Max Donman staggered the last few yards like a busted wind-up toy, every step pure stubborn muscle memory. Sand caked his boots, his tongue felt like beef jerky, and his vision was sliding in and out of static. But there it was—real, honest-to-goodness stone walls, sun-bleached banners flapping on the parapets. A city. Civilization. Maybe even potable water that didn't taste like Satan's bathtub.
"Holy… crap," he rasped, half-laughing, half-crying. "I actually did it."
Two more steps and gravity finally collected its debt. Max face-planted in the dust right outside the main gate. He tried to push up, managed a heroic inch, then flopped like a dead fish. From that angle the heat-haze turned the guards on the wall into wiggly stick figures. He raised a shaky hand and flipped them the world's weakest thumbs-up before his arm quit, too.
Boots thundered down the ramp. Voices overlapped—deep, gruff, definitely not Centaur hooves, thank God. Shadows fell across him. Somebody rolled him onto his back; the sky spun, then steadied. A leather waterskin was pressed to his cracked lips. Max gulped like it was liquid gold, coughing half of it back up but refusing to let go.
"Easy, stranger," a woman said—modern accent crisp Dalab, not the harsher Ozelean growl he feared. "Small sips or you'll drown yourself on dry land."
Max nodded, eyes focusing for the first time in hours. Five rescuers: three men in blue-trimmed cuirasses, two women with spears and zero patience. City militia, Dalab colors. Jackpot.
"You alone?" one guard asked, scanning the empty horizon.
"Alone, broke, and fresh outta miracles," Max wheezed. "Name's Max Donman—tourist from way, way outta town."
They traded glances. Dalab didn't get many tourists who arrived half-mummified.
The woman who'd given him water knelt, studying the faint blue sigil glowing on his shoulder through his torn shirt. "That mark—looks Zela-made. You some kind of priest?"
"Long story," Max muttered, then decided he didn't care if it sounded crazy. "Chased by a Sham, ditched by a horse, sorta maybe chosen by the cosmos. Can I finish the tale after a shower and about six sandwiches?"
One guard laughed outright. "Ballsiest request we've heard all week. Alright, cosmic boy—welcome to Dalab. Let's get you patched up before you melt."
They hoisted him onto a stretcher and carried him through the shadowed gate. Cool air washed over Max like salvation as he clutched Ella's fallen pendant. Behind him, the desert kept on burning, but for the first time since Ella was taken, hope felt heavier than the sand in his boots.
Dalab was surprisingly peaceful, considering the chaos elsewhere in Senedro. When Max stumbled through the gates, half-dead and barely able to stand, Milia—the woman who had helped him—was waiting. She lived alone in a small, cozy place near the city center. No fancy castle or guards, just a humble home with a welcoming vibe.
She handed him food and water like it was the most normal thing in the world, and gave him shelter for a night like rescuing half-dead strangers happened every day. Which, in Dalab, maybe it did.
Dalab wasn't your usual city. It was a melting pot of species, and Milia was part of a minor one. She looked almost human—dark, silky black hair framing her face, faintly pointed canines and eyes that held stories. She was a little older than Max, maybe by a few years, but in a way that made her seem experienced, grounded.
Early in the morning; after stuffing his face, Max looked up and said, "Thanks, really. I'd like to speak with the king, if that's cool."
Milia smirked and shook her head. "Sure, Max. But you're gonna have to pay me back first."
That was Dalab for you. Fien's idea of hospitality came with strings attached. Nobody just helped someone out of the kindness of their heart. There was always a price.
Max looked at her, and yeah—he got it. This wasn't some innocent offer of thanks. Milia had probably been alone too long, and honestly, Max wasn't exactly in the mood to say no either. So, what the hell. Win-win, right?
"I'm good, promise. Want—this not because I owe you"
He leaned in, took his time peeling her clothes off, her body responding like a well-rehearsed duet. She wasn't some fresh-faced newbie—there was a smooth confidence in the way she moved, like she knew exactly what she wanted. Max pushed her gently onto the bed—a little worn around the edges, sure, but still beautiful in that lived-in way. Maybe this was the kind of debt he'd have to pay. Or maybe it was the kind he got paid for. Either way, it felt like a good deal.
He slid down his pants, the cool air hitting his skin as he leaned over Milia. His fingers found her, tracing slow circles on her hips before squeezing her breasts. She sighed, arching into his touch like she'd been waiting for this moment longer than she cared to admit.
Their movements were slow, deliberate—no frantic rush, just two people desperate for a little comfort in a world gone sideways. Milia's hands tangled in Max's hair, pulling him closer, and he felt his own tension start to melt away, if only for a little while.
When he finally entered her, there was a sharp edge of heat, a grounding sensation that made the desert and the pain and the endless running fade away. They moved together in quiet rhythm—nothing fancy, nothing theatrical—just two bodies craving connection.
Max felt a flicker of something like peace. For once, he wasn't fighting to survive—he was just… here. Present.
Hours later, they lay tangled in the rumpled sheets, breathing heavy but calm. Milia kissed his forehead and smiled. "Come on, Max. You gotta meet the king."
She helped him dress, and they stepped outside into the warm Dalab air. The city looked different now—less threatening, maybe even a little hopeful.
Milia walked him through winding streets until they reached a grand gate guarded by soldiers who barely blinked at Max's worn appearance. Inside, the palace was a mix of old stone and vibrant banners—an odd mix of history and hope.
Finally, Max stood before Gideon, sitting on a throne—kingly without being regal, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"Max Donman," Milia said quietly. "He's here to speak with you."
Max swallowed hard, trying to shake the weight of the desert and the past off his shoulders. Whatever came next, he knew one thing for sure: things were about to change.