As the hot, scorching sun tormented the dried red skin of Valrac, he swore and wondered if their small caravan would burn down alive before they finally reached Thoramare. A small halt in the City of Tombs was the only thing that still made the ka'dra move his feet. He tore off a piece of skin from his shoulder, thinking about whether his former life was his golden time. Every next step was harder than the last. At some point he coughed and tripped over a rock. His companions immediately came to his aid and together raised the heavy ka'dra body.
All of them were strangers in this land: outlanders, whose homes had merged in one place and space. But they were not strangers to each other: on the contrary, each of them was connected by history, experience, and genes. All of them wore similar names. In fact, all of them were different views on the same story, different versions of the same person.
Valrac, a red-skinned, broad-shouldered warrior, whose growth exceeded two and a half meters, came from a land called Ka'dra'suul, the domain of enigmatic Darkstone. His people, though oppressed by the vicious will of the stone, were able to find a way to satisfy the eternal hunger of the artifact. They used servile prayers and xandralite rituals to cajole the evil essence. Their northern neighbors, the Androthi, were not so lucky — even though the Lightstone was not nearly as indomitable as its twin, the years of rejection forced the gem to turn away from his people. Deprived of light, the Androthi became weak in body and mind, slipping into barbarism. During the reign of Valrac's father, they attacked their southern neighbors, plundering Ka'dra'suul. After decades of exile, Valrac finally managed to defeat their despotic warlord Black Thorn in an epic duel.
Others in his group had a similar background. Longhaired and black-bearded Kyladril was a wandering Androthi sorcerer, who fought in the great confrontation with the ka'dra warlock Onehand. Short-cropped and narrow-faced Kane Blackheart did not know life in a divided kingdom but was known as a revolutionary and leader of the slave uprising. In his universe, the two hundred and thirty-ninth in the line of priest-kings was a heartless ruler who forced the whole country to extract xandralite to increase his personal power.
Journey to Thoramare hit them harder than they could have guessed. According to the initial plans, they had to be in the free city for several days by now, but a sandstorm forced them to spend a week in the dunes. Now Valrak prayed only for the coming of night and the opportunity to gain strength before the last ascent. His mouth caught a lot of sand and the ka'dra tried to spit it, but instead, he only coughed more. If only there was a shadow somewhere ...

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With the onset of the evening, the former king felt a surge of strength. After Kyladril conjured some water and they had a little snack, the sorcerer announced that they had already passed most of the way and should reach their destination in around two days. This made Valrac feel energetic: he already anticipated a rich meat taste of a local dish, which he would buy in the infamous market of Thoramare. Other members of the group were also inspired — soon this long trek will come to an end and they will be able to switch to their true goals.
Despite the fact that the sun has set, slight dizziness still did not leave the weary ka'dra and from time to time he could swear that he saw mirages. For example, now he noticed a long chain of footprints to his right and even accidentally stepped into one of them. The hole felt real and, angered by this, Valrak cursed. His swearing caught the attention of others.
"What do you have?" Kyladril asked wearily. Valrak was not sure how to answer.
"Nothing special, just got something in my eye," the ka'dra replied after a short delay.
"Something in your eye ... are you sure?" Valrak winced with surprise.
He was always struck by the amazing ability of Blackheart to sneak absolutely silently from the back. "Because I seem to have something as well. In both."
"As well as I," the approaching Cyladril did not hesitate to respond. He frowned. "We are not alone here."
Valrac wasn't too happy about this. If he could choose, he would prefer the footprints to be one of the games of his weary mind. Unfortunately, he had no such choice. An enemy in a place like this could only mean one thing — mortal danger. Wanderers like them rarely enter into a dialogue with their own kind, even less often — grouped together. Their trinity was a small miracle in itself — an alliance for survival, more forced than voluntary.
There was only one pair of footprints. It was comforting. Perhaps it's a lost loner, and they could succeed in creating a successful ambush. But still, they should be alert.
After a brief silence, Valrac offered the only option that came to his mind. "The traces follow our path. I'll go scout and you keep behind so that you can react quickly if I'll send a warning."
"Wanna play a hero, big guy?" Blackheart grinned. "Isn't it a bit too early for you to die?"
"I still plan to live," the ka'dra retorted. He clarified. "Warning that I need to be pulled out."
Blackheart chuckled. "I'll be most suitable for scouting. You'll probably stumble on the sand."
Cyladril shook his head. "No reconnaissance is needed," his blue eyes gleamed with magic.
"I've already looked all over. These are the tracks of an old man. I doubt that he is dangerous for us and I propose to catch up with him," he frowned. "But still, let us be on our guard."
Crunching with joints and rustling with clothes, the trio quickly followed the tracks trying to catch up with their host. Soon, they really could see in the distance a hunched silhouette of a man leaning on a stick. When they got closer, they also heard quiet singing.
Valrac was the first to call the old man.
"Stop right there. And turn your face to us!"
The wanderer obediently turned and raised his hands up. His voice was dry as parchment. "Something is needed from me, good gentlemen?"
Valrac and the sorcerer looked at each other.
"Explain yourself. Who are you and what are you doing in the middle of the desert?"
"A humble wanderer, just like you," retorted the old man, but after seeing how the company's face changed, he corrected himself. "Oh, I'm sorry. The desert made me forget about manners. My name is Nundyr. I'm looking for a way to the City of Tombs."
Blackheart laughed. "What a decrepit old man like you could forget in such a place?"
Nundyr was not embarrassed. "You see, my body is afflicted. I am not sure myself how much I have left. But rumors have told me that in the Valley of a Thousand Tombs, I can find healing."
"Yes, together with eternal life." Kane was even more amused.
Valrac shook his head. "Let him have his hope. Old man, it's dangerous to walk through these lands alone. The quicksand is constantly changing its location. You should join us if you want to see Thoramare."
"Thank you for the offer, good sir, but what do your companions think?"
The sorcerer brushed his robes. "I don't feel any magic lurking inside him. He is safe. At least until he decides to poison us."
Blackheart waved his skinny hand approvingly. "At least he will cheer us. I'm already tired of your sweet faces."

Valrac could barely close his eyes. Despite the fatigue, he could not fall asleep. Others in their small camp already long rested and only the old man, their new companion, dreamily looked at the stars and crooned.
Despite the fact a song was lulling, Valrac felt the tension. Possible threats didn't go out of his head, not that he was afraid of the sinister intentions of Nundyr. Most of all, he was frightened by two things: quicksand and an enemy raid. Although the Sands of Multiple Sorrow were famous for its abnormal shifting sands, there was an experienced guide in their detachment, Blackheart, who was well aware of which path to choose.
The raiders, on the other hand. The Valley of Thousand Tombs has always attracted the attention of bandits, robbers, assassins, and seekers of ancient power. Thoramare was founded by those of them who lost motivation and decided to settle down. But the Sands were still the territory of gangs and there was always a chance that they accidentally stumble on a random warband.
The old man began to hum a little louder and the ka'dra could hear some words of his song.

Valrac listened with pleasure and interest. Even though the song was not very cheerful, such melodies reminded him of a long-lost home. Out of the corner of his eye, the ka'dra noticed that Cyladril was not sleeping either. The sorcerer listened attentively to every word of the old man. Yawning, Valrac realized that the midnight song had put him to sleep enough. Without thinking twice, he lay down on his side and plunged into deep sleep.

The awakening of the ka'dra was not easy. At first, he took the cries of a part of his dream, but after something hit him on the head, Valrac quickly jumped to his feet, only to see how his worst nightmare turned into reality.
The group of raiders attacking them was small — only 6 fighters, two of whom were already lying on the ground. But they were mostly ka'dra like Valrac and this meant that their strength and endurance far surpassed the human.
Most of them were graggs with each of their skin having a different color, but there was one giant blue whar'ork among them. Without delay Valrac pulled a knife from his boot and rushed to the whar'ork, aiming for vitals. The enemy met him with a heavy kick, which could easily knock the smaller ka'dra out.
He rushed to the side, evading enemy fire after which he tried to reach the unprotected tendon of the whar'ork. After he heard blue giant's howled scream, he pounced on the adversary and brought down on his unprotected places a series of hard blows. Blood poured into Valrac's face and the initial fear of battle began to slowly go away. For some reason, he remembered the old days, when such violent clashes were part of his ordinary life. He did not become king easily.
These strange thoughts so enthralled him that he almost did not feel pain when the first dagger stabbed him in the back. The first blow was followed by the second and then a dozen more — graggs were not known for their valor.
When the sorcerer was finally able to help his comrade and ripped the enemies to pieces with a powerful spell, it was already too late. All this happened in a few seconds — the battle was over before it had even begun.

When they finished burying what little was left of Valrac's body, the sun had already begun to rise. Cyladril sighed heavily. Most of all, he was distressed by the lack of the opportunity to say goodbye to an old friend. Valrac was one of the most respected mage comrades: he was proud of his acquaintance with this ka'dra. To make the matters the worse, his friend's death was inglorious. And this saddened the sorcerer. His withered eyes could hardly have uttered a tear, but inside him, a storm of emotions raged.
The journey was silent for a long time. Only after they had walked halfway in silence, the old Nundyr again began to sing to himself a quiet melody. All this time Cyladril spent in thought. Among his mighty supernatural powers were many, but there was no spell predicting the future. Therefore, all of his remarkable mind was occupied with how he could protect his group from now on. And every time he plunged into thoughts, something small, but incredibly important, always distracted him. The thought that was on the very edge of his mind and always ran away from him. Once again unable to formulate his fear, he sighed and looked back.
Blackheart silently led their small group to a safe path. It was already dark and the heat had fallen, so Kane had to be very careful not to miss the danger. Old Nundyr was still humming his song about three men and the sorcerer seemed to have learned it by heart. For some reason, the plot of the song began to remind him of their situation. Three wanderers in the sands ...
Suddenly a thought, like lightning, struck Cyladril. He took a deep breath. That's what bothered him all day. The song was suspicious from the very beginning. They stopped suspecting the old man, but perhaps he was the reason for all their misfortunes. The sorcerer turned menacingly towards Nundyr.
"What are you singing?" there was an undisguised threat in his voice.
"Just the songs that I heard once, my lord. Such adventures are hard given to an old man like me, but the songs make it a little easier" the old man was unperturbed.
Cyladril did not answer, but his expression said: I'm watching you.
After this dispute, the sorcerer began to worry even more. He started seeing a potential threat everywhere and, despite his wisdom, he could not help it. Trying to suppress paranoia, he slightly overtook his companions and used magic vision to probe the nearest territories. He was not afraid to be distracted by the incantations in the middle of the road, knowing that Kane would warn him in case of danger. Strangely, the road they walked on looked very dangerous to his magically enhanced view. Judging by what he saw, they should have already fallen into quicksands. Probably, somewhere in his spell, a mistake had penetrated. Nevertheless, he decided to warn everyone.
"Something is wrong. My spell ..." he did not have time to turn around to say this, as he felt the push and fell down, rolling down the sandy mountain deeper and deeper. After a moment, he realized that he had not fallen out of the cliff, he simply fell through the sand. He tried to call for help, but the sand fell down his throat. His last hope — companions, probably noticed the loss of the sorcerer and will soon rush to his aid. Minutes passed, but no help came. He plunged into the sand deeper and now could not breathe at all. In despair, he raised his hand and called for his last strength.
A huge explosion spread across the desert. From its epicenter, breathing convulsively, came the sorcerer. He looked around and, noticing the silhouette of the old man in the distance, cried out.
"You!" rage filled Cyladril forcing him to breathe intermittently. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you! Prepare to meet your ..."
What the old man was supposed to meet remained a mystery. A shot sounded. The sorcerer brought his hands to his chest in which a bloody hole gaped. He got shot by the one who's always good to sneak up from behind.
The wounded body of the sorcerer fell heavily on the sand, which immediately began to shower the deceased.

"Well, it's time to say goodbye" muttered Kane, looking into Nindyr's eyes. "I kept my end of the bargain. Now its time for you to keep yours."
"Exactly," his interlocutor said coldly. He did not even look that old anymore.
Nundyr pulled out a pouch from under his cloak and tossed it to the ground. Blackheart fluttered with anticipation. Finally, at least some information about his friends, whom he lost after the confluence of the multiverse. The excitement persecuted him all throughout the last months, but right now it was the strongest. In one breath, he went to the bag, picked it up and opened it. Instead of letters, cards and other papers, there was only sawdust inside. However, Kane did not have time to be indignant — as soon as he opened the bag, a powerful blow hit him in the head. The force of the blow was so great that he couldn't expect it from the old man.
"It was a lie," he heard, falling to the ground. "Your friends are non-existent now."
When Kane Blackheart, the hero of the rebellion, a man willing to sacrifice everything for his people, opened his eyes, the last thing he saw was a walking stick aiming at his right eye.

***

He, who called himself Nundyr, slowly sang, crossing the dunes. His voice was now much stronger, and the body was as if it got rejuvenated by several years. He looked at the sun without squinting. The wind picked up the lines of his song.

"For you, father ..."
Nayd Vlaros, royal heir to now destroyed Tuul's throne and a son to a Kyle Blackthorne, dissolved among the sands, never to be seen or remembered again.

"Three men once stood upon great sand,
Now lie beneath the land.
These men who stood upon great sand,
All dead, all dead, all dead"

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