Sometimes she felt like a stone, as cold and gray as the dusty wind, the craggy mountain peaks like titans over the wastes. She stood as quietly and as still, wondering if the mountains ever had the same curiosity as she did; wondering if they too spent thought on the eternal blanket of shroud that blocked the sun’s light, clouds that never yielded cool rain. It was all home to these mountains, and to Ezerella. She was a sentry of the Drakkir, one of many, born into the solitude of the wastes, and the myzra caste. The many sturdy protrusions of what felt like rock about her head, they made sure of that. The myzranen was expected for the offspring of a stone giant.

It was the way of things, this Ezerella knew. The only fair way to determine which role one must play is to leave it up to the gods. It had been predetermined long before her birth, and her mother used to tell her to be eternally grateful that she even had a part to play at all. Besides, such a dull job allowed her mind to wander freely as she pleased, imagining her mountainous titans lifting themselves from their eternal slumber to wage war on the blanket of cloud in the sky. Oftentimes she spent her solitary patrols visiting the foreign imperial mainland, more vibrant and colorful than anything she’d ever seen. She’d meet an Imperial, or even a strange-looking riverfolk, but always a man, always able to sweep her off her feet.

The tower, positioned upon the inward ridge of the valley, gazed from the loaming dust out over the Silver Plains, the enormous expanse of grassland beyond the wastes. If anyone from the mainland dared venture through Death’s Pass, they would immediately be spotted by a Drakkir sentry. Ezerella had made her rounds, checked the shadows and the corners, gazed through the dustglass. Today, as with every day prior, no visitors had entered the Serathic peninsula.

Ezerella didn’t blame these nonexistent visitors. It was a certitude of the gods, a curse written in dust, that the Drakkir would forever live in isolation. Or, perhaps, it had something to do with the graveyard of massive bones that separated the wastes from the plains, uplifted and positioned by crafters to look as if one were entering a giant maw of some gargantuan monster when they walked through the valley. Either way, the Drakkir were destined to an existence of solitude, be it by god’s decree or human hands.

Perhaps it was by design, Ezerella wondered. Perhaps, through all the years, the Drakkir were made to believe it was destiny that put them at the outward edge of a peninsula, only reachable through a narrow mountain path overlooked by a smoking volcano. But maybe, just maybe, something made it that way. Her mother had told her of the tales of those bones, the ones that once changed the earth and shifted the dust. She saw the bones come to life before her eyes, wearing the skin of dragons and ancient unikind beasts, forcing the divide between the wastes and the mainland. The gaping volcano turned into a fire-breathing beast that decimated all in its path. The craggy mountains became rocky elementals, like stone giants overcome with gargantuan strength. Maybe they were the ones behind the shifting earth. Maybe they wanted to live in isolation.

Or maybe the people that broke apart from their ancestral roots were never supposed to reach this place. Maybe this was meant to be a boneyard and nothing more.

Or maybe the land itself was broken off from the magical ley lines beneath the soil, and that’s why nothing could grow here.

Or maybe…

Motion stirred Ezerella from her daydreaming, making her blink. She stepped forward to the edge of the sentry post, removing the sash that kept dust from clouding her dark eyes. There, just over the ridge and nearly at the gaping maw of bones, was a lone rider atop a galloping vinthound. The hound had thick black fur, contrasting sharply with the rider’s shimmering white hooded cloak. It was impossible to tell from this distance what hid beneath it.

The dust nearly stole the wind from Ezerella’s lungs. She had been staring at that passage since the sun crested above the mountains. The moons were already visible through the dense clouds. Was it truly possible she had missed this figure striding across the open plains for the past several hours?

Without allowing another moment to distract her, Ezerella fastened the sash across her face and rushed to the large horn positioned in the center of the tower’s post. She pressed her gray lips to the smaller end and inhaled fiercely. Upon exhaling, an enveloping sound shattered the silence, or at least the dead white noise of dust hitting air. The howling wind would steal the sound long before it reached the city, but the horn would at least alert the other sentries to come to attention.

After a heavy, anxious moment, another sentry appeared from the narrow staircase.

Ezerella felt her heart relax. “Aleira,” she said. “A rider approaches from the plains. They’re already at the Maw.”

“The Maw?” said Aleira. She took a few steps to look out over the valley. “How could they be so close? Did you not see them sooner?”

“I don’t know,” said Ezerella. “One moment it seemed there was no one. Now, a rider.”

Aleira said nothing for a moment. Then she turned to Ezerella, a look of confusion beneath her face sash. “I see no one.”

Ezerella gripped the black metal rail, gazing out over the edge. The rider’s white cloak fluttered in the wind as the vinthound drew them closer and closer to the tower. She wondered, for a moment, how the hood stayed up in such wind.

“Right there, approaching on the path to the tower.” Ezerella pointed.

Aleira looked. Her eyes darted around scouring for something to see, and Ezerella felt a deep dread settle in her heart.

“You’ve breathed too much dust, sister,” said Aleira. She reached a hand out and examined Ezerella’s face sash. “Get this cleaned. I’m dismissing you.”

“Aleira, look.” Ezerella gestured outward again, eyes locking on to the shaggy black vinthound and its mysterious rider. “They are nearly at the tower.”

Aleira hesitated, then looked again. She shrugged. “You need some rest,” she said. “Regain your energy and focus. Even the sun cannot give what it does not have.”

Ezerella blinked again. She looked out at the rider. Perhaps something was amiss. Perhaps this strange rider was one of her imaginary stories turned hallucination.

Aleira took up her position at the post as Ezerella began the descent down the tower stairs. As she stepped, her pace quickened, something intangible propelling her onward. It was a wild sense of agency, of responsibility, of undeniable excitement. A modicum of fear, perhaps, but a fear only ignited by sublime thrill. So Aleira did not notice this visitor. Maybe it was all in her head. 

Or maybe, she thought with a deep twist of curiosity, it wasn’t.