ARC VI ROAD TO ELYRIA
Chapter 27 The Green Continent
"Beyond every desert lies a land someone once believed impossible."
For the first time in generations... A caravan rode willingly away from Baalania. Not to conquer. Not to raid. Not to burn another kingdom. Simply... To leave. The Walking City remained behind. Its colossal brass towers slowly disappeared beneath curtains of drifting sand. The gigantic siege beast carried the holy city onward toward another pilgrimage, another campaign, another prophecy. Bronze bells echoed one final time across the dunes. Then silence. A dozen riders watched without speaking. Each knew what they had abandoned. Their homeland. Their ancestors. Their gods. Their certainty. Ahead... Only the unknown. At the front rode the Kharathi warlord wearing all black with amber eyes. His massive black stallion looked unlike any horse bred in other nations. The beast stood nearly eight feet at the shoulder, its powerful body covered in dark bronze hair that shimmered beneath the desert sun. Its eyes glowed faintly silver. Thin lines of glowing runes wound beneath its skin like veins of molten metal. Every breath escaped its nostrils as warm vapor despite the blistering heat. These were Ashsteeds. The sacred horses of Baalania. Animals strengthened through generations of moon magic. They could cross deserts for days without water. They ignored exhaustion. Ignored fear. Even arrows rarely caused them to panic. The Kharathi believed ordinary horses carried men. Ashsteeds carried destiny. The warlord wore traveling armor rather than ceremonial battle plate. Layered black leather reinforced with bronze scales protected his broad chest and shoulders. A heavy charcoal cloak flowed behind him. His curved saber rested against one hip. A long spear bearing a rolled black banner rested in a saddle mount. His amber eyes remained fixed westward. Toward a continent he had dreamed about since childhood. Beside him rode Lucien. The delicate looking fair young man with short dark hair. His own mount appeared almost small beside the enormous Baalanian warhorse. It had been gifted by the warlord. Unlike the black Ashsteeds, Lucien's horse possessed soft gray fur with a white mane. Though smaller, faint silver runes also glowed beneath its coat. It moved with graceful confidence over shifting dunes. Lucien wore simple traveler clothing. Loose cream-colored robes had been replaced with practical riding garments. Dark trousers. Brown leather boots. A long sand-colored cloak protected him from the desert wind. His black hair danced freely in the breeze under a white veil. The scars from recent battles had mostly healed. Only his thoughtful gray-blue eyes betrayed everything he had experienced. Behind them rode nearly thirty followers. Not soldiers alone. Families. Craftsmen. Old men.Young women. Former servants. Several slaves who had chosen freedom beside the warlord rather than remain beneath cruel masters. A handful of veteran Blood Riders served as escorts. Unlike ordinary Baalanian cavalry, these warriors removed many symbols of the priesthood from their armor. Some had broken the holy crescent from their breastplates. Others had removed prayer scrolls entirely. Their loyalty belonged not to priests. But to their lord. The journey lasted weeks. a couple of months The desert slowly changed. The endless obsidian dunes became rocky plateaus. Black sand gave way to reddish stone. Ancient ruins appeared more frequently. Entire cities half buried beneath centuries of drifting ash. Broken statues of forgotten kings. Collapsed temples. Silent fortresses. The bones of empires.
The caravan wound steadily across the last rolling dunes, where endless seas of black sand slowly surrendered to patches of hardy grass and scattered wildflowers. For the first time since leaving the Walking City, Lucien wore something different. A nearly transparent white veil rested gently over his head and shoulders, falling lightly across the sides of his face before disappearing against his cream-colored traveling robes. Woven from impossibly fine desert silk, it was so sheer that his youthful features remained perfectly visible beneath it whenever sunlight passed through the fabric. The veil did not hide him. It proclaimed something. One of the younger Blood Riders noticed Lucien adjusting the delicate cloth against the morning breeze.
"My lord..." the rider said quietly to the warlord. "He still wears it."
The warlord glanced toward Lucien without slowing his enchanted Ashsteed.
"I asked him to."
Several of the riders nodded in understanding. Among the Kharathi, such a veil carried an ancient meaning. It was not a mark of weakness. Nor was it a sign of ownership. It declared that the wearer traveled beneath the personal protection of a warlord. To insult, threaten, or lay a hand upon someone wearing the Veil of Sanctuary was considered an offense against the honor of the protector himself. Even rival clans often respected the custom, for to violate it invited blood feuds that could last generations. Lucien had not questioned the tradition. He had simply accepted the veil with a quiet smile. Not because he needed protection. Everyone present had seen what the young man was capable of. They had witnessed Little Light halt monsters that entire armies feared. They had watched him stand between death and those he wished to protect. No... Ghostlight needed no guardian. He wore the veil solely out of respect for the man who had offered it. The gesture had not gone unnoticed. It was one reason the Blood Riders regarded him with growing admiration.
From a distance, the caravan cut an imposing silhouette against the pale horizon. Every Baalanian rider wore layered robes of black or charcoal, the cloth flowing around bronze armor engraved with ancient crescents and flames. Heavy cloaks of moonbeast wool fluttered behind them, their dark colors absorbing the desert sun rather than reflecting it. Years beneath Baalania's relentless skies had bronzed their skin until it resembled polished copper. Some possessed deep tawny complexions, while others were dark brown from generations born beneath the scorching sun. Their faces were weathered by heat, wind, and countless campaigns, their thick black beards braided with rings of bronze and obsidian according to old Kharathi tradition. Their eyes, however, drew immediate attention. Every Blood Rider bore the same striking amber gaze. Golden. Bright. Like molten honey catching the afternoon light. Their eyes reflected determination, discipline, and a lifetime spent beneath the burning skies of Baalania.
Lucien asked quietly,
"Have you ever left Baalania?"
The warlord smiled.
"No."
"You speak as though you've seen the world."
"I've only imagined it."
He reached inside his saddlebag. Removing a weathered leather book. The pages had yellowed with age. Its corners were repaired dozens of times. Lucien carefully accepted it. Inside were drawings. Mountains covered in snow. Green forests. Stone castles. Rivers. Flowers.
Animals Lucien recognized immediately.
"You drew these?"
The warlord nodded.
"From old travelers' stories."
"You've carried this all your life?"
"My father would have burned it."
Lucien gently turned another page. A sketch of a beautiful city filled with white towers and bridges. Written beneath it...
Elyria.
"I thought it was only a dream."
"It still might be."
The warlord laughed softly.
"I've spent my entire life dreaming about a place I've never seen."
Lucien smiled.
"I know the feeling."
their warlord rode ahead. His towering frame seemed almost too large for any ordinary horse, yet his enchanted Ashsteed carried him effortlessly. His charcoal cloak shifted with every breeze, revealing glimpses of engraved bronze armor beneath. His dark hair had been tied loosely behind his neck, and his own amber eyes constantly swept the horizon, ever watchful despite the peace surrounding them. Then there was Lucien. Among the riders dressed in black, he seemed almost unreal. His skin was remarkably fair, untouched by desert suns, with a gentle complexion that seemed almost luminous beneath the soft morning light. His dark hair framed delicate features that contrasted sharply with the rugged faces of the warriors surrounding him. The translucent white veil shimmered faintly whenever the wind caught it, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. Beside the towering Kharathi, Lucien appeared small and graceful rather than imposing. Some of the older riders occasionally smiled to themselves. The contrast was remarkable. A caravan dressed in black. Bronzed warriors with amber eyes.
Days passed. The air slowly changed. The heat weakened. Cool breezes began replacing burning desert winds. Clouds appeared. Real clouds. Not smoke. Not ash. White. Soft. Alive. The Baalanians stared upward. Many had never seen such skies. One child quietly asked,
"Does the sky always look like that?"
No one answered.
Eventually... The first blade of green appeared. Tiny. Growing beside a stream. Several riders stopped their horses. Simply staring. Grass. Real grass. One elderly Blood Rider slowly climbed from his saddle. He knelt. Touching it carefully. As though afraid it might disappear.
"So soft..."
he whispered. The farther west they traveled... The greener the world became. Bushes. Wildflowers. Butterflies. Birdsong. Lucien smiled every morning now. The Baalanians... Did not. Many looked uncomfortable.Some reached instinctively for weapons whenever dense trees blocked the sunlight.
One muttered,
"Too many places for enemies to hide."
Another whispered,
"I cannot see the horizon."
The desert had taught them to trust open land.
Forests felt like prisons.
One afternoon... The caravan reached the summit of a long ridge. Lucien urged his horse forward. Then stopped. Speechless. Below them... Stretched Elyria. An endless ocean of emerald forests. Ancient mountains crowned with snow pierced the heavens. Silver rivers glittered beneath the afternoon sun. Waterfalls poured from impossible cliffs. Castle towers rose from distant hills. White roads wound through valleys. Tiny villages rested beside sparkling lakes. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. The world seemed... Alive. Behind Lucien... Silence spread through the caravan. Even the hardened Blood Riders stared.
One whispered almost fearfully,
"So much..."
"...green."
The warlord slowly removed his helmet. The breeze moved through his dark hair. His silver eyes reflected the forests below. He smiled. Not as a conqueror. Not as a warlord. Simply... As a man whose dream had finally become real.
Lucien looked toward him.
"So..."
"What now?"
The warlord answered without taking his eyes from the horizon.
"Now..."
"We learn whether the stories were true."
Neither of them noticed. Far below...
On the distant road leading into Elyria... Several travelers had already seen the approaching caravan. They froze. One quietly whispered to another,
"Baalanians..."
The word spread quickly. Not with admiration. With fear. Because the scars left by Baalanian invasions had never truly healed. For the people of Elyria... The sight of black-clad riders emerging from the eastern deserts could only mean one thing. War had come again. And none of them yet knew...That among those riders traveled the one person who might change the fate of both continents.
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