The grayish green hue of the dust carried by the wind assaulted Ezerella’s senses as she reached the base of the tower. Where the wind might gust up above, on the ground it whipped the dust into a course, thick curtain, stinging one’s eyes and throat. She tightened the fastening of her face sash and rushed past the many other sentries on duty, ignoring their shouts of confusion. By now the rider must be through the maw, approaching the tower rapidly.

She stopped and watched. The vinthound began shaking its head, slowing its pace against the searing wind. Its rider reached down and patted its head, running lithe fingers through thick fur. Ezerella watched the whole scene unfurl, temporarily paralyzed by the foreign actions. The hound shook its lithe head, trying desperately to shake off the dense layer of dust accumulating on its once fine black pelt. She had only seen a central vinthound in the aimless scribblings of old dusty books, and they didn’t fully portray how supple their coats were. Her attention was immediately taken by the rider however, who lowered the hood concealing his face and tied the edge up around his mouth, a makeshift attempt at preventing dust from stealing his breath.

He was the most magnificent being Ezerella had ever seen. Pale skin with silvery hair, long pointed ears. Beneath sleek silver eyebrows were narrow eyes of vivid blue, almost gray in the dim light. He was Imperial, elven, and Ezerella had never seen his kind before.

She drew her weapon, a long spear slung across her back. Keeping her stance guarded, she pointed it toward the rider. His vinthound snarled in response, a low and steady growl emerging from its bared teeth.

“Whoa, now,” said the rider, voice somehow silky while shouting above the noise of growling hound and thrashing wind.

Ezerella had trained for events like this, but her stance relaxed somewhat. She stared at him in confusion, and felt the curiosity clawing at her like an undying thirst. He spoke Drakkiri.

After a moment, the Imperial dismounted and slipped a hood of light fabric over the vinthound’s face, soothing it with hushed whispers. “Shh, girl. You’re okay.” It was still Drakkiri, as if this Imperian spoke it fluently as his native tongue.

Ezerella stiffened once more, sharp end of her spear lifting toward the stranger’s throat.

He raised his hands, and although she could not see his mouth, she saw a smile crinkle his thin eyes.

“I mean no harm,” he said over the wind.

A moment passed, as he was clearly waiting for Ezerella to make the next move. She didn’t know what to do, what to say, even what to think. She was still unsure of why no one else seemed to notice this man’s presence, especially considering his non-Drakkir lineage. She didn’t move her spear, but spoke as quietly as possible to still be heard.

“We cannot speak here,” she said. “Follow me.”

Moving slowly and cautiously, Ezerella lowered her spear but did not disarm. She watched as the Imperial grabbed the reigns of his blindfolded vinthound and directed it where she led. The tower housed a small stable where the sentries could keep their mounts, since traveling the wastes on foot was a suicide mission. Inside, many other kinds of mounts, including hairless Serathic vinthounds, were being groomed and fed. Ezerella placed it in the kennel herself, since none of the stablehands seemed to notice their presence.

Once the hound was safe from the wind, the Imperial pulled the cloth from its eyes. He pet its long snout, scratching behind its ears. Ezerella glanced at the saddle, along the side of which read the inscription: Wrana. It was written in Drakkiri script.

Ezerella immediately pointed her spear back at the elven man’s throat, keeping her face sash fastened while he lowered his own. His lips were thin and chin narrow; he had a somewhat feminine look about him. Ezerella gazed at his broad shoulders accompanied by a thin waist, his long silver hair brushed back out behind his pointed ears. Only now did Ezerella notice the strange feature residing above his eyebrows: two small horns poked out of his forehead, small enough to go unnoticed in the dusty wind. She raised an eyebrow.

The man chuckled in response, somewhat concerning when a spear was thrust toward his throat. He seemed to know what puzzled her, and she didn’t like it.

“All elves are born with horns,” he said. “Most Imperials simply remove them in infancy.” He looked at her, blue eyes glinting in the torchlight. “A sign of elegance, I imagine.”

“Who are you?” Ezerella said sternly, moving the spear closer to his throat.

He put his hands up again, peculiar smile not leaving his lips. “I am called Izac.”

Ezerella was familiar with the name. It appeared commonly throughout Imperial culture. It was the name of the very first Cyclican emperor, a figure of great legend. He supposedly slew a great titan that had corrupted the magical spring known as the Heart of the First, then claimed the land for all peoples across Eldera. Now the land belonged solely to the Cyclican Empire, and the Heart served as the Imperial Capital. The name Izac permeated so heavily through central civilization that it had even entered Drakkir culture as well, a strange phenomenon given how separated the Serathic peninsula was from Imperia. Still, one of Ezerella’s sentry sisters was named Izzak.

“What can I call you?” said Izac.

“Who are you?” Ezerella repeated. “What are you doing here?”

“I am a traveler, nothing more,” he said. “A merchant by trade, one might say. I simply wished to see the land of the shadowkin.”

Ezerella narrowed her eyes. “And how do you speak Drakkiri?”

Izac smirked. “I speak many languages.” He lowered his hands, although Ezerella’s spear remained rigidly against his cloak. “I taught myself Drakkiri before making the journey to Serath.”

Ezerella glanced to the others in the stable, watching as they continued along with their chores as if nothing were occurring right in front of them.

“They don’t see you,” Ezerella whispered, fear gripping her words.

Izac looked around nonchalantly, then tended more to his hound. “Nor do they see you, right now.”

Ezerella turned to him again. He dug a brush from his saddlebag and began running it through the hound’s thick fur.

“How?” she said.

“A kind of magic,” said Izac. “I call it an illusion.”

“Is it time magic?”

“No, not quite.”

Ezerella thought, lowering her spear only slightly. She knew the Gyldish of Imperia focused their magical use on the School of Time. “You don’t come from Imperia, then?”

Izac chuckled. “Not all Imperials practice time magic, nor do all elves live within the confines of Imperia.” He fed the vinthound a dried strip of meat from the bag.

“It must be spirit magic, then,” said Ezerella. “It is not death magic.”

“Does it matter?” said Izac. He turned a knowing smile on her, and she felt a flutter within her chest.

“Why?” she said. “Why use this… illusion magic? And how is it that I can see you?”

“Now,” said Izac, “you ask the important questions.” He patted the hound’s side. “I will answer your questions, but first I’d like dear Wrana here to have a nice meal and for myself to have a mug of the famous Serathic dustflower tea.”

“You are a trespasser to our land,” said Ezerella. “You are in no position to make demands.”

“It is not a demand,” said Izac, feigning hurt at her words. “I only ask that I feel slightly more comfortable, and quite frankly welcome, before I answer your questions like a prisoner. Unless… that is what I am?”

Ezerella paused, looking around at her fellow sentries. Normally all she’d need to do was reveal this trespasser to any of her sentry sisters and he’d be immediately taken to the dungeons. But she didn’t seem to have that option, given how no one else could see him. She didn’t quite know what to do, and what was even more frustrating, couldn’t stop her heart from pounding every time this man gave her a pointed look with bright blue eyes and sideways smile.

“Fine,” she said, slinging her spear behind her back. “I will lead you back to the city. But it is a long trip. Your hound may not enjoy it.”

“She’s tough, made of stone practically.” Izac smiled. He replaced the brush and cloth around Wrana’s eyes. “I trust she’ll be able to follow you through scent.”

“The winds are too strong. Only Drakkir-trained mounts are able to navigate the wastes. You’re better off borrowing one.”

“No need,” said Izac. “Have faith in Wrana. She’s smarter than she looks.”

Ezerella stared in bemusement, before turning curtly and seeking out one of the other vinthounds. She picked one with sleek coat and gray coloration, almost out of spite. The strange traveler would get lost in no time trying to find her through the dust.