The forest thinned, replaced by dry scrubland. Days passed. The heat intensified as Aarav finally stood at the edge of the great desert.
Before him stretched a golden wasteland—endless dunes and forgotten bones.
Shar-Gul lay buried somewhere deep within, hidden by sandstorms and guarded by creatures that once served sun gods now long dead.
He wrapped his robe tighter and stepped forward.
Almost immediately, the wind screamed. A sandstorm rose without warning, slashing at his skin and stealing his breath. He poured a single drop of Kalrasa over his tongue.
The world stilled.
The storm howled around him, but his mind was calm. His vision cut through the madness, guiding him forward.
As he traveled, mirages danced—visions of his mother's voice calling him, of himself crowned as a king, of his father alive and proud. But none swayed him.
At last, after two days without rest, Aarav stumbled into a sunken valley where time itself seemed to slow. Giant statues, half-buried, rose like watchful titans. A broken arch bore the name:
SHAR-GUL.
The city of the Third Trial.