Chapter 11: Desert of Mourning
The black desert whispered so many names that Kelvin didn’t know.
They called out with voices that are too ancient to be carried in a mortal’s throat, yet they found their way into the premise of his thoughts, brushing like spider silk against the walls of his mind.
Words in languages that he could not understand slid past his ears sounding soft, seductive, and terrifying.
He ignored them.
Each step into the dunes was like stepping into a dream woven from charcoal and grief. The sand under his feet was not sand, they are like ashes, burnt glass and bone broken into dust.
Every of his footstep sank deeper than it should, as though the land yearned to consume him, swallow him whole, and forget he’d ever existed.
But he pressed on.
The sigil on his chest had stopped pulsing some hours ago. Even Xerion had gone quiet, whether from respect or unease, Kelvin couldn’t say.
But experiencing silence was never comforting when dealing with a creature like the End-Tyrant.
Kelvin continued to walk until the sky shined crimson like rays with the death of day.
The horizon was harsh, rough and cracked like a shattered tooth as the last light was casting along shadows that moved when they shouldn’t move.