2412, Iclis 10, Velpa

Rhys chewed on the end of an orange frond. Seated under the shade of a hut made from patched dry leaves, it's the only thing he could do while he waited for the heat to subside. He could reason that he's well-traveled and, therefore, was used to almost all kinds of weather and climates, but Desara's heat was just...no. It wasn't scratchy-dry like the deserts in Calca—gods of Calaris, it was not a time he wanted to go to—rather, the air had a certain moisture in it. Combine that with the white-hot sunlight streaming from the unfiltered sky, it made Rhys' head pound if he dared take a few steps forward.

Sometimes, his upbringing in the crisp air of Arcole crept up in the most inconvenient times.

He figured he should wait for the humidity to die down to an acceptable level before attempting to get anywhere. Just flying and landing anywhere in Zoriago was a nightmare both to his eyes and his skin. Exhaustion nipped at his limbs and his wings after having to spare his sister time when she called through the whisperer.

It seemed urgent, and after hearing her adventures in Cardina, he's bummed out he wasn't there to witness it. Glowing shard fairies disguised as humans? Cool. A rebellion against an oppressive regime? Bring it on! An unknown girl showing up out of nowhere and revealed to be the prophesied Virtakios? Awesome!

The frond between his teeth snapped. He clicked his tongue and plucked it out from his mouth. He stared at the gnawed end and blew a breath. Heat swirled against his chin. It wouldn't get better for the next few hours—he only knew because he asked the kind water sprite who served him a cup of something.

He tilted the cup towards him, studying the almost transparent liquid sloshing inside. Salvia water, they called it, and he almost agreed with them. If not for the occasional thick white wisps floating in it, he would have guessed it was simply saltwater from the sea served to him in a fancy cup.

The heat didn't give him a chance to be picky, so he downed the entire thing. To his surprise, it wasn't anywhere near salty. It's lightly sweet to the point of blandness. Oh, and it smoothed down his throat like fine satin against skin. It also cured most of the dryness in his throat scratched dry by the heat and the sand. That's...wow.

He should refill his skin with nothing but this. It's wonderful.

The sound of waves lapping the shore was distant, like a far-gone memory from childhood—only coming out in hints and traces and not when one needed them. Rhys preferred it that way, though. If the desert scared him about burning his wings, the sea tormented him with thoughts of drowning. Like living the rest of his life without the option to fly, being choked blue wasn't the best way to go.

When he felt he could travel again without passing out in the middle of the shore, he flipped a few versal beside his cup and strode out of the shack. He's going to miss the shade and the brief comfort he enjoyed against the unrelenting sun. His boots dug trenches into the baked sand, toasting even his feet under his soles. Thank the gods he's able to go back to his usual attire. Synketros' characterless uniform was a fashion nightmare.

Not long under the glare of the sky, sweat beaded on Rhys' forehead and dripped down the side of his face. Beyond him, nothing but sand, the salvia trees with their bulging orange fruits, and the distant mountains rising from shore remained in his sights. Water sprites, dressed in the barest clothes to combat the heat, passed by. There weren't enough to form a crowd, and they're always walking away from the border between Zoriago and Aresving, the adjacent city.

Rhys craned his neck at the mountain. Maybe they lived there?

The sun started dipping low when he reached the actual border, characterized by the stone markers. Finally.

He only knew about that tidbit of information because he managed to get into another tavern brawl in exchange for it. It made into the short list of events he didn't want to relive ever again. He sniffed, the onset of a cold brewing at the back of his throat. Being shuffled from the cold of Akaron and the heat of the beach did that to him.

He also tried to enter yesterday, which was as soon as he found out there's something suspicious happening with the stone markers. It coincided with what Xalim said to him about the entrance to Cardovia being near the borders. Took a little amount of guesswork—the markers must be for telling people where one city ended and one started. In short: borders.

Yesterday, he was greeted by the abundance of said markers, all identical and positioned along the line. Rhys figured Cardovia wouldn't make it easier for him and for its constituents, and that's exactly how the Heiress was going to play. For that, she had Rhys' unsolicited respect. Not that she had any use for it.

If only it wasn't burning hot until late at night, Rhys would have camped in the sand, watching the markers without blinking. He still didn't know how an entire organization could vanish on the border, but he figured he'd see it for himself. If not the day before, then definitely today.

He wasn't planning on squatting for long too. Hence, dropping by during day hours. Nobody's going to be sleeping, and there's bound to be someone he could watch from the shadows despite Desara being as open as a festival fair during summers in Arcole.

He sloughed towards the first marker coming up towards him. His boots disturbed the sand, making trenches and punching holes into the otherwise wavy surface. He kind of gave up on subtlety ever since he touched down at the base of the mountains in Zoriago. If he was going to stand out either way, he's not going to tire himself pretending he didn't. It's not just his wings. The way he walked over the sand told the water sprites everything they needed to know.

And perhaps, the Heiress too, wherever she was watching. If she was watching at all.

Rhys pressed his shoulder against the hot stone, the small rocks jutting from the surface digging against his bare shoulder. Where were his sleeves? Well, he had to weave them off with how his seat pooled off his skin in buckets. Back in his bark armor, he looked one with the salvia trees more than the locals. He needed to blend in, to become like a fisherman of something. What did those look like?

He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, throwing the back over his wings like how merchants would throw tarps over their unsold wares. His wings would need to take a break yet again, and from how they twitched with every stray breeze hitting them, they weren't either. Sorry, wings.

He pressed his hands over his clothes and called his magic. The warmth that arose didn't help the heat already gripping his limbs with no intention of letting go. Still, he guided it around the trails of his clothes and molded it to what he wished. Within seconds, he was dressed like the fishermen he glimpsed of a while ago, carrying their boats inland. A tunic rolled to the elbows and trousers to the knees, he wasn't far off from the Synketrian uniforms. Which sucked.

A chorus of clunks and squeaks reached Rhys' ears. He swiveled to find a dagrine-like animal pulling a cart. With the animal's short legs, it was dwarfed by the sheer bulk of the cart and the man perched on the driver's seat. Its horns glinted against the fading sun, and its claws—claws!—squeezed the sand with every step towards the markers. The driver, no doubt seeing Rhys loitering by the markers, gave him a small nod.

Rhys melted closer to his marker, watching the cart pass by. Unlike the carriages he saw humans ride around in the better parts of Cardina, this one was open, baring to the world what it contained. Woven baskets made of thin green fronds, clay pots, and wickers brimming with slimy fishes and shells waved to him, as if calling his attention. Where was this cart going and why these products? Weren't these Desara's native resources?

The cart made no pauses as it rode straight into a marker three intervals down Rhys' hideout. He was about to cry out when the rock's surface rippled before his eyes. A spatial manipulation? Wasn't that...too complicated a spell to cast and keep going for so long?

True enough, the rippling rock wasn't a trick of the light, brought about by the diminishing sunlight. It was real, and Rhys had to watch with painful abandon how the rock ate away at the driver and the cart, until there was nothing left but the memory of it ever happening. Rhys blew a breath and tousled his hair. Sand particles stung his eyes on their way down from his scalp. Ugh.

He could do this. Just like Synketros.

Exactly like Synketros.

It bothered him to find out how these two resembled each other. Both hid in plain sight, transforming something people wouldn't look at twice into a sprawling space fueled with the numbers of the people they pilfered from cities and territories over the years. Both certainly inspired the same kind of dread into Rhys' gut. The mere prospect of attempting to enter their strongholds made him want to bolt and never think of something of the sort again.

He could do this. Slowly.

With shaky legs, he picked his way towards the choice marker. He reached out a hand, letting the tips of his fingers brush the rock's surface. It swam under his touch. What about the people who chose the wrong marker to loaf around? One wrong lean against this rock, and they'd find themselves in the Heiress' hold, unable to go. Some would find it invigorating—a city hidden in a rock? Cool!—but there's bound to be more who would want to go home and return to the life they led beforehand.

Besides, who would want to join an organization bent on destroying the island and dooming everyone in it?

His lungs throbbed when he forced it to loosen up and take a deep breath. It's fine. He survived Synketros. He'd survive this. That was, if the Sovereign didn't get to him first. Days after laying waste on the Sovereign's hideout, he didn't stop looking over his shoulder for any sign of those black-clad individuals carrying hatchets and swords. He dreamed about getting stabbed in the back by those knives hewn out of Dwarven metal, bleeding out from wounds that would never heal before he could even open his mouth to beg for help.

Xalim was right. No one escaped these people. Retribution would always follow, whether he liked it or not.

He clenched his jaw and steeled his resolve. People needed him on the other side. The least he could do was to give them the option to walk away. That, and learn all he could about Synketros' duplicate, maybe even about the Heiress herself. Was she human? A half-blood? A fairy? It's amazing how the rumors still couldn't agree as to what Cardovia's leader was. Some absurd threads even claimed she's a goddess who has fallen from Calaris and was now looking for a way to crawl back to heaven. Work of a folklorist. Perhaps.

Not a second more to waste. Rhys held his breath for no apparent reason and walked forward, dousing his whole form with the rippling stone. It felt cool to the touch—a foreign sensation in this part of Desara. The moment his head pushed through the vacuum, his jaw dropped.

Hundreds—if not thousands—of tents littered the expanse. It went on forever, blending with the horizon from every direction. Unlike Synketros, this one had illumination at full blast, and he didn't have an inkling where the brightness came from. When he craned his neck to the sky, he noted how it mimicked what's happening in the world outside.

He whirled to the side, memorizing the details which would mean the exit. It's not that hard—just a doorway made of stone jambs and a header carved with both Keijula and Ylanenla scripts saying exit. Not at all subtle. It's better that way too.

The air was cool, doing away with the nonsense humidity by the beach. He could breathe easily inside Cardovia. He skittered to a stop, the reality sinking into his nerves. He was inside Cardovia. He had been to Synketros. The only step he had left in his plan was to get out and make it back to his sister. She'd love to know everything he'd learned. That way, they could start really formulating their plans on how to take these organizations down and save the world.

But...small steps. For now, he had to go forward, look for a tent to crash into, and make a friend. He'd slip the potion in their meals or something, and when they're okay and thinking clearly, he would drop the responsibility of freeing the others to them. Then, if everything went well, Cardovia and Synketros would have less people. And without a labor force, it's the same thing as being a cripple.

With the reminder of what he's set out to do, he sauntered forward, keeping his head held high. He belonged here. He was supposed to be here.

A tent caught his attention, standing among a cluster of many others. Unlike the shadows dancing in most of the tents, backlit by lamps and torches from the inside, that one didn't have anything. Empty. It was empty. A perfect place to crash in and formulate a plan. Great.

He reached it, and without checking everything through, yanked the flap back. A woman with dark brown hair stuck up in a bun stood up from a stool, as if she'd been waiting for him all this time. She smiled—first a gentle, innocent beam, then a manic stretch of her lips—and Rhys' blood chilled. His heart sank to the floor.

"Welcome to Cardovia, Rhystavien Torlin," the woman said. Then, before he could voice out his fear and his assumptions, the darkness he ran away from swallowed everything he believed in, leaving him in a pit he wouldn't be able to escape despite his wings.