Winter 4984, Halakon
“I’m afraid that might be more than just rain…” the head steward's face was a mask of calm despite his words of worry as he stared into the horizon.
Allowing the silk to slide from the drying line into his waiting hands, Vinrin looked up, following the steward’s gaze to the east. Black clouds. As if night had decided to wash over the desert without waiting for the sun to set.
The dunes that covered most of Halakon could be seen in the distance, many miles away. A heartbeat later, they were gone. Wind brushed Vinrin’s cheeks, pulling stray red hairs from his braid. The eastern sky had become two-toned, black on top and tan below.
Run. The voice shot through him like lightning, causing his heart to skip a beat, then race to make up for lost time.
Vinrin flinched, gripping his head and chest, the cloth blowing away before it could hit the ground.
The Steward leaned over Vinrin, steadying him and whispering softly in his ear, "Young master, is everything alright?”
No, everything was far from alright. Green flashed in the distance and Vinrin looked up with a gasp mirrored by the steward. Lightning traced across the black clouds. Jagged lines of green, purple, and red set the sand below aglow but did nothing to light the darkness above.
“Run…” Vinrin breathed.
“Hurry girls, the shutters!” the Steward cried to the servant girls, urging them to take what laundry they had and rush back to the manor. To button it up for the oncoming dust storm. It wouldn’t be enough. Not this time.
“NO! Run!” Vinrin cried, suddenly desperate. He wrenched a basket of sheets from a passing servant, tossing it to the ground, “Run!”
“Young master the manor-” the steward started, befuddled, at the fourteen-year-old heir, now shoving servants away from the door and towards the road.
“Get everyone out of the house! Make for the rift!” Vinrin screamed, his voice cracking as the wind tried to blow his words away.
The rolling blackness covered the sun and the first bits of sand blown ahead of the storm wall pelted them like so many bug bites. Alone they would be inconsequential, but together they would eventually flay any exposed skin. And worse was yet to come.
Vinrin struggled through the wind to grab the Steward by the arm, screaming into his ear to be heard, “Please, hurry, run!”
Blessedly, the Steward nodded, rushing for the manor, his pace quicked further by the wind at his back. Vinrin pulled his hair back as best he could, looking around in horror as the nearby houses began shuttering their windows from the inside. Preparing to weather the dust storm as they had so many others. Couldn’t they see the lightning now right overhead? Couldn’t they feel the wrongness in the air?
“The rift…” his whisper was stolen by the wind.
He ran, shouting to the houses, banging on the doors, and forcibly turning people around who were trying to head the wrong way, back to their homes, towards the terrible storm. Not enough followed.
He dashed down side streets and allies, yelling until his voice was hoarse and beyond. He zig-zagged through the streets, trying to gather as many as he could. Not nearly enough.
Vinrin ushered all he could towards the Rift, a canyon that divided the city of Zaha into two halves, connected by multiple stone bridges. Stairs were carved down the Rift's faces in sharp switchbacks. Leading towards the ancient Temples built into its walls.
The air was thick with sand that pelted painfully against his skin, filling his mouth, nose, and eyes. He could hardly see the stairs, already crowded with people too far from home and seeking shelter. Or perhaps they'd felt the wrongness.
He'd just reached the head of the switchbacks when screams could be heard as if from a great distance. Spinning around, he ducked just as a roof torn from a nearby building flew overhead. It nearly spanned the rift before crashing down on a bridge. Stone crumbled, and more people screamed as a structure that had stood for hundreds, if not thousands, of years fell into the canyon, taking at least fifty people down with it.
He could hardly see, hardly think. A woman tried to shove past him, but a burst of wind pushed her too far. She tumbled into the canyon, her screams indistinguishable from the rest.
Pushing against the wind just to stay upright, Vin-rin nearly lost his footing as someone grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down the steps. Gusts whipped about the canyon, sometimes pulling, sometimes pushing. He held tightly to the hand of his rescuer, unable to see them through the sand that had become his entire world. They struggled their way down the switchbacks, crouching to keep themselves as close to the ground as possible. More screams trailed from above to below as people fell from greater heights. Had he been wrong? Would they have been safer in their homes?
No. He knew, knew, the city would be lost in this storm, buried by the dunes that had only ever existed on the horizon.
The hand pulled him one last time, and he nearly fell again, stumbling towards the canyon wall only to be wrenched through a doorway he hadn’t seen. Into the safety of the Temple of Hengist. People shuffled and sobbed in the darkness, but the grand entrance to the chapel wasn’t nearly as full as it should be.
The Steward let go of Vinrin’s hand. He was hardly recognizable, caked in sand and blending in with all the other faces huddled together for comfort.
“My family, Maze, tell me!” Vinrin cried, tears turning to mud on his cheeks.
“Safe, young master, they are here.” His whisper sounded loud, despite the roar of the storm so close it shook the natural stone walls of this cave-turned sanctuary.
Safe… they were safe… but how many had he failed to save above? What would be left of the second-largest city in Halakon once this storm from the hells themselves passed…
Vinrin collapsed in a heap on the floor and sobbed. Relieved, and grieving.
