CHAPTER 17: The Trial of the Sand - Part 2

  His sailor's attire, designed to protect from the sun's sting on the sea where they were vulnerable to water scarcity, was buttoned up to the top, and sleeves lowered to reduce sweat evaporation. But his scarf was lost at sea, and he had nothing to protect his head and neck.

  The heat subsided fast after sunset. Eiran continued his journey as soon as the sand cooled enough to be touched with the back of his hand. Lacking a better method, he would choose a distant landmark, walk to it, then select a new one. This way, combined with the stars, he could at least maintain the direction indicated by the animal droppings.

  He stopped and took off his shoes. The soles of his feet grew increasingly sore. Only the second night, and his soles were already cracked. The wounds deepened with each step.

  Thirst began to displace rational thought, which he could not dispense with now. His eyes started to search for signs of water rather than watching for dangers and following the travel route.

  He spent the second day in shade again. Sweat drops from his pores evaporated in an instant. But this time, his mind had a task to ponder.

  He had seen a clump of bushes. Was it worth diverting from his path to approach it? Some animals might be there, and he could drink their blood. But with a wrenched heart, to the point of wanting to sulk at himself, he decided not to.

  The plant might not provide water, and his physical condition did not allow for taking risks. Besides, he knew that distances during the day were at least three times what they seemed. There might not be any animals there; perhaps monsters instead.

  He also had to resist drinking his urine or animal blood. Both might help in the short term but would decrease his chances of survival in the long run – for the same reason as not drinking seawater. He forgot the reason but remembered the prohibition.

  The third night. When he rose from his resting place, his arm, leg, and abdominal muscles cramped. His mouth was as dry as chalk. However, seeing fresher animal droppings than before bolstered his hope.

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  Amidst his desire for water, Eiran recalled several methods of obtaining it. However, in his current situation, he could do nothing. He then remembered Graf’s lessons on Creation method.

  Matter created by Creation method could only exist as long as maintained by Mana. If the Mana supply stopped, due to depletion or disconnection from the Mana source, the matter would vanish. This meant he could create water but not drink it because as soon as the water entered his mouth, the Prana veil would block his connection, and the water would disappear.

  But what he needed was water, not logic. He would do anything just to feel the sensation of wetness on his lips, even if the water vanished. He sat cross-legged, placed one palm over the other, and cast a spell.

  It failed. His hands remained dry and cracked.

  He tried by chanting his spell, again and again, but each time it failed. Was the thirst dulling his mind, causing him to make mistakes? Like the drunk-like fatigue effect that made Mana Decima fail to chant properly?

  He repeated the same spell dozens of times, failing at each one. Strange. He did not know the cause and was too tired to ponder it. He cursed in his mind to conserve his breath's moisture, then stood up, accompanied by the ever-loyal pain, and walked on.

  Not only did his body deteriorate drastically, but his mind also grew foggy. Approaching dawn on the third day, the night's chill forced him to lie on his side, arms wrapped around his chest, and knees bent with feet crossed, as taught in navy for falling into the sea. Shivering combined with muscle cramps made every muscle in his body feel as if it were being torn apart. His jaw clenched so tight that his teeth could not chatter.

  Eiran's head throbbed as the sun returned to greet him from the sky that day. Since he stopped sweating yesterday, his skin turned cold, but his body felt like it harbored embers yearning to burn out of him. His lips were cracked, and his tongue felt like it might break if he stuck it out too far. Blisters formed under the nails of his hands and feet.

  That evening, the sun set like molten iron dripping and then spreading across the horizon, setting it ablaze. It was much different from the sunsets in Fhon that he and Violet often watched together. At sea, the sun seemed to fall onto a pile of silver dust, scattering sparkles.

  He could not remember. Which night was it after the third? His eyes were so blurry that the stars were no longer visible. His wounds smelled rotten. He heard many voices around him – or maybe in his head. They cried, screamed, raged, and pleaded. Among them, he also heard their voices... those two shields. What were their names?

  Tonight, he would sleep. He had worked hard for his uncle. He deserved a good sleep, right?

  Light broke… must rise and walk towards… which direction again? How did he end up here? Was it Varne? Hurry back after tending the horses… his uncle would cane him. Why? Who was his uncle? And… who was he?

  Fierce wind… black dust covering the sun. Important to take off shirt… wrap around face. Must lie face down….