Merlin teleported Cassandra to a region bordering the Valley of the Dead. The air was dry, the wind whispering secrets of ancient tombs long forgotten.
He erected a modest-looking tent, but its exterior belied its true nature. Inside, it was spacious and well-appointed, expanded through powerful spatial enchantments. Defensive wards shimmered faintly around it, offering protection from both magical and mundane threats.
Cassandra observed him silently, her eyes filled with curiosity. Merlin noticed her stare and raised an eyebrow.
"What?" he asked.
"You could easily portal us to the gods," Cassandra said, her voice calm but direct. "So why wait?"
Merlin gave a faint chuckle. "Because I was tasked with bringing down Memnon," he replied. "And because I enjoy tormenting my enemies. Memnon will no doubt send his best general to hunt me down. I'll kill him—send him back as a message. Let Memnon stew in fear. Then I'll storm his castle while his army's in disarray."
He turned to her with a smirk. "Now, please, get inside."
With a sigh of resignation, Cassandra stepped through the enchanted flap. The loose folds of her robe hinted at the grace beneath as she moved.
Though Cassandra had everything she needed to live comfortably within the enchanted tent, her thoughts often drifted to Merlin. She observed him in quiet moments, drawn to his presence. Over time, she began to share her story—how Memnon had crushed her people, executing them before her eyes, and how she was taken, a seer turned spoil of war.
Merlin had listened without judgment. His words were few but sincere, and in them, Cassandra found unexpected comfort. She hadn't realized it, not yet—but her heart had already surrendered. For all her visions, for all her foresight, Cassandra was blind to one thing: she now loved this wizard, and her destiny was entwined with his.
Meanwhile, Merlin kept a close watch on Thorak and his Red Guard as they advanced toward the Valley of the Dead.
He had left things of Sorceress scattered along their path—markers meant to draw them in, to mock them. It was bait, and Thorak knew it.
By sunset, one of Thorak's forward scouts crested a ridge marked by fetish poles and plucked a golden hoop from the skull atop one. He returned swiftly to the line of red-turbaned warriors and handed the prize to his commander.
The scar on Thorak's cheek blazed white against his reddened face as fury seized him. He recognized the message for what it was: the Sorcerer was goading him. Taunting him.
Normally, they would have made camp—but not tonight. Thorak drove his men forward, rage spurring him on. They would ride until the sun itself vanished from the sky.
By midmorning the next day, Thorak and his dozen warriors had nearly overtaken their quarry. As they trudged up the slope of a large dune, the wind howled and stirred the sand around them. The sun blazed mercilessly overhead.
They were close—too close to suspect the trap.
But their prey had already taken position.
From a nearby dune, Merlin stood, Cassandra beside him. The sorceress narrowed her eyes.
"So… they've found us?" she muttered.
"Yes," Merlin said, his tone cool. "Right where I want them."
He raised his hands.
The desert stirred.
A roar echoed across the sands as millions of particles lifted into the air, forming a vast, writhing sheet of sand. A storm of dust and fury rose, casting a towering shadow over the dunes. The wind screamed.
Cassandra watched, wide-eyed, as Merlin directed the storm like a conductor. The sandstorm obeyed, rolling forward—straight into the path of Thorak's men.
To Thorak and his warriors, the desert came alive.
A wall of sand surged toward them, not merely dust but a living nightmare. Within the swirl, vague shapes twisted—tormented figures, leering faces, claws and fangs that should not exist. It was as if hell itself had taken form.
"Retreat!" Thorak roared, wheeling his horse around.
Panic took hold.
The fabled Red Guard—elite warriors trained to face death without flinching—broke under the supernatural assault. Horses reared, men scattered, and the storm swallowed them like an avalanche of rage. Screams vanished in the whirlwind. The sun was lost. The world became sand, pain, and darkness.
Each grain of enchanted sand was like a tiny blade, slashing through armor and skin. Screams tore through the wind. Warriors were flayed alive, their flesh shredded, their eyes blinded, their will crushed.
But not Thorak. Although he was thrown of his horse, even though he was in the eye of the storm. His armor, a divine relic gifted by Memnon himself—an artifact blessed by the gods—protected him from the slicing sands.
He could not see, but he could still feel the fury.
He raised his battle-ax, howling into the chaos."Sorcerer bastard!"
He was undeterred, blind with wrath, plunging deeper into the storm in search of his enemy, driven not by strategy but by vengeance.
Just then, through the swirling chaos of the sandstorm, Thorak caught sight of him.
Merlin stood amidst the maelstrom, his robes billowing, the storm parting slightly around him like a cloak of wrath. He was smiling—calm, unbothered, as if daring Thorak to try.
Rage overcame reason. Thorak roared and charged, his battle-axe raised high, the sand lashing against his divine armor.
But Merlin didn't move.
With a flick of his fingers, an unseen force lashed out. Thorak was flung back like a rag doll, his axe torn from his grip and buried in the sand. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolling through the dunes before coming to a stop.
Groaning, Thorak began to push himself up—
Only to find a hand closing around his throat.
Merlin.
He had crossed the distance without a sound, his hand now gripping Thorak's neck with supernatural strength. He lifted the warrior effortlessly into the air, the storm howling around them.
Thorak gasped, his vision swimming—but even in the face of death, he fought.
From a hidden sheath on his wrist, he drew a small curved dagger—an enchanted blade, etched with runes—and drove it into Merlin's chest.
The blade pierced flesh.
Merlin stiffened for a moment, breath catching in his throat. Pain lanced through him—but he did not let go.
His golden eyes narrowed, and his voice was cold. "Fool."
With a sickening crack, Merlin's grip tightened. Thorak's neck snapped like dry wood.
He dropped the body into the sand.
Blood trickled down Merlin's chest as he slowly pulled the dagger free. A hiss escaped his lips—it hurt more coming out than it had going in.
The blade had sickly glow. It pulsed with faint magic, and Merlin could feel his wound knitting shut… but something resisted. Something in the dagger's enchantment was clinging to the wound, trying to poison the healing magic, to linger.
He narrowed his eyes, staring at the cursed weapon in his hand and muttered."Smart."