When the healer saw Tyrell remove his protective cloak, he muttered a colorful curse. He immediately called for help before having the wounded man lie down on a makeshift mat.

The man then carefully cut away the clothing, soaked in dried blood, that had been used as a makeshift bandage. Tyrell's chest was in terrible shape. A bruise, blue and black, marked his ribs. It spread across his torso, as if trying to take over his body. That alone would have required intensive care, but the most shocking injury was undoubtedly his arm. It looked as though the bones had been shattered. Completely unusable, the limb should have received attention immediately, yet it had been left in a rough bandage for more than three days. As if the neglect wasn’t bad enough, the lack of water and food over the past few days had only accelerated the worsening of Tyrell’s condition.

As the healer worked and barked orders to prepare for the treatment, Lysbelle felt shocked. She had briefly seen the man’s injuries on their first day in the ruins, but she hadn’t realized how much worse they had gotten. While a woman busied herself cleaning and bandaging Lysbelle’s own wounds, she couldn’t help but worry. The woman tending to her noticed her anxious expression and reassured her.

“Don’t worry, the most important thing is that he made it here alive. Our mender can work miracles—I’ve seen him bring a child back from the brink of death.”

“Can he really heal him?” Lysbelle asked, still concerned.

“Of course, his Gift is one of the strongest among the nomadic clans. You’re lucky you found us.”

Feeling a bit reassured by the woman’s words, Lysbelle continued to watch the mender work. The preparations finished, and the man settled in to begin. Soon, Lysbelle felt a soft breeze around her, one that seemed to swirl through the area before gathering in the healer’s hands. Though she didn’t understand the details, she knew the man was sculpting the Îme. The sight was mesmerizing; he manipulated the invisible force with remarkable skill and care. The ritual went on for some time, and after several minutes, everyone had been ushered out, leaving the healer alone with his patient. Lysbelle had insisted on staying a little longer, but at Mayssa’s polite request—the woman who had dressed her wound—and with the promise of a good meal, she finally departed.

They led her to the center of the half-circle, where someone served her a large bowl of stew. Made with Orox meat and mixed with dried fruits and seeds, it was the best meal she’d had in days. Despite the hunger and thirst gnawing at her, urging her to devour it all, she forced herself to eat and drink in a measured manner. Doing otherwise would have only made her sick.

Once her body was finally satisfied, Sadris approached her. Always with a wide smile on his face, only his slightly balding head gave away his age. In his forties, the second-in-command of the Caravan was a trustworthy man. A friend of her mother, he had played with Lysbelle many times during their caravans’ meetings when she was younger.

“I hope you’re full, Lysbelle.”

Completely sated for the first time in almost ten days, the young woman nodded.

“Good. I’m sorry to ask this when you’d prefer to rest, but our leader would like to meet you. He wants to hear what happened. After all, we’re quite surprised to find you without your Caravan, especially with that man.”

Curious about his words, Lysbelle asked Sadris what he meant, but he shook his head, explaining that he couldn’t say more. It only fueled her curiosity, and she tried to get more information out of him. The only detail he did share left her puzzled: according to him, Tyrell wasn’t exactly a trustworthy person. It was clear that some members of the Caravan had shown a noticeable wariness toward him.

Soon, they arrived in front of a quite larger wagon than the others, the lead wagon. Unlike the rest, this one was fully covered, with large white sheets preventing any curious eyes from peeking inside. This was where she met the Caravan's leader. She had seen him once or twice before during meetings between her clan and his, but they had never spoken. In his sixties, with thinning hair and a gaunt face, Lysbelle felt he might collapse at any moment. Yet, his sharp and intense gaze outright contrasted with his frail appearance. Sitting on his knees, the man greeted her with a grave expression and gestured for her to join him. His tone, though gentle, left no room for argument. After welcoming her, he only made one formal request: to explain the recent events.

So, she began to recount her story. She spoke of the attack on her Caravan, of her mother's bravery and the warriors who had fallen in battle. She told of the cowardice of the strangers who had ambushed them. Her words, hesitant at first, grew stronger with each sentence. As she shared her tale, Lysbelle felt a barrier within her break, a floodgate of emotions she had held back until now. The safety of a familiar environment and friendly faces had finally cracked the armor she had built around herself. An armor she had worn for days. An armor she had donned to keep Azel from worrying. A protective shell that had allowed her to persevere despite her fears, the reason she had survived the harsh desert. All the fear, anger, and rage she had repressed for days poured into her story. Not even the tears welling up in her eyes could stop her.

Her throat tightened as she spoke of the treatment they had endured and the condition of the other prisoners. She almost let out a sob when she mentioned her brother, still back there, likely thinking she was dead. And her eyes filled with terror when she spoke of the Swarm.

A hand rested on her shoulder. For the first time since she began her story, someone interrupted her. As she was about to explain how she and Tyrell had escaped, a familiar deep voice from the past few days took over.

“We were lucky. We stumbled upon a ruin while fleeing.”

All eyes turned to Tyrell. With a clean bandage around his chest and a splint on his arm, he already looked much better. Without giving Lysbelle a chance to continue, he picked up where she left off.

His version was brief, straight to the point, and over in just a few words.

“Once the Swarm was gone, we headed for the Beryl Oasis to seek help.”

Still surprised by the interruption, Lysbelle looked at the man who had guided her. His stern expression had regained some color, though she hadn’t noticed when it had faded. His voice, more confident now, sounded much stronger than the last time they had spoken. She wanted to ask if he had fully recovered, but didn’t have time.

The healer, whom she hadn’t noticed standing behind Tyrell, stepped forward, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry. I tried to make him stay and rest, but as soon as the ritual was over, he came to find you. I couldn’t stop him.”

The leader waved a hand to reassure the old healer, then turned his attention back to Tyrell. But it wasn’t he who spoke next.

"You don't belong in the lead wagon," hissed a voice. "You have neither the right nor the honor to enter here uninvited."

Sadris, his usual smile now vanished, glared at Tyrell with clear disdain. On her part, Lysbelle was growing irritated. She liked Sadris, but his treatment of the man who saved her life several times was starting to grate on her nerves. Out of respect for the leader, though, she remained silent.

Tyrell ignored the remark and sat down in front of the chief. In a respectful gesture, he lowered his head.

"Elder, I wish to request the Call..."

As if the very sound in the wagon had vanished, the entire space fell silent. A shiver ran down Lysbelle's spine. The Call brought back only bad memories for her, and hearing it invoked here caused those dark thoughts to surge to the surface. Sadris's face shifted rapidly through a series of emotions—disgust, shock, and finally confusion. The healer, eyes wide, stood there with his mouth agape, as though he could have swallowed an Orox whole. Even the Caravan chief hesitated for a moment. Then, as everyone was still recovering from the shock of Tyrell’s request, a man burst into the wagon.

"Elder! A caravan is approaching the oasis! They're not following the usual routes, but they're bearing the colors of the Phoenix!"

"Move aside."

A figure appeared behind the man. With a simple flick of her hand, she knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the floor, bewildered. The newcomer, tall, with sandy-colored hair cropped at her neck and a sharp, angular face, stepped forward.

"I can introduce myself."

Her voice, while feminine, carried a rough edge, and her eyes burned with a fiery red intensity. She walked past Lysbelle without sparing her a glance. A variation of the nomads' protective cloak draped over her shoulders. It had a large opening at her right shoulder, revealing her dark brown skin. The woman stopped a few meters from Tyrell, her gaze hardening as she looked him over before spitting at his feet.

"I’m disappointed, Old one. I didn’t think you’d stoop so low that you’d start taking in Fallens."

On her shoulder, prominently displayed by her clothing, was a bright red tattoo.

A phoenix-shaped mark.

"Azmiyah, I ask that you respect our customs. You are welcome in my Caravan, but I will not tolerate disrespect toward me or my guests, regardless of their status."

"I have no respect to give to a Fallen, especially not this one."

With those words, she shot a withering look in Tyrell’s direction. The man, far from taking offense, remained silent.

Lysbelle, however, couldn’t remain quiet any longer.

Up until now, she had watched the scene unfold, caught between surprise and contemplation. But the newcomer's last words were too much. She had insulted Tyrell by calling him a Fallen. The very idea seemed absurd to her. The man was a model of integrity, honor, and duty. If he had been cast out, it would imply he had committed an offense so severe it could never be forgiven. A crime so vile that even his Caravan would never forgive him. Between that and the distrust he had already faced, Lysbelle couldn’t tolerate any further insult to the man who was the only reason she was still alive. Without thinking about her words, she raised her voice.

"Who do you think you are?"

Her tone rang out louder than she had intended. The woman, likely in her thirties, turned toward her, surprised by the outburst. For the first time, she fixed her fiery red eyes on Lysbelle.

"How dare you insult Tyrell?"

The woman took a moment to look her over before stepping closer.

"Impertinent girl, do you even know who you’re speaking to?"

She lifted a hand, and with flawless control, shaped the Îme. In the next instant, a majestic blade of ice formed in her palm, its sharp edge aimed menacingly at Lysbelle.

Whether driven by anger or pure defiance, Lysbelle stepped forward. They had endured treatment unworthy of even animals for days. After risking their lives in the desert, when she finally thought they might get help, hearing this stranger insult Tyrell was the last straw. She felt her rage surge into strength, her tattoo flooding every fiber of her being with energy.

"Lysbelle!" The command froze her in place. Tyrell had stepped between them. "Stop... She’s not lying. I am a Fallen."