The wind screamed through the jagged canyons of basalt, tossing grains of crimson sand high into the glittering twin moons of the sky. Kharessa’s leather-wrapped boots crunched against the brittle crust of dry earth as she sprinted toward the edge of the plateau. Her breath fogged up the rebreather mask strapped to her scarred face, and the embers of the desert's heat danced across the visor—a smoldering panorama of the ruined world she was trying to escape.
Her tunic, stitched from scraps of iridescent fabrics salvaged from an ancient star freighter, gleamed in shifting shades of deep sapphire and ash-gray. It clung to her wiry frame, its fabric rippling like liquid metal each time the wind surged against her. A black scarf wrapped tightly around her neck trailed behind her, streaking like smoke as she ran. The belts around her waist jingled faintly with vials and knives, tools of survival made all the more necessary in this post-apocalyptic expanse.
Kharessa didn’t dare to look back as the howls rose behind her—guttural, inhuman sounds that echoed through the narrow canyon walls. They weren’t human anymore, the "Chimeras." Once, long ago, they were explorers like her, desperate nomads looking for forgotten scraps of technology to barter with the Oasis Clans. But whatever they had stumbled upon in the catacombs beneath the desert had twisted them beyond recognition: serpentine flanks, bulbous insectoid eyes, limbs jerking with unnatural angles. And now they hunted anything that stank of still-human flesh.
A Meeting in the Aftermath
The cliff’s edge was coming up fast. Kharessa could see the frost-covered remnants of an ancient transit hub in the valley below, a crumbling lattice of alien archways where the last armored crawler still stood waiting. The contraption’s hover-pads hummed faintly in the moonlight, and beside it, the cloaked silhouette of a stranger stood motionless, his face lost in the shadows of a wide-brimmed helmet.
Kharessa had seen his kind before—the Iron Wardens, reclusive traders who roamed the wasted lands in search of the old mysteries left behind by the First Builders. Their armor was always pristine, a gleaming alloy that shimmered with faint gold hues no matter how battered the rest of the world had grown. This one, however, was clad all in black, his towering presence marked only by a flicker of ember-red energy pulsing at his chest—a breathing core that pulsed like a heart.
“Do you plan to run straight through me?” His voice cut through the air, calm and dry, as if the wasteland’s dangers didn’t concern him.
Kharessa skidded to a halt, kicking up an arc of sand that showered his towering form. “Do you have a ship?” she demanded, panting. “You’ll want to fire it up. We’ve got trouble.”
His head tilted slightly, unperturbed. “Trouble often brings opportunity, sentinel. And those things chasing you—they’re only scavengers of opportunity, aren’t they?”
The howls came again—closer now, their echoes filling the air like a thunderstorm rolling in. Kharessa unsheathed one of the long knives from her belt, its blade streaked with phosphorescent dust that glowed in the dark. “Do Iron Wardens always blabber philosophy while they wait to die?” she snapped, stalking past him toward the crawler’s rear doors.
“Not always,” the Warden replied, turning toward the sound of troubled night air. “When we do, it’s usually because we’re calculating.”
A Glimpse of the Ancient Machine
The first Chimera came into view: a slithering yellow-eyed shadow erupting from the canyon’s yawning darkness. Behind it, a chorus of others spilled out in an unsettling frenzy—a tangle of multi-limbed horrors wearing scraps of human armor over their bulbous, chitinous torsos. Kharessa flipped a switch on the blade she held, and it began to buzz with a faint electric charge.
The Warden didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he reached to his chest plate and pressed firmly on the ember-red energy core. The pulse of red expanded outward, spiraling in sudden motion to engulf him. His form began to blur, oscillating between black metal and crimson flame, as if the very fabric of his armor had been dragged halfway into another dimension. Gossamer ribbons of light fanned outward from his silhouette, searing the air with a symphony of heat and shrill, unearthly hums.
Kharessa stumbled as the spectacle unfolded. The Chimeras halted too, hesitating at the newfound obstacle. “You’re one of them,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “An Arch-Key. The legends say—”
“You’ve read too many legends,” the Warden interrupted coldly, holding out his palm. Streams of red light shot from his fingertips and coalesced into a latticework barrier that stretched between the canyon walls, sealing them off with supernatural force. The Chimeras let out a wail of frustration, gnashing their teeth and fracturing parts of their limbs against the shield, to no avail.
Kharessa shook her head furiously, gripping the knife tighter. “If you could do that all along, why didn’t you step in earlier?”
The Warden turned his glowing gaze upon her, a flicker of something ancient passing across his unreadable features. “Because you,” he said softly, “needed to make the run. A race with death sets the soul awake, wouldn’t you agree?”
The Core of Betrayals
As a cold dawn began to rise over the desert, their silhouettes faded into the landscape—one a survivor, the other a relic of powers long since thought gone. Kharessa’s ultimate destination lay far beyond the horizon, but she had found a dangerous ally in the enigmatic Warden. And though his powers had saved her, something in his otherworldly aura filled her with a gnawing unease. Was he truly her protector, or had she just unwittingly placed herself into the service of a far greater predator?
For now, the desert had grown quiet. The Chimeras had been banished back into the dark depths, and the ancient machine hummed once more, waiting to take them wherever fate—or betrayal—might lead.
The landscape stretched vast and unending before her, and for the first time in years, Kharessa felt something stir in her chest. Not hope, exactly, but a curiosity fanged with dread.
“Drive,” she muttered to the Warden as she climbed into the crawler. Whatever was waiting ahead, she would face it—knife in hand, survival in her blood.
And maybe, just maybe, she would outlast even the desert.
Genre: Post-apocalyptic Fantasy/Science Fiction
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Toppling Assad: Hayat Tahrir al-Sham’s Fragile Control Over a Divided Syria
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