Sabir stood over Frederick’s fallen form, taking a deep breath as he reached down and grabbed the knife Frederick had failed to reclaim. He turned it over in his hand, examining its polished blade, noting the faint smears of his own blood along the edges where he had grabbed it mid-fight. The knife was nothing extraordinary—plain, rugged, designed for one purpose: to kill. Sabir looked from the knife to Frederick’s lifeless body sprawled in the dirt. A sickening feeling twisted in his stomach.


    He considered taking it with him. It would make sense to keep a weapon, especially given the danger he was constantly in. But as he gripped it, he felt an intense disgust rise within him. Why would he want to carry his sister’s killer’s knife? Something so steeped in hatred and betrayal? He turned the blade, examining its worn handle, and thought of Cynthia’s last moments, the trust she’d placed in the wrong person.


    “No,” Sabir murmured, tossing the knife aside into the sand. He had never used a weapon before, and certainly not this one. There was no point starting now with something so tainted.


    He took another glance at Frederick’s body and let out a heavy sigh. This victory wasn’t because of his own strength. Frederick had been strong once, deadly even, but that was a long time ago. Age had turned him into something weaker, and Sabir had simply survived, not triumphed. It felt like a hollow victory.


    Shaking off his thoughts, Sabir turned his attention to the sleek black motorcycle Frederick had ridden into the wasteland. It was a futuristic beast of a machine, sleek and angular, designed specifically to navigate the harsh landscape. He examined the controls, his eyes catching on a large red button near the handlebar. Out of curiosity, he pressed it, and, to his amazement, the bike compacted down in a series of smooth clicks and whirs until it became a briefcase.


    “Whoa,” Sabir breathed, bending down to lift the briefcase. It was heavier than he expected, though not unbearably so. He gave it a shake, testing its balance, when he noticed a smaller red button on the side of the handle. Without thinking, he pressed it, and the briefcase began humming, slowly unfolding back into its original form. Sabir’s fingers felt the machine tugging itself back into place, and he quickly let go, dropping it to the ground as it resumed its full shape.


    “Sweet,” he murmured, running a hand over the bike’s frame. Just as he was about to hop on, a voice echoed behind him.


    “The Pegasi have all migrated finally, huh?”


    Sabir froze, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. That voice. The one from the cave. It wasn’t in his head this time. No, this one was very real, drifting across the open air behind him.


    He sighed, turning slowly. “Do they really have to keep sneaking up on me from behind? Is it so hard to just come at me face-to-face?”


    Standing before him was an older man, far older than anyone he’d encountered in The Limbo, with deep lines etched across his face and long, gray hair tied into a ponytail that draped over his shoulder. He wore flowing gray robes that billowed in the sandy wind, giving him an almost spectral appearance.


    The old man met his gaze with a slight smile. “Hello there.”


    Sabir blinked, struggling to process how this man could stand here in the middle of nowhere. Warily, he mumbled a cautious, “Hi…” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re the guy from the cave, aren’t you?”


    The old man’s smile widened. “So you remember.”


    “You saved my life back there,” Sabir said, his suspicion giving way to something that felt almost like gratitude. “That weapon, the one in the cave—what was it? And why didn’t you come out from… wherever you were hiding?”


    The old man tilted his head, his smile fading as he grew serious. “The cave… What happened to it?”


    Sabir shrugged, mildly irritated. “Shouldn’t you know? You were there, weren’t you?” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. This man didn’t seem like a threat. He wasn’t worth wasting time on. “Look, I’m not sure how you did it, but I’m healed. I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to go.”


    With that, Sabir turned and climbed onto the bike, hoping he could figure out how to operate it.


    The old man took a few steps closer, studying the bike. “Ah, a fine machine. I used to ride something like this back in my day.” He reached over, gently adjusting a few controls. “Here, let me show you.”


    In a few moments, Sabir felt the bike rumble beneath him, ready to go. He prepared to take off, but the old man raised a hand, pointing southeast. “You’re headed in the wrong direction. Your friends… they’re that way.” His voice dropped, filled with a strange gravity. “And they’re in grave danger.”


    Sabir frowned, looking in the direction the old man pointed. “If you say so, old man…”


    The man’s gaze softened. “My name is Zilean. It would be an honor if you remembered it.”


    Realizing his lack of courtesy, Sabir turned off the engine and dismounted, facing the man with a nod of respect. “I guess I should say thanks. If you hadn’t been there in that cave, I’d be dead. You saved my life.”The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Zilean gave a faint chuckle, reaching out and placing a hand on Sabir’s shoulder. “Go. Your friends need you more than I do.” He paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “If there’s one thing I’d ask… make sure you live with no regrets.”


    Sabir hesitated, struck by the selflessness in Zilean’s words. “Thank you,” he said softly, genuinely moved.


    Zilean nodded, stepping back and raising a hand in farewell. Sabir climbed back onto the bike, gripping the handlebars tightly. As he sped off into the distance, he glanced into the rearview mirror, watching Zilean’s figure gradually fade, the old man waving one last time before he disappeared into the sands.


    ***


    Zilean watched as Sabir’s silhouette disappeared into the endless sand dunes, the faint hum of the motorcycle fading into silence. He remained still for a moment, letting the wind drift over the barren landscape, ruffling his gray robes. Only after Sabir was completely out of sight did he speak again.


    “You can come out now, Arelia.”


    A soft rustling echoed from a nearby hoodoo—a towering, weathered rock formation carved by years of relentless desert winds. Emerging from behind it was a young woman with a fluid grace, her movements effortless and precise. She wore a long, airy white cardigan trimmed with soft peach highlights, which billowed around her as she leapt from the hoodoo, landing soundlessly beside Zilean. Her peach-colored balloon pants matched her cardigan, fashionably dressed amidst the harsh sands. She wore her long, glossy black hair in tight braids, adorned with pink ribbons that flashed with color in the sunlight.


    “How did you know I was following you, Grandfather?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips.


    Zilean chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow. “You must do better at masking your aura, Arelia. Subtlety is an art form.”


    Arelia sighed, giving a resigned nod. “Yes, Grandfather.” She stepped closer, her expression shifting as her gaze drifted to the fallen figure of Frederick Voltaire sprawled on the ground. With a mix of curiosity and unease, she knelt beside the body, studying the lifeless eyes of the once-feared hunter.


    “That boy… he killed him?”


    Zilean sighed, his face melancholic, as he joined her by the corpse. “Yes, he did. And I knew this man once. Frederick Voltaire—a hunter under the command of Alaric Voltaire himself. He was once formidable. Dangerous even to our order. In his time, he was practically a one-man army, feared all throughout Havana. Thankfully, time spares no one. He may have been unstoppable in his prime, but age had worn him down.”


    Zilean glanced at Frederick’s weathered face, a hint of sadness in his gaze. “When will this old man get his own eternal rest?” He murmured to himself, more in resignation than in expectation.


    Arelia couldn’t help but laugh at her grandfather’s words. “Grandfather, you’re never going to die—not until the last Scion arrives, at least.”


    A slow, knowing smile crept over Zilean’s face. He raised an eyebrow and turned to her. “Arelia… that young man who just left… he is the last Scion. You know this”


    Arelia’s expression hardened. She clicked her tongue in frustration. “No. I refuse to accept it. The ceremony didn’t even take place. How could he take what was rightfully mine?” She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as her mind spun.


    Her voice grew sharper. “We are the direct descendants of the great ancestor, Grandfather. We carry his name. I was supposed to be the last Scion.”


    Zilean’s face softened, yet he met her gaze firmly. “Arelia, you were never guaranteed that title. The ancestor chose him. Besides, I heard that Lonzo’s apprentice. What was his name again?”


    “Zabo Kiakor.” Arelia replied, rolling her eyes.


    “Yes, that was his name.” Zilean nodded. “Lonzo gloated he had hit the jackpot and his student would soon lead our people.”


    Arelia scoffed, crossing her arms. “Zabo? Mourning thinks he could be the last Scion?” She shook her head in disdain. “Don’t make me laugh. That man only has delusions of grandeur. All he seeks is thrills and laughs. He has no will nor the strength to lead the order. I’ve seen him tend to the nobles like a dog. Every time I see him, he’s shuttling bread for that bitch Elektra.”


    “Language Arelia.” scolded Zilean. For a moment, he seemed disappointed before he chuckled, a spark of amusement in his otherwise serious gaze. “Oh, Aerelia. Fate… it’s a peculiar force, isn’t it? A cruel, whimsical thing.”


    Arelia’s expression froze as she watched her grandfather laugh. She had rarely seen him so unguarded, so accepting of something as chaotic as fate. How could he, the one who trained her in discipline and strength, be so willing to place his trust in an unpredictable future?


    “But, Grandfather,” she began, searching for the right words, “think of that bastard Zhin or. Rafael Mendoza, Master Mourning’s first pupil. All those people who betrayed the order. They turned their backs on everything they were meant to protect. What’s stopping this boy from doing the same?”


    Zilean’s laughter faded, but his smile remained. “Perhaps you’re right. But then again, perhaps we should do our best to ensure that doesn’t happen.”


    Arelia’s gaze hardened as she took a step closer. “He’s dangerous, Grandfather. We should kill him before he can bring more harm.”


    Zilean’s face darkened, his voice rising with unexpected intensity. “Arelia! The Glaive chose him. The ancestor himself saw something in that boy. You may not understand it now, but that choice is not yours to make.”


    Arelia looked away, frustration seething beneath her calm exterior. She clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white, swallowing her resentment. “If he’s chosen, then why isn’t he one of us? He ignored the ceremony. The northern lights have yet to appear. Why does he get to inherit a birthright he hasn’t earned? He destroyed the prophecy. His mere existence is a paradox.”


    Zilean stepped away from Frederick’s body, his gaze returning to the horizon, where the distant form of Sabir had vanished into the sands. “I agree. The boy should’ve never been there. However, he now has a duty to fulfill, and I will see to it that he does. This is the path laid out for him, one chosen by forces beyond even us.” He turned back to her, his tone softening. “Come, Arelia. We need to return home.”


    Arelia remained still, her fists clenched, her gaze locked on the empty desert where Sabir had ridden off. Rage and resentment burned within her, but beneath it all, a dark resolve took shape. If that boy—whoever he was—was truly meant to claim her birthright, she would be his greatest obstacle. The thought alone fueled her anger and determination.


    “One day,” she thought, “I will get back what is rightfully mine. Even if I have to peel his aurasphere off his dead body.”


    She took a last look at Frederick’s body; her resolve cemented. With a last, bitter glance toward the horizon, she turned and followed her grandfather, the desert winds carrying her silent vow to the sands.