The southern riverlands of Jotunheol stretched endlessly under the afternoon sun, a patchwork of green fields and muddy brown waterways that wound through the countryside like serpents. Merchant Hadim Okafor wiped the sweat from his dark brow and adjusted his position on the lead wagon's bench, the rich purple and gold threads of his ceremonial agbada catching the light. Behind him, six heavily laden carts creaked along the dirt road, their wheels finding every rut and stone despite his driver's best efforts.
"How much further to the Greenbridge crossing?" Hadim called back to his caravan master, a weathered man named Kofi who rode alongside the second wagon.
"Another league, perhaps two," Kofi replied, his voice carrying the dust-dry accent of the river folk. "The bridge keeper said the waters have been high this season. Might need to pay extra for the crossing."
Hadim nodded, though the expense didn't concern him. The cargo they carried would fetch ten times its weight in gold once they reached the northern markets. Rolls of the finest Aṣọ́ silk filled the first three wagons—deep indigo Etu cloth with silver threading, emerald green ceremonial wraps, and bolt after bolt of the prized crimson brocade that only the master weavers of House Tide could produce. The fourth wagon held carefully wrapped bundles of elven spices from the Qal'rein Jungle: starflower essence that could preserve meat for months, moonbark powder that eased pain, and the rare golden saffron that grew only in the deepest forest groves.
The remaining carts carried more mundane goods—iron tools, leather goods, and sacks of grain—but even these would turn a healthy profit in the hungry northern settlements. Hadim had been running this route for seven years, ever since his father had passed the family business to him. He knew every mile of road, every river crossing, every inn where a man could get a decent meal and a clean bed.
Which was why the dust cloud on the horizon worried him.
"Kofi," he called, pointing toward the distant smudge of brown against the blue sky. "Riders coming fast from the west."
The caravan master shaded his eyes with his hand, squinting at the approaching dust. "Too many to be imperial patrol. And they're coming from the wrong direction." He reached for the horn at his belt, a curved thing made from river-beast bone. "Might be nothing, but..."
The sound that emerged from the horn was low and mournful, echoing across the flatlands. Immediately, the caravan began to change formation. The drivers urged their oxen into a tighter cluster, the guards moved to the outer edges of the group, and the few passengers who'd paid for safe passage ducked down in their seats.
Hadim counted the men he had with him. Eight guards, all armed with spears and curved swords. Kofi carried a crossbow and knew how to use it. The drivers were civilians, but most had knives. Against a small band of brigands, they might hold their own. Against a full raiding party...
The riders crested a low hill, and Hadim's heart sank. There were at least twenty of them, maybe more. They wore the flowing robes and wrapped headdresses of the Tariq Desert, but something was wrong with their mounts. Instead of horses, they rode creatures that looked like massive lizards, each one the size of a small horse with scales that gleamed like polished bronze in the sunlight.
"Desert raiders," Kofi breathed, his knuckles white as he gripped his crossbow. "But those aren't sand-runners they're riding. Those are something else."
The lead rider raised a curved blade above his head, the metal flashing like a signal mirror. The sound that followed wasn't quite a war cry—it was deeper, more guttural, like the roar of some great beast. The other raiders took up the call, and suddenly the air was filled with inhuman voices raised in harmony.
"Circle the wagons!" Hadim shouted, though he knew it was already too late. The raiders were moving too fast, and the open ground offered no cover. Still, the drivers hauled on their reins, trying to pull their oxen into a defensive formation.
The first lizard-rider reached them before the circle was half-formed. The creature leaped over the lead wagon with impossible grace, its rider bringing his blade down in a sweeping arc that caught one of the guards across the shoulder. The man screamed and fell, blood streaming from the wound.
Hadim drew his own sword, a fine blade his father had given him, and tried to keep track of the chaos around him. The lizard-mounts were everywhere, their riders striking with practiced efficiency. These weren't desperate bandits looking for easy coin—this was a coordinated assault by warriors who knew their business.
One of the creatures landed on the wagon beside him, its claws scoring deep grooves in the wooden planks. The rider was a woman, her face hidden behind a mask of polished metal that gleamed like gold. She looked down at Hadim with eyes that seemed to burn like coals.
"Surrender your goods, merchant," she said in accented Common. "We have no wish to kill you, but we will if you resist."
Hadim raised his sword, knowing it was useless. "This caravan is under imperial protection. Attack us, and you'll answer to the Emperor's justice."
The woman laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a desert storm. "The Emperor's justice does not reach into the deep sands, merchant. And we serve powers that care nothing for earthly crowns."
She gestured, and two more riders flanked Hadim's wagon. Their mounts hissed and snapped, reptilian heads weaving back and forth like serpents. The smell that rose from them was wrong—not the familiar scent of horse and leather, but something chemical and sharp that made his eyes water.
"Kofi!" Hadim called, but the caravan master was fighting for his life against a raider whose mount had wrapped its tail around his horse's legs. The crossbow lay forgotten in the dirt, its string cut by a raider's blade.
The woman with the golden mask raised her hand, and Hadim saw something that made his blood run cold. Wrapped around her wrist was a leather bracelet set with stones that pulsed with their own inner light. As she moved her fingers, the stones flared brighter, and the air around her seemed to shimmer and bend.
"You carry more than silk and spices," she said, her voice taking on an otherworldly quality. "Show me the hidden cargo, or watch your men die one by one."
Hadim's mouth went dry. There was no hidden cargo—unless she meant the small chest of imperial gold he used to pay bribes and taxes. But something in her tone suggested she was looking for something else entirely.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The woman's masked face tilted, and the stones on her bracelet pulsed once more. "Liar." The word seemed to hang in the air like a physical thing. "The shadow-touched goods call to those who know how to listen. Where are they, merchant?"
Before Hadim could answer, one of his guards let out a scream that turned his blood to ice. The man was writhing on the ground, his hands pressed to his temples, dark veins spreading across his skin like spilled ink. The raider standing over him wasn't touching him—just holding what looked like a small carved bone that glowed with sickly green light.
"Stop!" Hadim shouted. "Stop, I'll tell you what you want to know!"
But even as the words left his mouth, he realized he truly didn't know what they were searching for. His cargo manifests were all in order, his goods all legitimate. Unless...
The memory hit him like a physical blow. Three days ago, at the riverside market in Greenwater, an old woman had approached him. She'd been desperate to book passage north, offering to pay double the usual fare. He'd agreed, thinking nothing of it—passenger fares were pure profit. But she'd insisted on bringing her own trunk, a battered thing bound with iron straps that she'd refused to let anyone else handle.
"The passenger," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The old woman. She brought a trunk."
The golden-masked woman nodded slowly. "Where is she now?"
Hadim pointed toward the third wagon, where a canvas cover had been stretched over the cargo area. "She's traveling with the silk shipment. But I don't know what's in her trunk, I swear by the orishas I don't know."
The woman gestured to her companions, and three of them moved toward the wagon. They dismounted with fluid grace, their lizard-mounts settling into watchful crouches. The lead raider cut through the canvas cover with a single stroke of his blade.
There was a moment of silence, then a sound like breaking glass. The old woman emerged from the wagon, but she no longer looked frail or helpless. Her eyes glowed with the same unnatural light as the stones on the woman's bracelet, and the air around her crackled with visible energy.
"You should not have come here," she said, her voice carrying harmonics that made Hadim's bones ache. "The compact was clear—safe passage to the northern towers, no questions asked."
The golden-masked woman laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it. "The compact is void, shadow-witch. Your masters have broken faith with the desert clans. The price of passage has changed."
What followed was less a battle than a disaster. The old woman raised her hands, and shadows poured from her fingers like liquid night. Where they touched the ground, the sand turned to ash. One of the raiders' mounts tried to flee, but the shadows wrapped around its legs like chains, and it fell screaming.
The woman with the golden mask responded by raising her bracelet high. The stones flared with brilliant light, and the air itself seemed to catch fire. The two powers met in the space between the wagons, creating a crackling barrier of force that made the hair on Hadim's arms stand up.
Then the old woman's trunk exploded.
The blast knocked everyone to the ground, a wave of force that felt like being hit by a river in flood. When Hadim's vision cleared, he saw something that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. Where the trunk had been, there was now a hole in the world—a perfect circle of absolute darkness that seemed to pull at the edges of reality itself.
The golden-masked woman was on her feet, her bracelet blazing like a small sun. "Seal it!" she shouted to her companions. "Seal it before—"
She never finished the sentence. Something emerged from the hole—not quite tentacle, not quite shadow, but something that belonged in neither world. It wrapped around the woman's waist and pulled her toward the darkness. Her scream cut off abruptly as she disappeared into the void.
The old woman was laughing now, a sound like breaking bells. "You wanted my cargo, desert spawn? Take it! Take it all!"
But whatever triumph she might have felt was short-lived. The hole in the world was growing larger, and the pull was getting stronger. The wagon began to slide toward it, oxen and all. One of the raiders tried to flee, but his mount was caught in the invisible current and dragged backward.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The old woman collapsed, her body crumbling to dust even as she fell. The hole snapped shut with a sound like thunder, leaving only a circle of blasted earth where the wagon had been.
Hadim pulled himself to his feet, his ears ringing. Of his caravan, only three wagons remained intact. Half his guards were dead, and the surviving raiders were retreating across the grasslands, their bronze-scaled mounts carrying them toward the distant desert at speeds no horse could match.
Kofi limped over to him, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "What in the name of all the orishas was that?"
Hadim looked at the circle of dead earth, then at the scattered remnants of his livelihood. Among the debris, he could see fragments of what might once have been carved stone—pieces of broken sigils that still glowed faintly with eldritch light.
"Dark magic," he said finally. "And we just got caught in the middle of someone else's war."
The sun was beginning to set, painting the devastated scene in shades of gold and crimson. In the distance, he could see smoke rising from the direction of Greenbridge—whether from cooking fires or something more sinister, he couldn't tell.
Hadim picked up a piece of the shattered sigil, feeling the unnatural warmth that radiated from it. Whatever the old woman had been carrying, it was valuable enough to kill for. And powerful enough to tear holes in the world itself.
He dropped the fragment and began gathering his surviving men. They had a long walk ahead of them, and the roads were no longer safe after dark.