The dunes stretched endlessly before them, their golden waves rippling beneath the blazing sun. The weight of Azerite—more than any of them had ever dreamed of carrying—pressed heavily against their backs, shoulders, and arms. Every step forward was a battle against exhaustion, but no one dared to falter.
They had survived the Ashblood Orcs. They had survived Pok-ta-Pok. They had survived the Pillars of Suffering. But survival meant nothing if they couldn't escape the desert. They needed a ship. They needed to get out.
And as they gathered beneath a jagged rock outcrop, finally out of the direct wrath of the sun, they counted their spoils. They had no carts. No beasts to bear the load. Only their own strength.
Gorim – Four massive slabs strapped across his back with thick ropes. Each one the size of a tower shield, requiring sheer brute strength to carry. His legs burned with effort, but he would not abandon a single piece.
Grumli – A great block of compressed Azerite ore, as wide as his chest, bound in cloth and strapped to his shoulders. It was almost too heavy for him, but he refused to take less than what could forge a war axe of legend.
Rahotep – Several thick ingots, wrapped tightly and tied across his torso and waist. He carried longer, thinner chunks ideal for swords or spears—anything that could strike from a distance.
Nadra – Two curved slabs of moderate size, one balanced on her back, another held tightly under her arm. Small enough to forge scimitars, but still weighing her down.
Arianne – Five dagger-sized ingots, and one large shard she carried in both hands. Enough to forge twin blades or arrows tipped with death.
Hadeefa – A single, immense core of raw Azerite, the size of a human torso. She carried it wrapped in cloth, balancing it against her hip. The others had offered to help, but she refused—this piece was meant to be the spine of something great.
Varnic – A thick, rectangular slab, flat and broad. Perfect for forging a chestplate, though it slowed his movement. He had chosen defense over offense.
Khaltar – A rounded core, a sphere the size of a man's skull. He carried additional smaller ingots strapped to his belt, muttering about ways to turn them into projectiles.
Each of them was pushed to the limit. Each of them carried as much as their bodies could endure. And yet… it might still not be enough. The red steel of Azerite gleamed in the light, heavy with promise… and uncertainty.
Gorim spat into the sand. "We could forge a weapon mighty enough to kill a lesser dragon, sure. But an elder?" He shook his head. "I don't know."
Grumli adjusted the load on his shoulders. "Then we forge something bigger. A hammer that'll crack the bastard's skull."
Rahotep exhaled sharply. "You think a hammer will save you when you're burning alive before you can swing it?"
Nadra frowned. "This steel is powerful, but a dragon's hide is tougher. We need precision. A blade that can pierce its weakest points."
Arianne tested the weight of her ingots. "If we shape these right, we can forge arrows or throwing blades that could wound it before it even reaches us."
Hadeefa remained silent, fingers tracing the massive core she carried. It was dense, raw, untouched. Something only a master smith could shape.
Varnic's gaze was dark. "Armor won't save us from fire."
Khaltar lifted his strange, rounded piece. "This could be something different. Not a blade, not armor… but a weapon from afar. If we find a way to launch it, we could strike the beast before it sees us."
The argument grew heated. They had Azerite. They had potential. But none of it mattered without a forge. And without a ship, they would never reach one. Realization settled over them like a stormcloud. They had won against the orcs, but the desert was still their prison.
Rahotep was the first to speak. "We need a ship."
"Aye," Gorim grunted, glancing across the endless dunes. "And the only ones who have ships this deep in the sands…"
Khaltar cursed under his breath. "Slavers."
Arianne's jaw tightened. "Or worse."
They all knew what that meant. The Red Wastes were not kind to wanderers. Settlements were few, and those that existed belonged to the wicked. Raiders, flesh merchants, warlords—none would give a ship freely.
Grumli tightened his grip on his Azerite. "Then we fight again."
Rahotep's gaze hardened. "We fight, or we bargain. Either way… we sail, or we die."
The scorching sun bore down on them, the dry wind whipping at their clothes, as they stood in a loose circle beneath the shade of a jagged rock formation. Their bodies ached under the weight of Azerite, and their throats were parched, but they had no time to rest.
They needed a direction. The desert stretched endlessly around them—shifting sands, rocky ridges, and distant mirages that promised water but delivered only disappointment. None of them knew exactly where they were or how far the nearest settlement, dock, or stronghold lay. So they voted.
Gorim was the first to act. He lifted a thick, calloused hand, his face grim. "North. The Ashblood Orcs came from the south. If they raid settlements, they wouldn't go too far from their own lands. If we go north, we might find someone who hates them just as much as we do."
It make sense. The Ashblood weren't traders—they were conquerors. Their enemies might offer passage… or at least a chance to steal a ship.
Nadra raised her hand next, but her voice was doubtful. "East. We saw distant ridges when we first arrived in the Wastes. There could be a water source there—where there's water, there's people. And where there's people, there's a way out."
Water was a powerful argument. They had enough supplies to last a few days, but without a clear source, they would weaken long before they found a ship.
Arianne hesitated before lifting her hand. "West. The wind carries the scent of salt when it shifts. If there's salt in the air, it means the sea isn't too far. If we keep moving, we might find a hidden dock or smugglers' cove."
A risky choice. The sea meant potential coastal raiders, smugglers, or pirates. They could find allies—or chains.
Khaltar sighed and lifted his hand. "Southwest. The Ashbloods are brutal, but they're not the only power in the Wastes. The Black Fang Corsairs dock somewhere in these sands. If we find them, we find a ship."
That was a gamble. The Black Fang were ruthless pirates, known for selling and betraying as much as they traded. But if anyone had a ship ready to sail, it was them. The remaining warriors looked between each other, debating in heated whispers.
Grumli and Varnic agreed with Gorim—north made the most sense.
Hadeefa agreed with Nadra—water was too important to ignore.
Rahotep was torn, but the Black Fang Corsairs were the only ones guaranteed to have ships.
After a long moment of silence, Grumli spat into the sand. "We can argue all day, or we can move. Vote's settled."
They counted hands. Southwest won. The Red Wastes swallowed them whole again. Each step into the desert was another burden added to their backs—the crushing heat, the endless dunes, the weight of the Azerite they carried. The sun glared down like an unmerciful god, baking the sand beneath their boots until it felt like walking across a forge. Their cloaks, once a shield, became suffocating traps, soaked with sweat, clinging to their skin like a second layer of flesh. But they kept moving.
They rationed what little they had left from the Ashbloods' camp—dried meat, hard bread, and stale water taken from the orcs' stores. It was barely enough for a meal, but they chewed slowly, stretching each bite, forcing themselves to savor every last drop of moisture.
Water was the true concern. The skins they had stolen were already warm, the liquid inside tasting of leather and sweat. Too little to last.
By the time the sun set, their legs ached, and their tongues felt thick in their mouths. They huddled close beneath an overhang of jagged rock, seeking shelter from the chill creeping over the dunes. No fire. They couldn't risk being seen. The first night was restless.
The morning was worse. The heat came faster than expected, rising with a merciless vengeance. Their clothes stuck to their skin, and the Azerite felt twice as heavy.
Gorim, ever the pragmatist, was the first to speak the unspoken thought: they needed water soon, or they would start dying. They spread out, searching for signs—anything.
It was Varnic who spotted the first hope—a withered tree half-buried in the sand, its twisted roots stretching deep beneath the dunes. Where there were roots, there could be water.
Using a dagger, they dug. The sand was loose, then firmer, then damp. Hope surged through them as they worked harder, scraping away until droplets formed in the hollow pit. Not much, but enough.
Hadeefa, the eldest, showed them how to soak cloth in the damp ground, wringing out each precious drop into their mouths. The taste was bitter, mixed with dust and grit, but it was life. They drank sparingly and filled their skins. Then they moved on.
By midday, their bodies burned. The Azerite had to be shifted between them constantly—none could bear it for long. Then Nadra spotted movement on the horizon. At first, they feared another warband of Ashbloods, but it was worse. Vultures. Circling something in the distance.
They found the carcass of a sand drake—half-eaten, the flesh already baking in the heat. The meat was fresh enough, but scavengers had started to claim it.
Rahotep did not hesitate. He drew his blade and charged at the scavengers. The jackals fled, and the vultures took to the sky, leaving them with their prize.
They worked fast. Arianne, once a hunter, carved deep, pulling free strips of red flesh and organs, careful to avoid the poisoned glands near its fangs. They had no fire to cook it, but raw meat was better than nothing. They ate.
The taste was foul—warm, metallic, slick with blood. But no one spoke against it. They swallowed it down, forcing their stomachs to accept the sustenance. Then they moved again.
The wind changed. A storm rolled in, a wall of sand rising from the horizon like a living beast. There was no time to flee—only to endure.
They wrapped their faces, huddling together, trying to brace against the fury of the storm. The sand cut like knives, clawing at their skin, filling their lungs, blinding them. Hours passed in agony.
When the storm finally passed, they were half-buried, gasping, coughing. But still alive. And then, on the horizon, they saw sails.
The scent of tar, salt, and rotting wood reached them first. The Black Fang Corsairs had no cities, no towns—only floating fortresses of stolen ships, lashed together in a lawless haven. Towers of scavenged wreckage loomed in the distance, their black sails torn, weathered, marked with the sigil of the Fang.