Whisked away by the blinding flash of teleportation magic, the expedition team open their eyes to a cloudless, brilliant-blue sky. An enormous, yellow sun hangs low above the eastern horizon, ushering in a new day.
They lay motionless, scattered, their bodies half buried in soft, warm sand. Minds reeling as senses and thoughts slowly recover. The experience of long-distance teleportation proves to bring with it unexpected side-effects of confusion and sluggishness.
"Sand!" Lukal screams out, the young squire's shout forcing the rest of the team out of their daze.
Arienne lifts her head, squinting against the searing sunlight as her gaze sweeps the surrounding landscape. Her eyes flutter as she confirms her vision. An ocean of golden-brown dunes stretching out in every direction.
Unhindered by endless groves of towering trees, the unbroken sight of sky meeting earth along the ever-stretching horizon brings with it a shocking revelation to the forest-dwelling Northenians.
"C-Captain Lindbergh… Something's gone wrong. We are not in the Stormlands." An older warrior grunts.
"Where are we?" Another mutters.
"Calm yourselves!" Arienne snaps.
"Joselena, I need a report. I can't even see the damned stormwall. Where has His Grace sent us?"
Joselena Kirica, experienced ranger and scout, steps forward and approaches Arienne.
"A moment, Captain…"
She swings her bag to her feet, ruffling inside to retrieve a magical compass. Kneeling down, she carefully discerns its readings while measuring the sun's location, it's distance from the horizon and triangulating their position with the sliver of moonlight barely visible high above their heads.
Her calculated conclusions bring with it a deep frown across her face as she tilts it up toward Arienne.
"I can't confirm this, Captain, but according to my readings we are east of the Royal capital, about 100 leagues. And, um…" she pauses as she clears her throat. "And about 1,200 leagues south of Northenia."
Arienne staggers as the news jolts her spine.
"Impossible! That would place us well past our destination. T-that would put us well past the Stormlands themselves!" she shrieks.
"The Forsaken Sands..." A voice mutters. "I thought it a myth, but to gaze upon these lands with my own eyes…"
"Explain, Lady Marika! What do you know of this place?" Arienne rasps.
The sorceress steps forward, hiding her face deep beneath her hood.
"Only myth and conjecture, my liege. Mad mentionings from a crazed monk, centuries ago. He spoke of a land, scorched by sunlight, coated in searing sands, filled with monsters the likes of which Northenia has never seen. And the men. Wild men. Beastmen that hunt their baser kin for food and sport. Even the Great Spirits dare not dwell here, they will offer us no protection. It is said these people openly use dark sorceries and forbidden constructs. This is a cursed land, Captain Lindbergh. We will find nothing here but our deaths."
The witches' words wash over the group, leaving them all drowning in dread.
Arienne grits her teeth, gripping at her forehead as she tries to think up new plans and strategies. But, a sudden rumble at their feet, launches them into fighting positions.
"Movement. 600 feet out. One heartbeat. Big! It's coming, Captain, fast!" The ranger yells out, ears twitching.
"Short phalanx. Defense formation, now!" Arienne barks.
The team quickly executes her orders. Mages and supporter units stand surrounded by warriors and knights who lock themselves into a defensive ring. Chants zealously ring out from the center of the group, preparing powerful spells and buffs while enchanted weapons and shields burst to life with the buzz of magical energy.
The ground quakes violently. Loose sand shifts underfoot causing some to lose their balance.
"Hold positions!" Arienne screams.
Fountains of sand explode from the dunes in the distance, streaking toward them.
"Mages, prepare for attack. Support, deploy health and defense buffs!"
The members scramble to fulfill the Captain's commands as the unseen creature approaches.
"CAPTAIN! IT'S HERE!"
The ground explodes as a massive maw bursts from the sand, flinging bodies through the air.
Arienne hits the ground hard, ripping the air from her lungs, leaving her raggedly gasping for breath, cracked ribs poking into her flesh. Lukal lands nearby, his arm twisted, its bones crushed and his face streaming blood as he slowly slides down a dune.
Struggling to her feet as she clutches at her belly that fills with blood, Arienne glimpses upon the glint of her sword, poking through sand. She launches herself towards it.
Hilt in hand, she turns to face the beast, but instead, freezes in place as her eyes struggle to contain its immensity.
An enormous worm rises out of the sand. A hundred feet long and wider than three wagons. The beast's shrill shriek cracked through the air, banging against eardrums like clapping thunder.
It thrashes against the dunes. Whipping its head in all directions. Slamming at the ground around it as it launches giant plumes of sand and dust into the sky.
The monster quickly crushes one member with its wild flogging and launches two more across the dunes with a flick of its tail. Their crumpled bodies dig deep into sandy craters, twitching to lifelessness. Another member disappears beneath its slithering enormity, crushed into the scorching sand.
Arienne's face is twisted into a view of abject horror as she watches the monster slam its giant head into the corpses of her team members. Most already rendered into smears of blood, as more lay around the creature, twitching and bleeding from every orifice.
Three survivors try in vain to fend off the massive monster. Blazing spheres of fire and blasts of concussive air pounding against the creature's armour-like flesh. It ignores the impacts, opening its giant jaws to reveal row after row of man-height, dagger-like teeth. The group vanishes into the creature's mouth after it rears back its head and slams down into them, leaving behind a cloud of blood-tainted dust.
Panic besets Arienne. She scrambles to her feet, stumbling over slipping sand as she fights to maintain control of her body.
"C-Captain… h-h-help… me." A weak voice whimpers from nearby.
Arienne spies Lukal lying crumpled at the base of a dune, clutching his twisted arm, bleeding and confused.
"Lukal!" she wheezes, grabbing her squire's attention. A finger placed against her lips and a quick hand gesture signals him to stay low, quiet.
He complies through his confusion, sinking his body into the sand and watches intently as Arienne approaches, slowly.
Her gaze swings between Lukal and the monstrous worm that stalks the dunes at her back. It moves across the sand, slow, deliberate and near silent as tiny feelers at the base of its body search for sounds and vibrations.
"What pit of hell did that demon crawl out of?" Lukal whimpers with a cough as Arienne draws near. The loss of blood and traumatic head injury leaves him in a bewildered daze.
"Shush, Lukal! That thing has no eyes. It must hunt by sound or smell. Be still and let me figure out our escape." Arianne snaps.
"L-let me help. I can still wield—"
"Shut up, you imbecile!" she snaps, tossing a handful of sand at Lukal.
Her eyes catch sight of dark, red-brown protrusions poking out from behind a dune, just beyond their position.
"There! Do you see it? Rocks. Boulders. Some kind of outcropping. We need to get there without alerting that thing. Do you understand, Lukal?"
He nods as he rubs at his eyes and squints at a small smattering of rocks that litter the sand a short distance away.
"Good, wait for my signal. Move low, move slow."
The beast, placated and content, leisurely basks in the sun. The remains of the 56th exposition team scattered around it in smears of blood. It lay motionless as its gentle purrs rumbled across the sea of sand.
Arienne moves, staring at the beast intently as she slips across dunes toward the boulders. Half way there, she beckons Lukal with a short, sharp whistle and flick of her hand.
The young man follows, slowly crawling after her.
"Storms take me!" Arienne gasps as the duo slump down behind a large boulder. "We have truly been tossed into a nightmare."
"Captain… what now? The expedition is lost. We stand on the verge of death. The spirits have surely forsaken us!"
"Restrain yourself," Arienne spits. "We are not dead yet, and until we are, we have a mission to complete. An oath to uphold. Silence yourself and rest. I need time to think."
Arienne turns away from Luka, snarling as she bites at her lower lip. She rubs at the pendant hanging between her breasts, eyes wet and burning.
"You were, right, Bella. They're hiding something… I should have listened. I pray the Spirits protect you, dear sister."
She turns toward the north, whispering a short prayer against the sweltering breeze. The last vision of her sister's face, forlorn and teary, etched into her mind.
That same face now lay inches away from the cold marble floor of the Northenian Royal Palace's throne room. Pale, bruised and filled with anguish.
"Do you have anything to say in defence of these accusations, m'lady?" A voice rings out across the room. Calm and commanding.
The Crown Prince, dripping with regal poise and composure, sits atop the throne, his expressions steeped in cautious curiosity.
"Your Highness! Her actions speak volumes as to her motivations." barks the Prime Magister, banging at the arm rest of his seat as he leaps to his feet. "There is no logical basis to explain away her sabotage. This is pure treason, heretical actions to further the Dark Lord's agendas. I demand immediate execution!"
"I concur, my Prince." The Grand Vicar growls, fuming as spittle and drool spew from his mouth. "This heretical wretch carries the Dark Lord's rot in her very veins. Her presence alone infects the kingdom with its dark influence. Burn her, I say, burn the heretic!"
"I thank you for your input, Your Graces. But I will have the lady speak. Every tale tells two stories." The crown Prince retorts, leering at the ancient men who snarl in response.
"Madness, Your Majesty! This is pure folly. Your father would never tolerate this treasonous drivel to sully his kingdom." The Magister snaps, wagging his finger at the snivelling Aribelle. "She doomed the entire expedition!"
"Good, then, that I am not my father!"
The sun's morning light shines through hundreds of stained windows, bathing the throne room in a kaleidoscope of color.
Carved from an ancient oak trunk and covered in sculpted leaves and flowers, the gold-gilded throne adorned the immaculately decorated chamber as its finest jewel.
Atop it, sits the handsome, young Prince, Orellin, first heir to the crown of Northenia. Having recently taken up his father's mantle after the king had begun to succumb to his Final Bloom, the crown Prince had already begun to reshape the kingdom to his vision.
The Prince lifts from his seat, leering at the Magister with an unimpressed sneer.
He struts down the steps of the throne, hands in his pockets and a thick, flowing, furred robe mounted across his shoulders. He flicks his head back to toss aside the streaks of hair that adorn his brow as he walks up to Aribelle, greeting her with a warm smile.
He bends down toward her, ripping the ragged coat from her body and covering her with his royal cape in one swift motion.
She startles, eyes widened at the Prince's show of grace.
Aribelle quickly digs herself deep into the soft, warm fur lining the Princes' cape. His lingering musk fills her nose with subtle notes of freshly peeled bark and preserved rose petals. Each whiff brings a sense of calming comfort.
She stares up at him, his soft smile evokes her to present one of her own as their eyes meet.
The Prince turns his attention back to the Magister and Vicar, who look on at his interaction with Aribelle with unrestrained disgust.
"For far too long have we allowed dread of the unknown to deny us our fair judgements, we let the darkness beyond our reach hide from us the light of true understanding. As long as I sit this throne, true justice will be served in Northenia. Through the discovery of truth, not the prejudices of tradition."
He presents an open hand toward Aribelle, beckoning her to rise to her feet.
"Aribelle Lindbergh will be afforded the same rights as any other noble of the court. We will find the truth behind the loss of the Royal expedition. Now, Lady Lindbergh, tell me what happened."
The Magister rises, clearing his throat. "I caution you to watch your tongue, my Prince. Your father still lives. He would not allow…"
"Then I caution you, Sigrund." The Prince cuts in, his radiant, auburn eyes aflame. "Mind your station, mage! My patience draws exceedingly thin."
The Magister lowers his gaze, humiliated and humbled.
The Prince turns to Aribelle, whose cold, blistered hands sit softly in his.
"Please, m'lady. Speak freely. Did you truly sabotage the 56th expedition?"
Aribelle lifts her eyes to meet his. Broken in body and spirit, naked but for the Princes' royal coat, and shivering as she contends with cold stones and burning emotions. Anguished thoughts of dooming the kingdom and her sister choke at her throat and crush her heart.
"M'lady…" the Prince beckons.
He tilts his head down to hers. His eyes, honest and intense, pleads at her for the truth.
She looks at him, quivering, her mind abound with trepidations. The oppressive influence of his royal lineage overwhelms her. Afraid and vulnerable, she answers with a solemn nod, bursting into tears as she officially acknowledges her role in the downfall of her sister, family and kingdom.
The Princes' eyes narrow. He tosses away Aribelle's hand, snatches her cheeks tightly and deftly pulls her face toward his.
She yelps as the Princess's gown slips from her shoulders. Quivering as the man overwhelms her, barely able to stand on her feet as his overpowering presence robs her of all conviction.
Through tear blurred vision, she watches the Prince Orellin's eyes flick between hers, as if digging into her mind, trying to find his own answers.
"See! She admits it clearly! Take her head, your highness. Relieve our lands of this scourge." The Magister barks.
"Enough!" The Prince snaps. Flicking his free hand at a row of guards lining the throne room. "Have the Magister and Vicar wait outside. I will speak to the lady in private." He snarls, his grip on Aribelle's face tightening.
She cries softly, her body slumping to limpness as she surrenders to his powerful grasp.