[Saahs]

The sands of the deserts shifted quietly, overlapping and winding like water under the moon. The sea and the sands weren’t much different from one another. They burned in your lungs, and threatened to overpower you. If you weren’t careful, you could find yourself buried in their graves deep below the surface.

And at this moment, Milo Harvale, or the man who used to be Milo Harvale, wished he could meet those graves soon. Once a man of propriety and stoic composure, was now nothing more than an emaciated man in tattered rags, gasping for air as he staggered across the sandy wastes of Wilt’no. Matted, dark grey hair clung to his forehead and the strips of leather bolted in place over the left side of his face, sand and tears stinging his one eye that burned with a violent amount of holy magic. A part of him wanted to just stop trying to run away and let the sands take him. Death would be better than being dragged back to one of those cages.

[Saahs]

But lie down and accept his fate he did not. Instead, when the man collapsed to all fours with his head bowed, he took in a sharp breath of air and started to crawl forward, gradually easing his way back up to his feet. Death was better than being tortured, but being free would be even sweeter. And he wanted to taste that freedom more than he wanted to die.

Milo brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the merciless sun, the other fumbling to pull the ripped tunic he wore up over his nose to protect him somewhat from the sand flying in the wind. The horizon in front of his was sand. To his left, it was also sand. His right? Sand. He knew what was behind: more sand, and a hatch that opened to a winding tunnel snaking its way deep beneath the desert.

So, towards the sand ahead he continued.

[Saahs]

Gods only knew how long he wandered through the sands, staggering in a weaving, zigzag line. There was no knowing if he was slowly veering to one direction or not, or at least he couldn't tell even when he looked behind him. But he did so sparingly. Don't look behind, only ahead. There was nothing for him back the way he'd come from. Nothing good.

His head turned to squint at the horizon ahead of him. He could just make out the outline of buildings and tents. Could it be? Or was this a trick the heat was playing on his mind? There was only one way to find out, wasn't there? Steeling himself, Milo turned towards the single hope he had, and trekked onward. All the while, he prayed, to whoever or whatever would listen, that this was the right way to go. That this was where he was meant to reach.

[Saahs]

How long passed before he could make out the shapes of this village? Minutes? Hours? Milo truly couldn't tell by the time he reached the village's outskirts. But it seemed so real, with the sound of people bustling about, there was no way it could be imagined, was there? Milo's lips parted, cracking away and splitting from lack of moisture.

With a final gasp of air, he forced himself to move forward, but a few steps was all he had left in him, before he found himself face-first in the sand. It crept under the straps bolted to his face, digging into the scabbed puncture wounds. Yet the sting was not enough to rouse him, and his consciousness slipped away.

[Saahs]

Milo's eyes cracked open, and all around him were the faces of frightened villagers. As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, they cowered away from him with soft gasps and yelps. He looked from one person to another, his brow furrowing with bemusement. What had them so frightened of him? Was it the remaining straps bolted over his face? It couldn't be that, they were too afraid for it to be something so simple.

Carefully, he stood up to his feet, the people once more flinching away. But that was the least of his worries, now. Despite feeling starved, burned by the sun, and an agonising thirst... he was not dizzy, he wasn't weakened. The suffering he was experiencing didn't actually affect him any more.

Something was wrong with him, and now he was afraid.

[Saahs]

"What, why are you so afraid?" he dared to ask, looking to the gathered villagers surrounding him. They were either not as frightened of him as he thought, or were too frozen or foolish to turn and flee if he was truly that terrifying, somehow.

A few exchanged glances, and it was an awkward and long while before someone responded. "When we found you," an elderly woman began, taking a step forward but no further, "you suddenly had white light shining from your eyes and mouth, and you started screaming." She pointed to his face as she added, "Your face was bleeding, but all the blood was sucked back into your wounds."

Milo stared at her for a long moment, at a loss of words. A hand slowly rose to hover before his one eye.

"It's still aglow," the old woman croaked, stepping back now.

[Saahs]

Milo peered up at the villagers. It had not occurred to him, the intense warmth coming from his one eye. But now it was... painfully noticeable. It was on the border of burning, scorching even. Perhaps, while trudging through the hot desert, starved and dying of thirst, he just hadn't had the energy to be aware of it.

But now... He felt regenerated, almost. The pain of hunger still ached in his stomach, but he was more energised, more able to focus, than he had been before. The more he realised what had happened, however, the weaker his knees felt. Soon, he wound up collapsing onto them, hands still poised over his face. What... what was he now?

"... I will not harm you," he murmured. "Any of you. I would never... I'm, I'm not evil. I don't know what, what has happened to me. But I mean you no harm, whatever I am now." His head tipped back so he could look at those gathered around him.