"Wherever you walk, my sun will see you. There will be no more shadow to hide in, no more secrets that can remain secret. My light will follow you: your guide and your guardian."

  — Words of Solar?s, XXX

  Revealed to Thérion the Veiled, Year 1 of the Day without End

  CHAPTER XI

  As the third chime resonated in the capital, the carriage lurched out of Solheim through the East Gate with a guttural creaking, the imposing white ramparts slowly fading behind a veil of shimmering heat. Inside the cabin, the members of the Vaan Hart squadron, squeezed onto the worn benches, felt every jolt of the road vibrate through their bones. The chimes stretched on, interminable, under a relentless furnace that seemed to consume even the very idea of rest. Outside, the equines, pulling their load with resigned obstinacy, advanced with heavy steps, their breath hoarse and rhythmic. Each of their steps echoed on the cracked ground, hard as fractured stone.

  Through the dusty windows of the carriage, the dead and desolate landscape rolled by with oppressive slowness. Sometimes, they glimpsed the collapsed vestiges of what had once been villages—collapsed walls, their cracked stones half-dislocated on sterile ground, wells dried up for decades, their chasms obstructed by charred debris, and broken chimneys pointing toward the sky like accusing fingers, frozen in a mute lament. Siegfried, eyes squinted to pierce the blinding light through the window, scanned the horizon, but each new place seemed to repeat the previous one, as if this dead land conspired to stretch time itself.

  At midday, the carriage passed before a grove of petrified trees, their trunks transformed into black stone, their twisted branches frozen in an eternal silent scream, as if life itself had been extinguished in an instant. The oppressive silence was broken only by the creaking of axles and the occasional grunt of the zu'huns, whose hooves cracked the fissured ground, leaving ephemeral marks on the hardened crust. The coachman, perched at the front, coughed at times, his weathered face irritated by ashes carried by the biting wind, his gloved hands gripping the reins with weary determination.

  Further on, an ancient watchtower stood, solitary, its stone structure split from top to bottom. Uninhabited since desolation had ravaged the lands of Istalith, it seemed to defy the sky, the last vestige of a long-abandoned hope. In the cabin, Juuh'ma murmured something inaudible, his gaze fixed on the ruins, while Mei, leaning against the wall, seemed to count the jolts of the carriage as if measuring time.

  The journey dragged on, each moment weighed down by heat and repetition. Siegfried wiped the sweat from his brow, moisture accumulating despite the shelter of the cabin, and observed the coachman through the small front window: the man sometimes spat to the side, chasing away ashes stuck to his lips. In the distance, the remains of a stone bridge appeared, its broken arches spanning what had once been a river, now reduced to a bed of cracked rocks, polished by incessant gusts. Bleached bones, half-buried, lined the road, their shapes barely discernible beneath the shards of hardened earth—carcasses of animals, perhaps of men, mute witnesses to a world where nothing could prosper anymore. Each step of the carriage seemed to defy this desolation, but as time passed, the impression of advancing diminished, as if this dead land, jealous, refused to yield ground.

  The Sun, motionless in an endless sky, seemed to mock their progress. From his place, R?chard, his gaze lost, counted the cracks in the ground, the rare shadows of shattered rocks, the swirls of ash that danced before falling back on the sterile crust. When in the distance, a vague form began to take shape through the curtain of shimmering heat. At first indistinct, like a mirage teasing tired eyes. Gradually, a square structure, massive and austere, became clear, its dark contours cutting across the ravaged landscape. Its walls seemed anchored in the sterile crust, defying the hostile world surrounding it. In the cabin, Juuh'ma raised his head, his scrutinizing gaze resting on the beasts.

  "We must stop here, at the Sun's Refuge, knight. The beasts won't hold until Shadow Fort without rest," the coachman called out, turning slightly toward the cabin.

  The sixth chime had just passed when R?chard looked at his timepiece and the carriage finally came to a halt with a sharp crack, its wheels sinking into the compacted sand of a dusty courtyard. A tenuous cloud of particles rose in lazy swirls around the zu'huns, as before them stood the Sun's Refuge, an island of order carved from the arid desolation, robust and meticulously preserved. Four white stone buildings, their surfaces polished by diligent hands despite the incessant bites of sandy winds, formed a perfect square around a central courtyard. To the left, the inn stood: its walls, dazzling white despite the assaults of the sun, bore freshly redone joints, and its reinforced wooden shutters, painted a discreet ochre, protected windows with impeccably cleaned panes. A smell of baked bread and dried herbs escaped from the entrance, where an iron sign—"Sun's Refuge"—swayed gently, its engraved letters gleaming, recently polished to defy the erosion of time.

  To the right, the tavern vibrated with contained energy, its walls adorned with engraved geometric patterns, carefully maintained to preserve their brilliance despite the ambient dust. Heavy canvas curtains, dyed a deep red, framed its windows, filtering the light and retaining the coolness inside, while bursts of laughter and the clinking of mugs resonated, signs of tenacious life. Opposite, the forge, attached to a shop, exhaled a controlled heat: its metal awning, impeccably aligned, protected workbenches where gleaming tools lined up with precision. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer was accompanied by the grinding of sharpened grindstones, and crates of merchandise—fabrics, spices, forged iron—were carefully stacked under taut tarpaulins, sheltered from the sand.

  At the rear, the stable completed the ensemble, its walls reinforced with elegant buttresses, proof of constant maintenance. Troughs carved from stone, filled with clear water, bordered the stalls, where fresh straw rustled under the hooves of mounts, their coats lustrous from attentive stable hands. A smell of dried hay and oiled leather floated, mixed with the breeze that stirred the ropes of suspended harnesses.

  In the center of the courtyard, an immaculate well stood, its stone rim smooth and polished, its new ropes plunging toward sparkling waters, a brilliant defiance of the surrounding dryness. A vast canvas, of robust beige, stretched between the roofs of the four buildings, covered the courtyard like a shield against the furnace. Its edges, reinforced with tight stitching, were solidly moored to iron rings sealed in the stone, and its surface, cleaned of accumulated sand, trembled slightly in the breeze. Flat stone slabs, swept with care, paved the courtyard, their joints filled with fresh mortar to prevent dust from infiltrating.

  Sentinels of the Golden Lances, in gleaming armor polished to reflect the sun, kept watch with irreproachable discipline. Some were posted on the roofs, crouched near low battlements, their vigilant silhouettes scanning the horizon, their lances raised like golden arrows. Others patrolled in the courtyard, their measured steps resonating on the slabs, their piercing gazes sliding over the squadron with sharpened mistrust, like a blade grazing a whetstone. Every detail of the Refuge—from the smoothed walls to the reinforced roofs, from the arranged tools to the polished armor—betrayed an obstinate struggle to maintain order and cleanliness against the pitiless aridity of the desert.

  Although the journey was accomplished by carriage, it had still left its marks—dust encrusted in their clothes, dried sweat on their temples—and the arrival at the Refuge marked a welcome halt after the interminable crossing. The coachman busied himself unhitching his beasts, his calloused hands manipulating the bridles with rough skill acquired through years of labor. The squadron left the cabin and the young archer approached the stables, attracted by furtive movements in the half-light.

  A singular creature stood there: a bipedal lizard, as tall as a man, its green scales striped with brown. Beside it, a kind of stocky reptile plowed the ground with its thick paws, massive as a robust donkey, its ashen scales catching dull reflections under the declining light. Juuh'ma also stopped, his scrutinizing gaze resting on the beasts.

  "In the books, they didn't look quite like that..." R?chard murmured, eyes squinted, approaching cautiously the reptile that nervously scraped the ground with its claws.

  Leaning against the dusty wheel of his carriage, the old man sketched a crooked smile, his lips cracked by the sun folding slightly.

  "They're different from what you might have read in your grimoires, eh?" he said, spitting in the sand. "That's a lézarus. Fast as a gust, built to dart through storms."

  The boy reached his hand toward the feathers that trembled on the beast's neck, but the coachman stopped him with a sharp gesture.

  "Careful! Don't touch it."

  "Why?" asked young Desrosiers, withdrawing his hand.

  "He's nervous, that one. Look," he said, pointing to the bright blue feathers that undulated. "You see his crest?"

  "Yes."

  "It allows him to expel the burning air. Without that, he'd cook under his own skin. But when it flattens backward, like that, better not approach."

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  Hand lowered, R?chard noticed a translucent pouch that pulsed slightly under the lézarus's belly.

  "And what's that?"

  The coachman tapped his gourd hanging from his belt.

  "Water, young archer. Thin as a spider's web. It fills at wells, enough to gallop for days without stopping. Hunters ride them to track through the desolate lands."

  The boy's eyes widened.

  "How many days?"

  "Three, four. Enough for your carcass to be already desiccated," replied the coachman with a hoarse laugh.

  "Three or four days with just that little pouch?!"

  "Yes, knight. Impressive, eh?"

  He spat on the ground and headed toward a pen further away, where an imposing mass dozed in the shadow. R?chard followed him, fascinated.

  "And what's that?"

  "That? That's a druskal. He's very slow, but I know of no sturdier beast than him. He could pull a mountain. Admire his build, wide as a cart."

  R?chard approached, intrigued by the rough muzzle of the beast that sluggishly searched the ground.

  "What does such a monster eat?"

  After wiping his hands on his leather apron, the coachman continued.

  "Charred brush, burned roots... everything this cursed desert leaves behind. His beveled teeth grind like a millstone."

  The boy touched with his fingertips the bony crest on the druskal's back.

  "Wooooow! It's hot!"

  "Normal. It dissipates the crushing heat."

  "Like the lézarus's?"

  "Exactly! Without that, he'd melt like butter."

  The coachman patted the druskal's shoulder, which grunted, a deep sound that made the air vibrate and R?chard jump.

  "He grunts, but he obeys without flinching. Indestructible, that fellow."

  He paused, scrutinizing the stables with an appreciative eye.

  "These beasts, they're our salvation in this forsaken corner. Without them, we'd still be dragging our carcasses on foot under this blazing sun."

  "But why do we never see them in the city, in Solheim? These beasts, shouldn't they be everywhere?" questioned the young archer, his gaze passing from the lézarus to the druskal.

  The coachman wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  "Because they're rare, kid. Far too precious and especially too wild for the paved streets of Solheim. They're reserved for the Golden Lances and seasoned hunters, those who know how to capture and tame them. The oxhorns, the zu'huns, that's something else—common, reliable, we breed them in masse. Even the Lances use them, they're docile livestock, not desert rarities."

  One last time, he spat on the ground before heading toward his carriage.

  "I'd have liked to chat longer with you, knight, but I need to go stable my beasts. Tell your chief that we'll leave tomorrow morning shortly after the second chime."

  R?chard nodded, casting a last fascinated look at the creatures.

  "It will be done, Sir," he told him before rejoining his companions.

  Still marked by the roughness of the journey, the squadron finally stirred toward the tavern, impatient to shelter from the persistent heat.

  They crossed the courtyard, their boots crunching on the abrasive ground, and pushed open the tavern door. A wave of humid and tumultuous air overwhelmed them. Laughter, tinkling of clashing mugs, and voices mixing in discordant hubbub welcomed them.

  "Go perch yourself, my beauty, find yourself a roost," R?chard breathed, raising a hand toward Plume.

  The golden-beak launched itself with a graceful beat of wings and perched on a beam blackened by smoke, its round eyes scrutinizing the room with mute curiosity. The tavern keeper stood behind the counter, a stocky man with shoulders bowed by labor, a grimy cloth hanging in his left hand.

  "You're soldiers from Solheim, eh? You don't have the looks of those who know the Refuge, am I wrong?" he called out, arching an eyebrow at their sight.

  His fingers grazing ancient notches on the counter, Siegfried stepped forward and spoke.

  "You speak true, tavern keeper, we heard a bit about it during our Solar Guard training. The instructors hammered into us that the Sun's Refuges were stops, strategic supply points along the kingdom's main arteries. But that concerned the Golden Lances more, so we learned nothing more about them. What truly is this place?"

  "The Solar Guard, eh? But what are knights like you doing so far from Solheim, in this forsaken corner?" asked the man after placing his cloth on his shoulder, a smile stretching his lips before crossing his arms on his robust chest.

  Siegfried fixed him then replied in a calm but assured tone.

  "We're on a mission, tavern keeper."

  "Stop calling me that, knight."

  He inclined his head soberly as a greeting.

  "Taarg, at your service."

  The knights greeted him in return.

  "A mission that the Golden Lances can't handle themselves?" Taarg resumed with eyes sparkling with mischievous curiosity. "Must be serious, then, for Solheim to send its precious guards all the way here!"

  "We only follow orders, and those lead us to Shadow Fort," retorted the knight as he removed his gloves to tuck them into one of his straps.

  The tavern keeper let out a small laugh, tapping the counter with his fingertips before going to retrieve a glass from a shelf.

  "Shadow Fort, no less! This must be your first outing in the desert, right? Because you don't yet have that layer of sand in your eyes that you catch after a few trips. Your boots are too clean, your gazes too sharp!"

  "Our second," Siegfried acknowledged, a slight crease at the corner of his mouth betraying a hint of amusement.

  "I knew it!" Taarg exclaimed, delighted with his perspicacity while filling the mug with brown beer. "Well, you're not landing in the worst place to start, but it's not the capital here, no sir. You say that during your training they explained that the sun's refuges were stops, eh? Sure, that's not wrong but it's much more than that, knight. These are islands of survival in the heart of nothingness, refuges carved from stone and sand to stand firm against desolation. Here, you'll cross paths with hunters, merchants, Golden Lances on patrol. We keep the roads open, we protect the wells like treasures, we strike down whatever comes too close—beasts or brigands, doesn't matter. In Solheim, you have your immaculate ramparts, your well-polished orders, your framed lives. Here, it's chaos we tame every day."

  He extended a calloused arm to broadly gesture toward a board nailed to the wall, bristling with yellowed and worn posters.

  "You want to understand what we live through here? Go have a look at that, it'll speak better than me."

  Piqued by curiosity, R?chard approached the board with a quick step, followed by Juuh'ma whose heavy strides made the disjointed floorboards tremble. The posters, cracked by time, bore scribbled inscriptions: "Giant Scordarion to kill," "Enormous Ashwolf near the Scar," "C?ndrav?rrn—ash dragon."

  "What is all this, exactly? Trophies? Legends?" asked the boy, his fingers grazing a torn sheet.

  "The hunting board, my lads. And hold on tight, it's no walk!" called out the man after his fist struck the counter so hard the impact made an empty mug ring. "Wild beasts, monsters, they're not so rare in this cursed corner, and when they show their snouts, it's guaranteed chaos. The people here, they don't joke: they post bounties, juicy ransoms, to get rid of these filth—pests, walking perils, call them what you want. They all have one thing in common: they make you regret crossing their path... Some have tracked our nightmares for ages, shadows that haunt the plains and gorges."

  He pointed his index finger toward the board nailed to the wall, where the drawing of a winged monster seemed to stare back at him, a poster much more worn than the others.

  "Look at that one, the C?ndrav?rrn. An ash dragon, a winged bastard that spits flames so dry they reduce a man to dust before he can scream. It's been decades since it was posted there, its portrait engraved in the wood, yellowed by sand and time, and still not an arm strong enough to send it to the underground kingdom. One day, maybe, someone will settle its score, but it'll take more than courage for that old demon."

  Taarg leaned on the counter, his rolled-up sleeves revealing scars whitened by the sun.

  "But careful, it's not just for the thrill of the hunt or glory. Here, we don't kill for pleasure—each slain monster is a gold mine for the clever. Their remains, we bleed them to the last drop, we dismantle them to the last bone. Nothing is wasted, everything is transformed, and those aren't empty words."

  He paused, unhooking a wineskin hanging behind him to drink two good gulps. Once his thirst was quenched, he put it back and continued.

  "Take the serpend?s, that snake long as three men, with scales that gleam like glass. Its venom, a poison that liquefies you from inside in a heartbeat, we collect it drop by drop. Crazy work for apothecaries. With that, they concoct antidotes so powerful they bring you back from one step from the grave, or balms that soothe sunburns in no time. If you want to see with your own eyes what we can extract from these monsters, go to the forge, right there, on the other side of the courtyard. The blacksmiths, they have workbenches covered with these marvels: shields stacked like trophies, blades that shine under the embers, and even vials for healers. They'll show you how they work the carapaces, how they sharpen the fangs, and if you have enough to pay, they might let you try one of their creations. But beware not to waste their time—they strike as hard as they forge!"