Prologue 1

In the abyss of desperation, I cast my fate upon a treacherous bargain, only to realise too late that the price would cost me everything.

An old man stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking a vast expanse of sand dunes. His red robes billowed in the hot desert wind, and his skin was dark, covered in intricate tattoos that seemed to glow in the sun. His face bore deep battle scars that spoke of a lifetime of hardship and struggle.

His gaze was fixed on the sea of sand dunes and the sand carried away by the approaching sandstorm, a dark wall of swirling dust and sand that seemed to stretch all the way to the sky. The storm was still far away, but the old man could feel its power—a raw and primal force that stirred something deep within him.

With slow and deliberate movements, the old man raised his arms to the sky, his hands crackling with energy. He began to chant in a deep, rumbling voice, his words ancient and arcane, calling forth the powers of the desert and the storm.

As he spoke, the surrounding air began to shimmer and distort, and a whirlwind of sand and dust rose around him, buffeting him with its force. The old man stood firm, his eyes closed, his face a mask of concentration.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the old man's voice, rising and falling in a strange and otherworldly cadence. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he thrust his arms forward, unleashing a blast of pure magic.

But to his dismay, the blast failed to deter the sandstorm, which had been approaching relentlessly. It continued to move closer, its power undiminished. Staggering back, the old man felt a wave of weakness wash over him, staring at his hands, now covered with a black mist that quickly vanished. He felt himself losing consciousness.

He awoke in a dark void, the sound of thousands of voices echoing in the void as countless eyes appeared to stare at him.

As he stood there, he felt a deep sense of unease, as if he had trespassed into a forbidden realm. He knew that he was not supposed to be there and that he had to find a way out before it was too late.

Waking up, he found himself trapped in the storm. The howl of the wind was deafening, his visibility dropped, his mental state weakened, and the sand felt like a barrage of tiny needles striking against his skin. The sand entered his eyes, causing them to sting.

With trembling hands, he reached into his robe and retrieved a small, yellow stone that he had crafted with great care. This stone was infused with powerful magic, and he had imbued it with his own mana in preparation.

Focusing all his remaining strength, the old man poured his mana into the stone, and it began to crack as black mist escaped and quickly engulfed him. He felt himself being lifted into the air, and he was suddenly transported away from the sandstorm.

When he finally left the mist, he was now lying down, covered in layers of sand. His tired eyes examined his tower, decorated with the finest tapestries and shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls filled with knowledge and secrets gathered over the course of a thousand years. He felt only regret, staring at the largest collection of magic and mundane knowledge amassed during his one thousand years of research—artefacts and treasures known across the world—left to gather dust.

"It will take a thousand years to build this collection, and it will gather dust until my wards finally fail and the collection is raided," he said aloud, his voice echoing around the library.

"But no one will enter this place so easily!" He knew that he needed to protect his vast collection of magical artefacts and knowledge from falling into enemy hands. He began to perform a complex ritual, drawing upon the power of several large mana stones stored in his robes.

The stones broke into fragments that floated into the air before turning into runes and fusing into the walls of the tower. The walls shifted and moved, breaking apart and reassembling themselves into an impenetrable barrier. He knew that even the most powerful spells and weapons would be unable to penetrate this barrier.

The old man knew that this was not enough. He needed to ensure that his collection would be protected not just from outside forces but from anyone who might seek to use it for their own gain. So, he called forth an army of golems, constructs of bone, metal, and stone that he had created over the years.

Golems holding various weapons appeared, kneeling before him. The golems were skilled in the use of weapons and capable of casting spells, making them powerful protectors for the old man's collection. They rose and moved to secure the tower.

He felt drained, barely standing. He summoned his last golem to carry him to his desk. The black mist returned, the tattoos covering his body started to disappear, and he knew time was up.

"Enitan!" The surrounding air began to stir, and a twister of sand formed in the centre of the room. The twister of sand grew larger and larger until, suddenly, a desert fox emerged from within it. The familiar's fur was coated in a fine layer of sand, and her eyes glowed with an otherworldly light.

Her fur was the colour of golden desert sands, her muscles rippled beneath her fur, and her movements were graceful and sure. As the sand settled around her, Enitan approached the old man, and he reached out to stroke her fur. She leaned into his touch, and the mage felt a sense of peace wash over him as the black mist disappeared.