The Dragon Mark

The Devil was finally behind them. After making it through the storm, they had stopped for a long while to give everyone time to recover. The Rhiloos got double rations, and Azmiyah went to rest in the lead wagon. Meanwhile, Lysbelle and three other warriors were receiving warm congratulations from the rest of the Caravan members. It hadn't been her imagination—others had been in a similar situation as her earlier. From what she understood, most of them hadn’t enjoyed the experience as much as she had. They had either clung to railings throughout the storm or returned inside at the first opportunity. One unlucky soul had even lost his balance and fallen off the Caravan. His lifeline had caught him in the nick of time, and experienced members of the group, managed to pull him back. He was only a bit injured, coming away with some bruises and scrapes.

Lysbelle thanked Rayssa, who was congratulating her for the third time, and excused herself, claiming she was very tired.

It wasn’t entirely untrue—she was indeed exhausted. The short night and the ordeal she had just endured hadn’t helped her condition. But more than that, she needed time to think.

She entered one of the wagons, sat against the protective wooden wall, and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were all over the place, tangling together in the labyrinth of her mind. Most of the markers she had relied on for years were either gone or obsolete. She needed to think.

First, her power, her mark—every time she used it, it felt like she was drawing from an endless source of Îme. Yet, it seemed unlikely that this was truly the case. Since that morning, she had managed to use this power more than once at her own will. She was no longer just reacting to external stimmuli. There was also that strange sensation she had felt when giving orders to the Rhiloos. The more she thought about it, the less she understood what her mark actually allowed her to do. Then there was the Phoenix. Azmiyah had a knack for getting under her skin—that much she had noticed from their first encounter—but she was also a source of inspiration. Lysbelle had only realized it when she joined her on the roof during the storm. In a way, she envied the freedom Azmiyah had. Without barriers or limits seeming to hold her back, she kept her head high and went wherever she wished. The only downside was her extreme aversion to Tyrell or the Fallen in general.

There was also the matter of the rescue. Of course, she wanted more than anything to save her little brother. Azel had spent over a week believing her dead. The thought chilled her to the bone. She didn’t even dare imagine what might have happened to him and could only hope he was alright. But would they manage to free them? Azmiyah was strong—there was no doubt about that. Her mark made her an exceptional warrior. Even Lysbelle’s mother, Sylvia, who had been the best in their Caravan, wouldn’t have been able to match her. She was certain that the Phoenix would have no trouble dealing with Kraast. She gritted her teeth. Thinking about him stirred a rage within her, one she barely managed to calm. Now wasn’t the time to get angry; it wouldn’t help, and she preferred to save her fury for the right moment. Still, despite her confidence that the Phoenix was far superior to Kraast and that their group of warriors would prevail, a small seed of doubt lingered within Lysbelle. What if things went wrong? Would she be able to fight until the end?

Lysbelle continued pondering for a long time. But between fleeting, anxious thoughts, fatigue finally took over. As the Caravan slowly resumed its journey, knowing they would catch up with the convoy by tomorrow at the latest, she spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon dozing off. The exhaustion had built up to the point that even the jolts and bumps of the journey didn’t bother her. It wasn’t until Sabil, one of the warriors, came to wake her a few hours before they stopped for the night that she finally stirred.

"Come on, it’s time to grab a bite, then Azmiyah wants to talk to you."

Lysbelle, her eyes still heavy from sleep, nodded while yawning before following the man. Outside, as usual, she found the wagons parked in a circle. A fire crackled with comforting flames, and everyone was engaged in lively conversation. The good mood spreading among them. The desert night had almost swallowed the landscape, with only a few stubborn rays of the setting sun lingering. Lysbelle had spent the entire day sleeping—a fact that didn’t go unnoticed, drawing lighthearted teasing and amused remarks.

She nibbled on some food, enjoying the playful banter, and when asked about her first experience in the storm, she didn’t hesitate to share her perspective. It had been exceptional for her, and she would without a doubt do it again at the first opportunity. But of course, Rayssa chimed in. Playfully exaggerating Lysbelle’s agility, poking fun at how she had managed to fall even though she hadn’t left the wagon. As if rehearsed, Maric then turned the teasing on Rayssa, reminding everyone that she had also slipped. His comment only shifted the target of Rayssa’s mock aggression toward him, to the laughter of the rest of the Caravan.

As the meal wound down and calm settled around the fire, Azmiyah stood up. The act surprised Lysbelle, who hadn’t noticed her presence all evening. The leader of the Caravan had spent the evening among everyone else, blending in without any pretense. Her presence among the warriors seemed natural, as if it were a regular occurrence. For Lysbelle, who saw Azmiyah as such an exuberant figure, it was surprising that she hadn’t stood out at all. She wasn’t alone in her reaction—the other warriors who had joined them from the Elder’s Caravan also seemed surprised, whispering questions to their neighbors. From where she sat, Lysbelle overheard one of them lean over and ask Basel.

"Was the chief with us this whole time?"

Basel gave him a puzzled look before replying.

"Of course. Where else would she be?"

The man seemed taken aback by the response, stammering a clumsy explanation as though he’d made a mistake.

"Well… uh… I don’t know? In the lead wagon? It doesn’t seem like her kind of thing to hang out with us."

Basel shook his head, grabbing the man by the shoulders.

"Listen, she’s not the chief just because she’s strong, alright? Do you think we’d trust our lives to her to cross a storm if we didn’t trust her? Of course, she spends most of her time with us."

"But we barely ever see her in the day, and when she does show up, it’s just to tell us to change direction."

Basel’s booming laughter drew everyone’s attention. His hearty chuckle made the poor man realize he’d said something foolish. When Basel finally calmed down, he locked eyes with the man.

"You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you? Can you tell me what role has the authority to decide a Caravan’s route?"

"Uh… well… Chief?"

"Oh right, my bad, let me rephrase. Can you tell me who decides the route to follow to avoid the dangers of the Vast Sand when a Caravan is on its way to its destination?"

Sahlel, by his name, paused for a moment, searching for some logic in the question, but finding none, he answered.

"The scouts? After all, they’re the ones who ensure we reach our destination safely."

Basel looked for a glimmer of understanding in the warrior’s eyes, but finding nothing, he turned towards Azmiyah.

"Chief, can you remind us of your role?"

The woman with sandy hair, her expression amused, stepped closer before answering.

"Of course, I’m a scout. Why do you ask?"

Sahlel’s face twisted in shame, and Basel stifled his laughter, continuing with exaggerated seriousness.

"Ah, that explains it. I was wondering why I didn’t see you around much during the day."

Laughter spread among the members of the Caravan, accustomed to this lighthearted exchange. Indeed, it was rare for a chief to take on a different role during the day. Yet, despite the humor in the air, the warrior spoke again. Perhaps he was trying to defend himself or seem less foolish, but in any case, he protested.

"But Caravan leaders aren’t supposed to leave! It’s in the Code!"

Unfortunately for him, it likely wasn’t the first time someone had made that argument, as Basel quickly shot back.

"That’s where you’re mistaken. The Code states that a leader can’t leave their post for more than a day. And I’m sure you’ll agree that you’ve seen her at her post every single day."

Only half convinced, the warrior declared that he would report it to the Elder, then went to sit in a corner. A couple of others tried to cheer him up, but his sour mood had taken root, and he wasn’t letting it go.

Still amused by the conversation that had unfolded, Azmiyah approached Lysbelle. Noticing her coming, Lysbelle stood up.

"Come with me."

With a nod, Lysbelle followed the Phoenix, they hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Basel called after them.

"Az, I know she’s been sleeping all day, but take it easy, alright? We need her fresh for tomorrow."

The group broke into laughter again. Even Lysbelle almost joined in before noticing the serious look in the second-in-command’s eyes. Tomorrow... Tomorrow, they would likely catch up to the convoy.

_____________________________________________________________________

She hit the sand for the third time that night when the Phoenix sat down beside her just as she was about to get back up.

"So? Have you thought it over?"

Lysbelle sat down in the sand, brushing away the grains that stuck to her face before responding.

"I don’t know. Maybe a little?"

Her words made Azmiyah click her tongue in frustration.

"Listen, Lys. Can I call you Lys? It’s shorter. Let’s make this simple. I thought you were smart enough to figure it out on your own, but maybe I was wrong. We don’t have the same mark, so we can’t do the same things. And even if I tried to teach you how to shape Îme, I couldn’t do it—I’m terrible at that."

Lysbelle opened her mouth in surprise. Terrible at shaping Îme? She had to be joking. But before she could ask, the Phoenix interrupted her.

"Tut tut, let me finish," Azmiyah said, putting a hand over Lysbelle's mouth. "If you can’t figure out what your mark can do on your own, no one else will be able to either. So, either you have some idea now, or you're useless tomorrow."

Lysbelle’s face fell.

"No, I do have ideas. I’ve been able to consciously use my mark to strengthen myself for a while now, and this morning, I felt like I commanded the Rhiloos, and they obeyed me right away. I’m sure it was thanks to the mark."

The Phoenix shook her head.

"The first is just basic muscle bewitchment, the most elementary level of mark mastery... any mark. The second, what you're talking about, is the next level up—Aura. The first strengthens your body, the second enhances your presence. Mastering both is the bare minimum to call yourself a mark bearer."

With that, she stood up, signaling for Lysbelle to do the same.

"Let’s continue a bit. There’s no better way to discover your abilities than through experience."

Their training lasted another two hours. Two long hours of being relentlessly pushed in every possible way. Unfortunately, even after all that time, Lysbelle hadn’t made any more progress than when they started.

She still hadn’t managed to use her Aura. And though her control over her muscle bewitchment had improved, Az had deemed it far from enough.

Almost despairing at her own helplessness, Lysbelle went to bed. Her feeling only outweighed by the aches and bruises scattered across her body. Her limbs sore, she lay down and closed her eyes, focusing on the thought that she would feel better by tomorrow.

Suddenly, it was as if she had been slapped awake. Her heart skipped a beat, and she leaped up, running. Moments later, she was standing in front of the lead wagon.

"Azmiyah!"

Silence. As she was about to call out again, a face appeared between the drapes covering the wagon’s entrance.

"I told you we’re stopping early tonight. No need to wear yourself out."

Lysbelle ignored her completely, far too exhilarated by her realization.

"I heal fast!"

Indeed, it was something she had noticed more than once—she healed very quickly. Her broken arm had mended in one night, and every wound she had received had disappeared rapidly. Only the cut from Azmiyah’s ice blade had lingered for a few days before healing.

A spark lit up in the Phoenix’s sleepy eyes. Her rough voice echoed in the night as she stepped fully awake into the cold desert air.

"Well, now that’s something interesting. Maybe he was right, and you do deserve some proper training after all."

Confused, Lysbelle asked who she was talking about, but Azmiyah didn’t answer. She simply gestured for Lysbelle to follow her inside.

"Alright, saying you heal fast is one thing, but now you’ll have to show me how fast."

A sadistic grin spread across the Phoenix’s face as she pulled a steel dagger from a drawer. Lysbelle swallowed hard, her excitement fading as she remembered just how crazy the woman standing in front of her truly was.