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Chapter Ten — The Fortress of Fire and Sand
The walls rose from the sand like jagged obsidian — pitch black, glinting under the sun's merciless light.
Lucien had never seen anything like it.
Massive spires loomed overhead, bound together with reinforced metal beams and ancient stone, stitched with a strange mix of brutal function and unnatural architecture. Runes carved into the archways pulsed faintly, breathing in time with something beneath the surface.
A gate opened before them with a mechanical groan.
Guards lined the perimeter — dozens at first, then hundreds.
Then thousands.
Lucien's breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't just been dragged to a camp.
This was a fortress. A city of war.
Bound soldiers marched in flawless lines. Training fields stretched out like scars across the sand, filled with sparring duels that sent bursts of wind and flame into the air. Even their youngest-looking soldiers moved with inhuman grace — their speed, precision, and force terrifying to watch.
They didn't walk like humans. They stalked, like predators in armor.
Lucien's legs nearly gave out again as the chain line dragged him forward.
The fortress stank of sweat, blood, oil, and smoke. A heat hung in the air that didn't come from the sun. Something beneath the sand, maybe — furnaces or engines, pulsing with energy. The ground felt warm beneath his bare feet.
They passed a line of chained prisoners like themselves being loaded into wagons. Some looked like they hadn't slept in days. Others didn't move at all. Lucien couldn't tell if they were unconscious or already dead.
He looked away.
They passed a central courtyard where officers barked orders in that guttural, alien tongue — where smiths pounded weapons into shape, sparks flying — where creatures he couldn't even name were being saddled and armored like war machines.
This isn't just a camp, Lucien thought numbly. This is a war engine.
Finally, they arrived at one of the many squat towers along the inner walls.
Steel doors opened with a hiss.
They were shoved inside.
Lucien was yanked forward, the chains clinking, and forced down a narrow stone hallway. The walls were slick with moisture and grime, and the deeper they went, the thicker the air became — as if the very stone was exhaling the breath of decades-old suffering.
A turn.
A stairwell.
Then — a heavy iron door opened ahead.
The guards barked something.
And Lucien was thrown inside.
The door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing clang.
He lay there for a moment, sprawled on cracked stone, blinking through the gloom.
The cell reeked.
Sweat. Blood. Mold. Waste.
The air was thick, wet, wrong. A humid weight clung to his skin. His stomach turned violently.
It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust.
Then he saw them.
People.
Dozens.
Pressed together in a single, overstuffed cell, some standing, others collapsed against the walls. All of them were dressed like him — in the strange, desert-colored clothing from that ridge camp. Same material. Same cuts.
Their faces were hollow, gaunt.
Eyes sunken.
Most didn't look up.
The few who did barely reacted.
Lucien stumbled forward, holding his ribs. His knees scraped on the floor as he moved to a corner, claiming a tiny patch of stone barely large enough to sit.
Heat radiated from the walls. There were no windows. No air.
He had never known discomfort like this.
He had grown up in temperature-regulated rooms. Filtered air. Clean water. Soft beds.
Here, he could barely breathe.
The moisture in the air made his skin itch. Every breath felt like drinking from a puddle.
He leaned back against the wall — and immediately regretted it.
Slime clung to the stone behind him. Something warm. Something alive.
He shivered.
This place was not built for living.
He didn't speak. Neither did anyone else.
No one offered comfort. No introductions. No questions.
It wasn't like the stories of prisoners forging bonds in dark places. No one trusted anyone here.
This was survival.
Eventually, one man near the corner muttered something — a phrase in a language Lucien didn't recognize. A few others grunted in response.
He curled in tighter.
The thoughts came slowly, disjointed.
They're dressed like me.
They were already captured before I arrived.
They're treated like enemies. Not criminals. Not rebels. Enemies.
His head throbbed.
A war. It had to be.
The fortress, the soldiers, the camps. The sheer scale of it.
And if they were enemies… then who were they?
Was this another faction from the desert? A rival civilization?
He didn't know. Couldn't know.
But the answer didn't matter.
He was in the middle of it now.
Lucien pressed his forehead against his knees. The stench soaked into his skin. The heat coiled around him like a noose.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
He just sat there. Breathing.
One breath at a time.
Like the others.
A ghost in a room full of ghosts.
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