Below the Heavens [Trad Epic High Fantasy]

How many people will tell you they never asked to be born, but will also beg to not die?

That is what we have been reduced to: people afraid to go to Yven's Halls, clinging on to a life we would rather not have.

And still, I am not ready. Perhaps I will never be.

Reality is cruelest to those of us who stand to live forever.

— Excerpt from Meditations by the Red Emperor

Oasis, Border Entrance

One of the many features unique to Oasis was its approach to security—or rather, the lack of it. Most Cities erected barriers, manned walls, and placed sentries to ward off intruders. Security was a response to danger, to unwelcome guests seeking entry. But in Oasis, who were the unwelcome guests?

The only ones capable of reaching the City were the mursashu, and their identities were well known. No common traveler stumbled upon Oasis; no foreign armies marched through the Endless Sands. The desert itself was an impenetrable moat, its merciless terrain ensuring that only those who belonged could ever hope to arrive.

As for the monsters that roamed the Sands? The smaller creatures knew better than to encroach upon the Lord's Domain, and the great titans of the desert—the Sandwurms—were the only ones brazen enough to trespass.

Molam caught sight of the looming wall housing the gates as they passed beneath the massive archway. Unlike the rest of the City's subtle defenses, these were built to withstand. Thick metal grilles reinforced the entrance, heavy enough to halt a charging Sandwurm. Alchemic runes were etched into the surface: wards against impact, against intrusion, against forces that could topple buildings.

And yet, the gates stood open.

There were no guards demanding travel passes, no watchful eyes scrutinizing the incoming mursashu. Oasis did not fear invaders or unwanted immigrants for it did not need to. Even if a City Lord could muster the resources and manpower to trek through the Endless Sands, how many would dare to contend with the might of a former Monarch, one of the Nine Lords who had existed since the founding of the Empire?

The answer was easy: none.

The voices of the scouts rang out from their high perches, their cries carrying across the open air like a call to arms.

"The SpearMarshal and ShieldMarshal have returned!"

"Mursashu have arrived!"

The response was immediate. The Oasians moved with swift efficiency, their long, colorful robes flowing in the shifting breeze as they converged on the arriving caravan. Some worked to guide the sand sleds into a designated clearing, their practiced gestures leaving little room for hesitation. Others—Priestesses, standing out against the riot in billowing robes of immaculate white—gathered near the entrance, their presence a quiet but firm reminder of protocol.

A woman appeared at the top of a flight of stone stairs, her bearing one of unquestionable authority. A jade septum piercing adorned her nose, its light green a stark contrast to her dark skin. Her voice cut through the bustling activity with ease.

"Please remain where you are until we have checked the sleds and cleared you of the Plague!"

Primrose handed the reins to Kalle, who took them with a practiced ease and steered their sled neatly into formation beside the others.

"What now?" Primrose directed at Molam.

He settled under the tarp, shielding himself from the Sun. "We wait."

Meanwhile, Kalle was muttering under his breath. "The Plague?!"

Molam shrugged. "Standard protocol. It never resurfaced after DuskWing's death, if that's got you concerned. More importantly…" he patted Kalle's shoulder meaningfully, "Steel yourself. Remember Klagynah? It'll be worse in Oasis."

"We won't let that happen again," said Primrose coldly.

Molam noticed the dangerous gleam in her eyes, adding hurriedly, "We can't fight an entire City. Just need to be sure to nip any problem in the bud before it becomes something worse."

Kalle raised his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I hear you, I hear you. I'll do my best not to cause a ruckus," he promised, though his tone held more amusement than solemnity.

Molam sighed. "I mean," he amended, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not saying you're the problem. It's more of a matter of—"

"Hold there!" Olyvier's voice cut through their conversation from outside, but he wasn't speaking to them. "This group is considered part of the mursashu."

A second voice, laced with suspicion. "So they are not mursashu, is what you're saying?"

Molam could not yet see the speaker, but the tone alone was enough to set his nerves on edge. It was the kind of combative tone that, from experience, could quickly spiral out of control if handled poorly. He turned, catching sight of several dark-skinned figures stepping forward. Three of them—two men and a woman—were coming directly at them, while Olyvier remained locked in a heated exchange with someone just out of sight as he followed.

"I'm warning you," Olyvier growled, his body tense, "if you insist on—"

The taller of the two men barely spared the argument a glance, his focus shifting to their sand sled. His gaze swept over their supplies, assessing, measuring. Then, with an air of barely concealed disdain, he turned his attention to Molam and his companions.

Molam met the man's gaze evenly, though he could see how the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly in a sneer when his eyes landed on Kalle.

Then came the spear—pointed directly at them.

"The three of you. Out."

Kalle hesitated, his fingers twitching toward his satchel as if debating whether to grab something—his runepen, or perhaps a vial of something useful.

Primrose, standing closest to the sled, moved first, stepping down smoothly without hesitation. Her expression was unreadable behind her mask, but Molam saw her hands clench and unclench at her sides.

Molam followed, keeping his posture deliberately calm.

Kalle followed Molam's lead, but his movements were deliberate, measured. Too slow. Molam wasn't sure if he approved. They had discussed this before—how Kalle should do his best to appear non-threatening, unassuming in front of the Oasians. But now, Kalle seemed to have decided that every single action, every intent, must be clearly conveyed.

"I'm just getting out of the sand sled," Kalle enunciated slowly, as if he was a Scholar explaining to a particularly dense student. He extended a hand over the sled, fingers brushing against the wooden frame. He emerged slowly as he steadied himself, ensuring every movement was deliberate. The other hand remained visible, fingers slightly spread, making it clear that he held nothing. He's taking it too literally, Molam almost fumed. Yes, I said "No sudden movements, no reason for alarm." but this just draws more attention!

Kalle, of course, could not hear Molam's thoughts. "I am unarmed. I am –"

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"Can't you move faster, or are you ice eaters all slow in the head?" The shorter soldier, irritation flashing in his dark eyes, lunged forward and seized Kalle's wrist. He yanked—perhaps expecting Kalle to stumble, to be dragged forward in a show of dominance—but the soldier had clearly misjudged the difference in their builds. His grip slipped, and his own force sent him staggering back a step, his sandals scraping against the sand. A small cloud of dust rose around his feet as the man fought for balance.

Kalle cocked his head slightly, as if genuinely confused by the man's lack of coordination. Then, in a display of either supreme politeness or supreme mockery, he calmly finished clambering out of the sand sled and extended a hand.

"Oh, that's unfortunate," he said mildly. "Are you injured?"

The Oasian's face twisted into a scowl, his pride clearly stinging more than any actual injury. With a sharp motion, he batted Kalle's offered hand away with the butt of his spear. "Don't you touch me."

Olyvier finally stepped forward, peeling himself away from the heated discussion he had been engaged in. His mask obscured his face, but everything about his stance radiated irritation. The arms were rigid at his sides, his shoulders squared as he surveyed the situation.

"This is wholly unnecessary," Olyvier stated flatly. Molam could almost hear the unspoken sigh of frustration behind the mask. "They have traveled with us under our Mursa's protection. This isn't the first time mursashu have brought people, and even then–"

"We're experiencing a state of alarm," came a new voice. A regal-looking woman walked up; Molam recognized her as the woman watching from the top of the steps earlier. She pointed a finger decorated with jade rings at Kalle. "You. Northerner. Are you an escaped convict?"

Molam caught the subtle movement of Primrose's hand reaching behind her back and tapped her elbow lightly. "No," he murmured, stepping past her before she could do anything they'd both regret.

"Go check if there's been an issue with the prisons," the woman was instructing another woman who looked to be more of an aide than a soldier before turning back to Kalle. Her finger stayed pointed. "You there. Remain right where you are."

"Excuse me," Molam spoke up before Kalle responded — or worse, Primrose. For someone who normally kept her true emotions hidden, she wore a barely contained glare.

"And who are you?" she demanded, looking him up and down.

"My name is Molam. We are traveling with Mursa Jyuni's caravan," Molam kept his posture relaxed, hoping to not draw any more animosity. He dipped his head slightly, offering deference without subservience. "And this Northerner is Kalle, miss," he said, keeping his voice even as he gestured at the alchemist. "He's traveled with us from the Central Valley. I am sure the mursashu can vouch that this is the first time he's been in Oasis." Making him not an escaped convict, he thought, but didn't add.

A pause. Perhaps she was considering his words, but there were few reasons for her to linger. His gaze flickered across the woman's stance—straight-backed, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. Her attire was chosen to give ample emphasis to her dark skin; a proud Oasian. "Forgive me," he continued smoothly, "but what brings a woman of the Upper Tiers down here?"

The corners of the woman's lips curled, but not in amusement. There was calculation in her expression, a measured patience that told him she recognized his attempt to turn the scrutiny onto her and refused to rise to his game.

"As I said, we're in a state of alarm," she stated, her voice edged with the crisp authority of someone accustomed to command. "Our Lord's Domain reacted to something earlier. Allowing foreigners into our City without answers would be irresponsible." Her gaze drifted over them, cool and assessing, before she added, almost offhandedly, "Not to mention how... rare it is for the mursashu to bring guests." Then, with a slight flick of her hand: "Detain them for questioning."

What to say? Open defiance wasn't an option here. Molam's fingers twitched as figures stepped forward, ropes in hand. His mind surfaced the memory before he could suppress it—this reminded too much of the last time he'd been bound. The phantom sting of seared flesh crawled up his spine.

But he forced himself still. Beside him, Kalle tensed, every muscle bracing against the potential for a fight. Primrose said nothing, but the air around her was taut, the locked jaw telling Molam she was barely restraining her defiance. Her hands had disappeared into the folds of her clothing, and Molam desperately wanted to not cause a problem now.

The air shifted; then a firm, authoritative voice cut through the tension.

"What's the hold up here?"

The Shield stepped into view, followed by two healers fussing over his injured shoulder. The Oasians hesitated, then the taller spear bearer stepped forward. "ShieldMarshal, we–"

"Back to your positions," the Shield of Oasis ordered. The spear wielders saluted with a quick pounding of their spears against the ground, then marched off. The Shield looked towards the regal woman, who did not cower under his gaze. A moment later, he sighed, "It's been a long day and I don't want any more problems. You should return to Steward Clayton. These people are the-" he paused, glanced at Molam, who gave the barest shake of his head, then the Shield continued, "...friends of the mursashu."

Molam was immediately grateful the man had decided against announcing they were the Dao. If this woman was one of Steward Clayton's people, then having more time before the Steward learned about them would give him more opportunity to move.

The Oasian woman's eyes flashed with the hint of frustration. "ShieldMarshal," she addressed him with respect, "I am relieved to see you safe. Steward Clayton would be more than happy to have dinner with you if your injuries can be healed in time, whether tonight or the day after tomorrow. But as for this matter, foreigners will need to be–"

"Get Clayton to sign off on a detention form if it matters so much to you." The Shield looked down at the healer who was tapping his arm, then knelt so they no longer needed to stand on their toes to reach his shoulder. "But you should let this matter rest before the mursashu stop asking and start demanding. Do you understand, Fa'ryn?"

Molam studied the woman with renewed interest. Her complexion was darker than most, a trait usually associated with those from the Upper Tiers. But if he hadn't misheard the Shield's pronunciation, her name indicated she was a child of mixed origins. His gaze flicked over her features—her thin lips, the slight roundness at the tip of her nose. There was something different, a hint of another lineage. An Islander parent, perhaps? It would explain the depth of her skin tone.

Fa'ryn herself had put on an impassive look at the Shield's warning, only to flick her eyes towards Molam once before answering. "I understand, ShieldMarshal. Will you be joining Steward Clayton for dinner, or would you prefer I report this matter to him myself?"

"Tell him I'll find him when I'm ready," the Shield waved a dismissive hand, then pointed a thick finger at Fa'ryn. "Relay my orders to your Steward and his people. Don't bother the mursashu or their friends without consulting me first. I believe you have more important things to do, like searching for that last water thief?"

Fa'ryn seemed nonplussed, but bowed her head with her hands clasped at her navel. "Understood. On Steward Clayton's behalf, I wish you a speedy recovery, ShieldMarshal." She held the bow as she took several steps backwards before turning with a swish of her clothes, beckoning several spear wielders to follow her.

"I apologize for Fa'ryn," said the Shield, watching her leave. "She's overzealous in doing what she believes her Steward would want her to do. But that doesn't give her leave to make problems where there are none. At least…" he gave Molam, Kalle, and Primrose a side-eye, before adding, "I hope you bring none."

"We're grateful for your help, ShieldMarshal," Primrose said in careful, deliberate words. "You won't find trouble from us."

The man studied her, his gaze weighing more than just her words. After a pause, he gave a slow nod. "That is good to hear. And, only Oasians and soldiers call me ShieldMarshal. I've never been big on being referred to as the Shield by foreigners either, so you three can just call me Taryk." His eyes flicked toward Kalle. "Now, Kalle, was it? I respect a man who can walk into a place where some still hold outdated ideals about skin color. That said, it'd be best if you stick with the mursashu while negotiations for jade are underway. It'll help mitigate the chances of—"

"ShieldMarshal," a voice interrupted.

One of the healers had been running glowing fingers along his wounded shoulder. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, the faint aura of magic flickering against his skin. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but this will take some time to fully heal. The dragon's aura lingering in your wound needs to be fully drawn out before we can even begin tending to the bone and sinew. I strongly recommend you come inside with us so we can correctly dress the wound. You'll be far more comfortable sitting than kneeling out here under the Sun."

Taryk exhaled sharply, as though only now recognizing the pain he had been enduring. "Oh. Yes, that does sound like a better idea." He pushed himself up, favoring his uninjured side as the healers moved to assist him. Before leaving, he turned back toward them, his sharp gaze landing on Molam. "It's a difficult time in Oasis right now. Don't be alone."

"They won't be."

The voice carried authority, cutting through the heated air. Molam turned, catching sight of Mursa Jyuni as she strode toward them, her presence commanding immediate attention. Her dark braids swayed with each step, dust rising in the arid wind as her boots met the ground. Almost instantly, Olyvier sidled up beside her, leaning in to whisper hurried updates into her ear.

Taryk seemed to take note of her arrival, exchanging a glance with Jyuni before allowing the healers to usher him behind a nearby door.

A new figure approached, his arrival as quiet as shifting sand. Dressed in the robes of an Oasian healer, the middle-aged man had a sharp nose, neatly trimmed sideburns, and a shaved head that glinted under the Sun. His expression was neutral, but his eyes—Molam noted—were those of someone accustomed to both kindness and sorrow. A healer's eyes.

He came to a stop before Kalle, who stood unnervingly still. "I'm not looking to cause trouble," the healer explained, his voice level. His gaze flicked to Molam and Primrose, reading the wariness in their stance. "I heard the ShieldMarshal's orders. However, it is standard procedure to check for any signs of the Plague before allowing anyone into the City. Even the ShieldMarshal's orders do not supersede the Lord's command."

"Just let him inspect you," Jyuni said, her tone making it clear that arguing would be pointless. She turned slightly, signaling with a small gesture toward two mursashu standing among Choji's group. They responded with swift efficiency, stepping forward as she issued a curt order. "Help them unload."

Then she turned back to the healer, gesturing toward Molam. "Him first. Then the other two." Her dark eyes locked onto Molam's. "I hope you're free. Shall we have a discussion before we meet with the other two Mursa tonight?"