Below the Heavens [Trad Epic High Fantasy]

Expecting fairness and justice in life is naive.

But to live life as a fair and just person, irrespective of this revelation?

I daresay that is righteousness.

— Except from Flangel's Journal

The Endless Sands, between the Black/Golden (?) Pyramid and Oasis

The Oasians offered to help the mursashu with their cargo as a gesture of gratitude. A simple act of kindness — yet kindness did little to mend what had been broken. The Oasians could move crates and load carts, but they could not lift the weight of grief.

More than that, Molam sensed grievance simmering among the mursashu. Oasian losses had been counted in mere tens, while the mursashu mourned more than a hundred—fully one-third of their force, leaving fewer than two hundred alive. The scales of loss were lopsided, and no gesture of goodwill could balance such an uneven toll.

The mursashu carried a simple, unspoken sentiment: Why did their people live when ours did not? Had fate—or a handful of choices—tilted differently, the numbers might have reversed, with more Oasians fallen and far fewer mursashu lying in the sands.

And so, resentment lurked beneath composed facades, bubbling beneath the surface of necessary politeness. It lingered in stiff nods and clipped words, in the way hands hesitated before accepting help. Even the casual observer could see the tension lacing every interaction between the mursashu and the Oasians. It was in the firmness of their handshakes, in the way smiles never reached their eyes, or, most glaringly, in the way some mursashu refused to even meet the eyes of the Oasians who offered them help.

We came to help you. You fled, and only came back when the hard parts were over. These unspoken words wove themselves into every strained exchange, thickening the air like a sandstorm waiting to break.

Children, some too young to understand why one or both of their parents had not come to care for them, were herded by bleary-eyed teens and haggard elders. No one had the strength to explain it to them, not yet. The silence weighed heavy, pressing heads downward, forcing gazes to the ground whenever the children asked questions no one wanted to answer. It was easier to let them believe, for now, that their parents were simply away, caught up in something important for the new Mursa. Easier to pretend than to see the moment realization would dawn in their wide, innocent eyes.

Like time, nothing could buy back innocence, which made preserving it all the more important.

Four of the older children understood the truth. Their parents had been mursashu guards who had lived by the blade and protected the caravan by dealing in violence and death. These parents had prepared them for the inevitable with plain talks about the costs of walking such a life. And so these four understood the meaning of grim faces and silent politeness, of embraces feeling more like consolation and words swallowed before they could be spoken.

Two of them bore the knowledge in silence, carrying it like a hidden wound. The other two, reckless with grief, had tried to tell the younger ones in some ill-guided attempt to shatter the fragile illusion. They were swiftly pulled away, placed under the watchful eyes of elders who found work for idle hands as distractions.

But what could be done about these thoughts? Nothing. No words could bring back the dead; no righteous anger could turn back time. And that helplessness festered, a slow-burning ember in the hearts of the mursashu. Even the most unruly child understood that they could not afford to throw accusations or direct their anger at the Oasians—not when they still relied on their aid, even if said aid came from the hands of those who had lost so little in comparison. To lash out was to risk losing what little security remained.

Anger was a luxury and retribution a drug none could afford to take, not when survival was paramount.

This was not the time.

It isn't fair.

The thought curdled in their minds, unspoken yet refusing to be denied. If the Gods had been just, if the world had not tilted so cruelly, the losses would have been even. Or perhaps, the Oasians would have suffered more, and the mursashu less. What must it be like to be licking flesh wounds instead of mourning loved ones?

Oh, to swap places, to trade grief of the heart for pain of the body.

And yet, the mursashu bore both.

Somewhere, two infants wailed, pushing away from an unfamiliar breast. The woman holding them cooed and hummed, but her voice was distant, absent, lost in grief of her own. Her thoughts were not with the babes in her arms but with the little one who she should have been cradling instead. The twin shrieking rose above the murmurs of those laboring to prepare for the final leg of the journey, cutting through the desert's silence like a gut-wrenching blade. No one acknowledged it, for to do so would mean acknowledging the loss. None could understand the thoughts of a newborn, much less explain to one why its mother would no longer come to nurse it. And none dared to voice what they all knew: that the woman who held them had once cradled another, a child born this Spring's Blessings, whose time had been brought short by her own trembling hands wielding a blade to stop a fate some considered worse than death.

All anyone could do was offer water. No one begrudged a nursing mother her need, for the infants and for the tears that would not stop falling, soaking into her garments before they could touch the Sands.

Molam stepped forward, tipping some of his water into her waterskin. She gave him a brief nod of thanks, but when he met her eyes, he saw the tear tracks carving paths through the dust on her cheeks. He looked away.

It's not your fault, he chided himself. This isn't a mistake on your part.

The words rang hollow. Perhaps some blamed him in their hearts, while others would say it was beyond his control. But the truest judge, his mentor had always said, is oneself.

And a part of him had already rendered its verdict. The evidence lay in the insidious weight of guilt pressing against his chest, in the thought that gnawed at him like a restless rat.

I shouldn't have asked to visit the Pyramid.

Regrets are a most painful reminder: you had a choice.

Molam kept silent as he watched Primrose drive. She'd insisted on learning how to maneuver a sand sled for the final day of the journey, calling it a shame that she hadn't had the chance yet. Now, she gripped the sled's controls with a determined set to her jaw, her knuckles pale from effort, though the thrill in her blue eyes was unmistakable. The sled jerked slightly as she didn't quite match the subtle balance needed to ride the shifting dunes, but she adapted quickly, her movements growing more confident with each passing moment.

Kalle, ever content to let others do as they pleased, lounged beside Molam, sketching idly in his notebook. "A design to improve the harnesses," he explained offhandedly when Molam glanced over. "These things are chafing the poor camels." He tsked under his breath. "Terrible design, really. I'm starting to think some people don't think too much about the comfort of animals because they aren't the ones experiencing discomfort. I'll have to show the mursashu once I've finalized the draft."

Despite his apparent distraction, Kalle kept up an easy conversation with Primrose, their voices weaving through the parching air.

"Am I doing this right?" she asked for the third time, her gaze flicking between Kalle and the sand sled's controls.

"You learn by doing," Kalle replied without looking up from his sketch, his normally patient tone carrying a hint of absentmindedness. "You'll figure it out, just keep on watching how the angles influence the overall balance."

Perhaps that was true. Or perhaps they just wanted to speak, a subconscious human desire for reassurance that they were indeed alive, that reality had not become another fleeting dream. Or maybe, just maybe, they spoke to fill the silence left by Meera's missing voice.

Molam didn't know. He didn't pry. He was content to let the wind carry their words away as he focused on his own thoughts, reviewing his notes on Mursa Allyce. His mind turned over the details like pieces of a puzzle, fitting fragments of knowledge together, discarding others that felt irrelevant. He was testing the boundaries of possibility, refining the edges of his theory, preparing himself for the question that would decide if things went smoothly.

What do I, Mursa Allyce, want most in the world?

He repeated the question to himself as if the answer might somehow be revealed through repetition, hidden within the structure of the words themselves. But of course it wouldn't. It was no riddle, no cipher to be deciphered with logic alone.

It was a question that demanded only one thing—a singular answer, drawn from deep understanding, from research, from the study of a woman he had never met, based on interviews with people, many of whom were now dead.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The agreed contest had rules which granted him leeway; he'd ensured the wording was deliberately designed so that the Mursa would only need to recognize the answer as an understanding of her desires rather than a perfect set of words. But that leeway meant nothing if he was entirely off the mark.

He glanced at the Oasians escorting them, carrying their shields and spears. The Spear and Shield of Oasis were Titled, but not even a century old. The one they answered to was one of the few ancient Titled Ones still alive today, who remembered a time before the Empire of the Sun.

If his answer was wrong, it wouldn't matter how much he had studied or how many notes he had taken. There would be no second chance to unite the three caravans and approach negotiations with the full backing of the mursashu.

But the City was coming into view, and Molam didn't want either Primrose or Kalle to miss it—or to miss their expressions when they first laid eyes on it. It was a rare thing, after all, to witness a moment of awe in others, to see wonder bloom unguarded across their faces. He closed his notebook, letting the weight of his thoughts settle as he said aloud, "If you look up, you'll see Oasis."

Primrose's hands tightened instinctively on the sled's controls as she turned her gaze upward, while Kalle, who had been lazily sketching, let his runepen still against the parchment. Slowly, their eyes widened.

"Now how did they build that?" muttered the alchemist, looking down to sketch it furiously into his journal.

Rising from the golden dunes of the Endless Sands was a giant pyramid, a monolith of impossible scale that seemed to emerge from the Sands themselves. Unlike the Black—Golden?—Pyramid they had left behind, with its stepped tiers and timeworn edges, Oasis was a marvel of seamless construction. Its surface seemed smooth as polished glass, reflecting the rays of the Sun in a cascade of golden brilliance that shimmered like a mirage against the horizon.

Yet what struck any beholder most was its sheer size. Somehow, Oasis dwarfed the Pyramid they had just left, its base stretching wide as any other City, an immense foundation of stone and mystery. Its apex soared impossibly high, vanishing into the shimmering haze of the sky, as though it were not merely built upon the desert but ascending beyond it.

"Where's the Oasis itself?" asked Primrose, shading her eyes against the blinding glare.

"At the top?" Molam ventured, pointing toward the summit. There, emerging from the peak of the pyramid, three colossal circular discs jutted outward like great, floating platforms. The Upper Tiers. Thin bridges were all that connected the discs to the tip of the pyramid, and they cast vast shadows over the Sands and the pyramid below. "At least, I think that's where it is. I've never seen it myself," he added.

Kalle sketched furiously, his runepen gliding over the brittle parchment with feverish intensity. Each stroke captured the grandeur of the floating discs, their immense forms emerging in careful lines. "Is that where the Lord of Sand lives?" he asked curiously, his brow furrowed in concentration as the image took shape. He barely paused before adding, "But wait, is the Pyramid the Lower Tiers? Where are the Middle Tiers?"

"The Pyramid that you can see is the Middle Tiers," Molam answered. "The three circles are the Upper Tiers."

Primrose seemed to grasp it immediately. "Then… that means…?" She trailed off, her eyes widening with realization as she stared down at the Pyramid's base.

Before she could finish, Kalle suddenly stopped sketching, his fingers tightening around the runepen. He looked up in alarm, his voice rising with urgency. "Wait, then the Lower Tiers are… underground?"

"Well," Molam began, then decided to not overcomplicate the description. "It's supposed to be some old plateau somewhat engulfed by the pyramid you see now, but yes, it extends deep beneath the ground." They would get to explore it on their own and see the Oven and the Labyrinth for themselves.

A mursashu rider came close, tan and broad shouldered with lengthy black hair. A spear sat on his lap, and his dirtied mask spoke of the lack of time their group had had for basic laundering. Molam vaguely remembered the mursashu's name to be Olyvier. They hadn't been assigned a new rider since Meera, and the current state of the mursashu meant they were spread thin.

"Mursa Jyuni asks if you want to ride with her when passing the entry points," said Olyvier in his matter-of-fact way. His voice, always quieter than most, was further softened by the mask he wore, making it difficult to tell whether he was merely relaying a message or if there was some opinion hidden beneath his words.

Molam considered the idea. It hadn't even been two days since Jyuni had taken the mantle of Mursa, and he could already see the marked weight of leadership pressing down on her. It showed in the way she carried herself — shoulders set just a little too rigid, chin held just a bit high — but lacking the ease of one accustomed to command. Even in their few interactions since her ascension, he could hear the strain in her voice, see the way her thoughts flickered elsewhere even as she spoke.

Molam had no doubt that the offer was, at least in part, a political gesture. Riding with the new Mursa would be an implicit statement of allegiance in front of the Shield and Spear, providing their group a necessary show of unity as they entered the City. It was a valuable opportunity: one that anyone seeking influence in Oasis would be foolish to decline.

Moreover, if he was looking to take advantage of the new Mursa, now was the time. After all, he suspected the same of her; it was possible the gesture contained a secondary intent for the other two Mursa to hear of this incident. Perhaps Mursa Jyuni already wanted to signal her intent to her future rivals that she was already close to him, and that they shouldn't even bother. It

And yet…

"Please thank her for her offer," Molam said, his voice quiet but firm. "But I'd like to spend some more time with Primrose and Kalle."

Olyvier nodded, expression unreadable behind his mask. He did not question the decision, and merely inclined his head before turning away to carry the message back.

Molam exhaled slowly.

In another time, in another circumstance, he might have accepted the invitation. He might have sat beside Jyuni as they passed through the grand entry points of Oasis, absorbing every detail, every word, every gesture that could give him insight into her thoughts, her doubts, her ambitions. He might have used this moment to his advantage, to build a connection that could prove useful in the days to come; a part of preparing for every eventuality.

But Molam couldn't bring himself to do it. Not when she was mourning Mursa Shang. He had seen the weight of it in her eyes, an exhaustion that ran deeper than sleepless nights. She carried her grief in every motion, in the way she squared her shoulders as if they alone could bear the burden left behind by the man who had guided this caravan for the better part of three decades. And how could she not? Mursa Shang had been a steadfast pillar and reliable force that had shaped this caravan of mursashu and given them direction.

Molam had only known the man for a short time, yet even in that time, Shang had left an indelible mark. How much more must Jyuni feel his absence, when he had been there for most of her life?

Molam could scarcely imagine how hard it was for her.

He clenched his jaw as he watched Olyvier ride away, the masked figure soon swallowed by the procession of riders heading toward the city's entrance. Something inside Molam twisted, an ache buried deep in his chest.

I am mourning too, he realized. And not just for Mursa Shang, or even for Meera.

The names surfaced unbidden, each one a memory, a voice, a face he would never see again. Danytha, the quiet one who, when last they spoke, had shared her water with him when she had barely enough for herself. Gyupa, whose laughter had been as boundless as the Sands, always the first to make light of anything. Tahili, who had always volunteered for the night's watch. ZhongLei, steady and unshakable, if too prone to one-word answers when Molam asked him about Mursa Allyce. And Yorui…

His fingers tightened against his sleeve. All of them, gone. The pain They had fought, bled, died, while he remained. All because he had made a stupid, selfish choice. One could say they were gone because of him.

No, a responsible person would admit it. More names to add to his list of sins.

The weight of those names stopped him from accepting Mursa Jyuni's invitation.

Kalle's voice broke through his thoughts. "Is that… a line?"

Molam blinked, pulled from the depths of his reverie, eyes drawn to Kalle's pointed finger. Before them, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction, was a distinct divide in the Sands. A shift in the color of the grains, subtle at first, but unmistakable once noticed. The pale yellow dunes they had been traveling upon gave way to a brilliant gold, the two hues meeting in a seamless border.

Molam exhaled slowly as their sand sled approached it. "Don't worry, that's the pomerium of Oasis," he said as their sand sled crossed and entered the divide. "It's the boundary of the City. It also marks the beginning of…"

A tremor rippled through the air. Not seen — felt. A shift of pressure pressed down on them, so sudden and absolute that it sent a shudder down Molam's spine. The very air seemed to tighten, pressing inward like an unseen force had coiled itself around his lungs. His breath hitched as a crushing sensation bore down on his chest, as though a giant hand had seized his heart and squeezed. Each frantic beat pounded in his ears, an erratic drumming that threatened to burst from his ribs.

The Sands quivered beneath their feet. In moments, they lost their solidity and familiarity, transforming into something else entirely. Fine grains lifted into the air, hovering in defiance of the earth's pull, shimmering as though caught in an unseen current. A golden mist of particles rose from the desert floor, swirling and coalescing into something unnatural in response to a faraway call.

Molam tore his gaze upward and saw his companions suffering the same effect. Kalle's face twisted in discomfort, fingers clenching around his sketchbook. Primrose, gripping the reins with white-knuckled intensity, grimaced as her body tensed with every muscle straining under the invisible weight. The sled itself groaned, its wooden runners struggling against the Sands that now refused to behave as they should.

Frenzied shouting arose. Several camels moaned and bleated in stress. Kalle and Primrose scrambled, looking for an enemy they could sense but could not see.

A spark flared against his wrist—the feather woven into his bracer ignited, its deep red glow cutting through the golden mist as the red Domain expanded outward in a protective sphere that enveloped their sled. The crushing force vanished the moment it formed as though exorcised by the fiery presence. When the golden mist of sand recoiled, Molam swore he could see the shifting of dunes at the edge of his vision.

As swift as it had all started, the feather went quiet and the spirit's Domain dissipated without a hint of the pressure they had felt. The floating granules fell back down to earth, and the three of them looked at each other in bewilderment.

Before Molam could say anything, something rattled in their sled; Molam looked behind him just in time to jerk his head to the side as a greatsword swung by, narrowly missing his ear. Kalle jumped for it but could not reach its hilt. The weapon zipped right by his hand to shoot straight up into the sky, angled directly towards the top of Oasis and leaving them all staring at each other in bewilderment.

"That… was Martyker's greatsword," Kalle said slowly. "Was that…?"

"Another sword caller?" Primrose stowed away her own blades as swiftly as she had just produced them. "But at that distance… you don't think…?"

"Martyker's father," Molam answered simply. "I was meant to return Martyker's weapon to him personally, but it seems they're ahead of me on that front." There was no need to embellish what they knew the moment they had crossed the pomerium.

They had entered the Domain of the Lord of Sands.