The morning sun climbed slowly above the horizon, flooding the sky with a bright, fierce light that Orien had never experienced before. Its initial glow was gentle—a soft gold that shimmered over the trees and water, casting long shadows across the landscape. But within moments, the light sharpened into a pure, white glare so intense it made the air seem to shimmer. The heat radiated in waves, making everything around him appear to ripple and dance. Behind him, the forest, the lake, and everything familiar was swallowed by the brightness, retreating into shadow and silence. Ahead stretched a vast, endless expanse of sand, a sea of dunes that shimmered like molten metal under the unblinking sky. The dunes rolled endlessly in all directions, their surface moving slightly with each gust of wind, rippling like a liquid mirror of gold. It was as if the ground itself was alive, molten and fierce and unforgiving.
This was the true Trial of the Blistering Sands. Everyone knew the stories—some said it was merely myth, a tale told to scare children. But Orien knew better. He could feel it in his bones—this was real. The desert was no place for illusions or tricks. It began the moment he stepped onto the shifting dunes, and he understood there was no turning back now. Every step felt like a test of will, every move a battle against the blistering heat and the endless wasteland. His heart pounded in his chest, and his dry throat begged for water, but he pushed forward.
Orien wrapped his cloak tighter around his body. It was thick and coarse, but he needed it to shield him from the sun's scorching glare. He secured it around his neck, hoping to keep some moisture in and avoid sunburn. As he moved, the sand crunched beneath his boots—sharp, hot grains grinding underfoot. The heat seemed to seep through the soles, radiating upward in harsh waves, as though the very earth beneath was a sleeping fire waiting to be stirred. The sensation was almost physical, felt as much in his bones as on his skin. He clutched his staff tightly, each step deliberate, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was alone—completely alone in this vast, hostile wasteland. The path he had been following behind him had dissolved into a mirage of dust and shimmering light. The familiar world was gone—nothing but endless dunes stretching in every direction. There was no clear path, no landmarks, only the distant horizon and the unspoken challenge ahead—the recorded promise of the next Trial: Trial III.
The first hour was manageable. The heat was intense, but Orien had prepared himself. He had rationed careful supplies from the lake's edge—enough water to keep him alive but not so much that he would waste it without cause. His movements were cautious, measured; he placed his steps gently to avoid sinking into the softest sand. The sun sat high but had not yet reached its peak, giving him a little reprieve. He kept his focus on his breathing and his footing, maintaining a steady rhythm. His mind stayed alert, and he kept pushing forward, determined to survive this brutal test.
But as the hours passed, the dunes began to shift and change. The soft sand under his feet became more treacherous—unyielding and uneven—sucking at his boots with each step. His cloak, soaked with sweat, darkened and stuck to his body, clinging in patches. His throat felt like sandpaper, dry and cracked from thirst. The relentless sun pressed down on him, a fiery eye shining directly overhead, radiating overwhelming heat that made even the air shimmer and distort. He paused, gasping for breath, feeling the oppressive weight of exhaustion settle over him. Before him, a high ridge of sand towered—a steep incline that beckoned. He climbed, losing his footing as the loose grains crumbled beneath him. At the top, he looked out over the landscape—more dunes stretching flat and endless in every direction.
Then he saw it. A figure—still, unmoving, standing at a distance. Tall and cloaked in white, the figure didn't shift or react as he called out. Orien squinted, trying to make sense of the silhouette. "Hey!" he shouted, voice hoarse. No response came. The figure remained still, as if carved from stone. Orien hesitated, then began to move closer, stumbling over the loose sand as he pressed forward through the heat. The closer he got, the thicker the air seemed to become—an almost tangible heaviness. The wind picked up suddenly, swirling grains around him in a clash of storm and silence. The figure kept its stance, its white cloak torn and ragged, covering a face hidden beneath a veil that fluttered in the gusts. Around its feet, the sand was strangely still—no grains disturbed or moved. It was a strange, solid spot amidst the shifting dunes.
"Who are you?" Orien asked carefully, inching closer, wary of the silence. The figure raised a hand slowly, pointing behind him. Orien spun around sharply. Behind him, nothing but endless sand dunes stretched to the horizon—a wilderness of shimmering heat and shifting shadows. When he turned back, the figure had vanished. One moment it was there, the next, gone. In its place, on the ground, lay an old, iron-framed compass—strange and ancient, yet shining brightly under the sun. Orien knelt, curiosity overtaking caution, and reached for it. The instrument's needle spun wildly at first, swinging in frantic circles before gradually settling. It pointed southeast, steady and firm.
He decided to follow its direction. The sun drifted across the sky slowly, its shadow lengthening and shortening, consuming what little time he had left. His water was nearly gone, half consumed by sweat and effort. His lips parted, trying to find moisture but finding only dryness. The heat pressed down harder with each step—so intense that he began to hear strange whispers on the wind, faint voices carrying memories—sounds that seemed to come from deep inside his mind. Mirages flickered on the edges of his vision, playing tricks with distant images of loved ones now lost, promises broken, and hopes fading.
"You shouldn't have left," a whispering voice echoed in his mind, cold and insistent. "You broke your word." The words stung sharper than the heat. "She waited, Orien. She waited for you." He clenched his teeth, shutting out the voices, refusing to let despair take hold. The wind suddenly rose in strength, whipping the sands into a frenzy. A huge sandstorm erupted without warning. Blinding clouds of grit obscured everything. He shielded his eyes, crouching low to the ground, pressing himself against the earth. But the storm seemed to come out of nowhere, rising from nothing, as if summoned by the desert's fury itself. Within the swirling chaos, figures began to appear—distorted shapes, shadows that looked human but weren't. Sand figures—forms that seemed half-formed, like puppets carved from grains of sand. They moved jerkily, with jerks and twitches, whispering in voices only partially audible.
He knew these were trial spirits—creatures summoned by the desert to test his resolve. Clutching his dagger tightly, he prepared himself. The first spirit lunged at him, quick and fierce, moving faster than sand should have allowed. Orien dodged, slashing his blade low. His weapon struck the creature, shattering it into a cloud of dust. But more came—a wave of them—ten, then fifteen, then more. Their forms danced around him, attempting to trap him in the endless storm of sand. Fear surged in him, but he kept running, wielding his dagger and compass as weapons—cutting down the spirits as they attacked. The wind howled around him, thickening the air so that breathing became difficult. His vision blurred as dust stung his eyes; still, he pushed on.
Ahead, in the distance, he saw it—a tall, dark spire rising from the dunes like a needle piercing the sky. It was the goal—the temple that marked the next step of his journey. Its black stone gleamed ominously, promising refuge and salvation. Orien pushed every bit of strength into moving faster, lungs burning with each breath. The spirits were relentless—they shrieked and howled, their whispers turning into screams that echoed in his mind. He fought through the thick storm, reaching the base of the spire just as exhaustion threatened to overtake him. There, buried partially in the sand, was a stone door—large, heavy, and ancient. Orien pressed against it with all his might. The door moved with a grating sound. Not enough to open wide, but just enough. He slipped inside as the door creaked shut behind him, sealing off the storm and the spirits within.
Darkness swallowed him whole. Cold air touched his face. Inside the temple, everything was quiet and still. Cool shadows stretched across the walls. The atmosphere felt old—ancient even—and full of secrets. Orien collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. His heart thundered in his chest. The spirits could not follow through the sealed door. Relief washed over him. He flicked his torch to light the chamber, ready to face whatever was hidden inside.