Deep beneath the scorching sands of the Osirian Desert lies the Shadow Hand''s hideout. The desert—south of Thoringard—offers brutal, unrelenting cover. Heat so fierce it blisters skin in minutes. Sandstorms that flay flesh from bone, howling like the wails of the damned. If those don''t finish you, the creatures will—sand vipers with venom that melts muscle, or the hulking dune scorpions, their stingers longer than a man''s arm. Most outsiders don''t survive the first few miles, their bones swallowed by the endless dunes. The rare few who do stumble deeper? They don''t live to tell the tale.


    Joining the Shadow Hand isn''t a simple oath or a handshake. First, you face the desert. You find the hideout—its entrance a secret guarded by nature''s wrath. You prove you belong. That''s the opening test, and it weeds out the weak before they ever set foot inside. Once you''re in, you learn the tunnels—safe paths carved miles beneath the sand, twisting and sprawling in every direction. Cool stone walls offer respite from the furnace above, but safety is an illusion. Traps lie dormant for the unwary. Passages shift with the desert''s moods. And sometimes, the echoes carry sounds that aren''t footsteps. No path is ever truly safe. Not in this life.


    I''ve walked those tunnels so long I can feel their pulse—the way the air shifts before a collapse, the faint hum of runes older than the Shadow Hand itself. It''s a world of shadow and stone, and it''s molded me as much as Thoringard ever did.


    Torglel and I reached Thoringard''s borders in a few hours, emerging from an old tunnel entrance half-buried in scree. The sight that greeted us was one I''d seen a thousand times—yet it never dulled. It sank into my chest, heavy and alive.


    The mountains of Thoringard loomed above—vast, unyielding, their peaks clawing at the sky. Dwarven hands had sculpted their faces in an age before kings, before kingdoms, before the first spark of civilization flickered to life. Runes and reliefs of forgotten heroes stared down, weathered but unbroken, their eyes hollow with the weight of eons. These weren''t just mountains. They were monuments—etched in stone that mocked time itself. A testament to Dwarven will, and what endures.


    Between those ancient giants stood the gates of Thoringard. Massive slabs of iron and granite, their surfaces pitted from centuries of wind and war. Imposing as a god''s judgment. Two towers flanked them, silent sentinels carved from the mountainside, their arrow slits dark and watchful. I''d grown up under their gaze, and even now, they made me feel small.


    A shout cracked the stillness from above. "LONG TIME NO SEE, LADS! WHAT BRINGS YOU HOME?"


    Torglel grinned, cupping his hands around his mouth. "WANTED TO SHOW DAD THIS GUILD HASN''T KILLED US YET!"


    Laughter rumbled from the guards—a deep, hearty sound that bounced off the stone. A moment later, the gates groaned, metal grinding against metal as they parted like a waking beast.


    Thoringard sprawled across three levels, each tier carved deeper into the mountain''s heart. The gates opened into the central market district—a chaotic sprawl of noise, smoke, and life. Stalls lined the streets, their awnings sagging under the weight of wares: smoked meats, forged tools, gemstones glinting like captured stars. Dwarves bartered in gruff tones, their voices mingling with the clang of hammers from distant forges. I sent Torglel ahead. "Find us a stakeout spot. I''ll grab food."


    He tossed me a mock salute, his bronze clasps glinting as he vanished into the throng. I turned toward the stalls, weaving through the crowd. Most merchants gave me a wide berth, their eyes flicking to my red gaze or the swords at my hips. Some whispered as I passed, their words half-formed suspicions—like they thought I couldn''t hear. Assassin. Outcast. Shadow Hand. I ignored them. I''d borne worse than whispers.


    On my way to Dwargon''s stall, I caught a flicker of movement—a Falstarian woman trailing me. Silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, shimmering like liquid metal. Pale skin glowed faintly in the torchlight, and her eyes—polished moonstone—locked onto me with unnerving clarity. She stood out, even in Thoringard''s eclectic mix. Then again, maybe I did too—a dark-skinned figure with ears sharp enough to cut glass, moving like I belonged to the shadows more than the stone. I kept walking, pace steady. I''d lose her soon enough.


    Dwargon greeted me with his usual warmth, his broad face splitting into a grin. "Solari, my boy—good to see you. You look well." His beard, streaked with gray, bobbed as he spoke, and his hands—calloused from decades at the stall—moved with practiced ease.


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    "Good to see you too," I said, sliding him a few coins. "Need a week''s worth of my usual."


    "Long trip ahead?" He raised a bushy brow, already reaching for a sack.


    "Maybe. Figured I''d stock up on the best."


    He chuckled, a low rumble, and packed the food—dried meats, hard bread, a jar of spiced preserves. "Flatterer. Take care out there, lad." He clapped my shoulder, his grip firm but kind.


    I nodded, no words needed, and left with the pack slung over my back.


    I found Torglel at our old hideout—a cliff ledge overlooking the castle, perched high above the lower levels. The wind up here carried the faint tang of forge smoke, and the view stretched across Thoringard''s tiers, all the way to the distant peaks. We''d snuck here as kids, dodging lessons or chores, hiding from the world below.


    "Got the food," I said, dropping the pack.


    "From Dwargon?" he asked, lounging against a rock.


    "You know it."


    We ate as the sun dipped below the mountains, painting the stone gold and crimson. The food was simple but rich—Dwargon''s craft never disappointed. Better still was the talk. Torglel spun a tale about a brawl in a tavern two towns over, complete with exaggerated punches and a spilled ale that "nearly drowned the barkeep." For a little while, we were those reckless kids again, free of duty or danger.


    "Who''s taking first watch?" I asked, brushing crumbs from my hands.


    "I will," Torglel said, stretching with a yawn like it was no big deal.


    "Wake me when it''s my turn." He nodded, and I let exhaustion pull me under.


    I woke to darkness. Pitch black, save for a faint, pulsing light in the distance. It shimmered, alive, tugging at something deep in my chest. I don''t know why I followed it. But my feet moved before my mind caught up.


    The light bloomed into a perfect circle—a stage ringed by void, the edges sharp as a blade. Then a voice slithered through the silence. "Well, if it isn''t the lost Drydalis—always wondering who he really is."


    The word seared into my skull. Drydalis. Foreign, yet it resonated, like a name whispered in dreams I couldn''t grasp. My pulse quickened, a drumbeat against my ribs.


    I stepped back—and a maniacal laugh erupted, sharp and unhinged. A figure strode into the light. He was me—and he wasn''t. Teeth jagged as daggers. Eyes black as a starless void. Wings unfurled behind him, leathery and vast, like a demon torn from a nightmare. His aura hit me like a wave—bloodthirsty, wild, crazed.


    I snapped awake, Torglel''s hand on my shoulder. "Your turn," he said, voice light as ever.


    I nodded, sitting up, but my mind churned. Something had latched onto me from that dream—a presence I couldn''t shake. And that word, Drydalis, echoed like a taunt.


    The next day crawled by. Quiet. Too quiet. I took first watch, perched on the ledge while Torglel snored below, his breaths grinding like a boulder on stone. The castle gleamed in the dawn light, its spires cutting the sky. No movement. No threat. Just stillness.


    When my shift ended, I nudged him awake. "No sighting yet, eh?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.


    "Nothing." I lay down, expecting to stare at the sky. Sleep took me instead.


    Same place. Same light, pulsing like a heartbeat. Same me. This time, the demon waited, lounging in the glow, wings folded lazily.


    I steadied my breath, locking eyes with him. "Who are you?"


    He giggled—a chaotic, grating sound. "I am you. Or rather, the power you carry inside." His grin stretched, fangs glinting in the unnatural light. "We must merge if you''re to reach your full potential."


    I narrowed my eyes. "You called me a Drydalis last time. Is that what I am?"


    He tilted his head, bored. "Yes. Obviously." He waved a hand, dismissive. "A dull question."


    I clenched my jaw, heat rising. "Then give me more. What else do you know?"


    His grin turned ravenous, eyes glinting with malice. "Soon enough," he whispered, voice dripping with promise. "They''re going to awaken her."


    I opened my mouth to demand more—But the light collapsed, and I woke.


    "Breakfast," Torglel said, shoving a bowl at me. "Eat before I scoff it all."


    I took it, but my appetite had fled. The dream clung like damp rot.


    Torglel wandered off soon after, muttering about "seeing a man about a brown snake." I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. He could lighten anything, even when my thoughts sank into shadow.


    A twig snapped behind me. Instinct flared. I dove behind a bush, knife in hand, muscles coiled.


    It was her—the Falstarian girl from the market. She blinked at me, unfazed. "How''d you move like that? Are you a mage?" Her moonstone eyes sparkled with curiosity, head tilted slightly.


    "No," I said, voice flat. "What are you doing here?"


    She shrugged, a playful lilt in her tone. "Exploring. Chasing good views."


    I glared. "Go away. This is my spot."


    She grinned, undeterred. "Okay. Until next time, grumpy pants." She darted off, silver hair flashing in the sun.


    I sighed, sheathing my knife. What a weird girl.


    Torglel returned soon after, dusting off his hands. "Oi, I''m back. Miss anything?"


    I stared where she''d vanished. "Actually, yeah. And you won''t believe this..."