The wind beat on the dunes of Herli, the western desert. With each gust, it took up a handful of sand, spewing it about the rest of the desert. It swayed back and forth, dispensing the grains throughout the field.
Anaran slid from his mount and took a few steps forward, summing up the setting. Booming markets separated them from ticket booths, docking tunnels, and the ships themselves.
Nebolly stepped next to him. “What’s that?”
This far out, the wind was but a minor distraction to conversation. Without responding, he broke out into stride. Each step increased the wind’s volume slightly. Not enough for the casual walker to hear, but it was unmistakably more impactful.
Sibolt and Nebolly followed behind. Nebolly had most likely never been to the Ravine before it would be quite an experience riding in a boat for the first time. Anaran couldn’t even remember his first trip, it was too long ago. Was he excited about it? Was he scared? Did he go alone, or with friends and family? What ship did he go on? What country did he depart from and which did he dock in?
Useless questions, as none of them impacted his current situation. In the future, when Nebolly remembered this trip, she’d ask herself the same questions. And the answers would be dreadful. She wasn’t alone, instead she went with a dangerous, evil Warden, who had been the cause of her father’s death three weeks before. She was terribly scared because she had no one in the world that cared about her. She left from Herli and landed in Torolna, the desolate country.
“Where are we going?” Nebolly asked.
Anaran stopped and pivoted to face her. From under his cloak, he produced a netted bag of blue sand that encompassed his entire palm and then some. He placed it in Nebolly’s hands. “One hour. Meet by the docking tunnel for the Champion Racer.”
“Anaran,” Nebolly started, “I can’t take your money, the Survivors wouldn’t like it. Besides, no one will accept it from a woman.”
The Warden suppressed the need for religious controversy at the moment, saying, “Show them this.” Handing her a cloth square—embroidered with his Warden Symbol—Anaran turned and walked off. He had more important things to discuss before too long, his breath was to be saved.
He dashed off before Nebolly could protest more or return the money. Sibolt would be fine alone until they boarded the ship. He heard the time and destination, and Menthium were extremely intelligent, he would meet Anaran just as Nebolly would.
As he entered the bustling crowd, gasps arouse. Anaran’s blue garbs confessed his royalty, his face conveying his identity, which could strike fear into any heart. The Warden was supposed to be traveling about Grunuil for the next month, so Herli should be spared his torment until then. Of course, that means another Warden is making his way about this desert, reaping the food that they’ve sown in banquets thrown for himself.
Anaran had contemplated hiding his attire under a plain brown cloak, as he did whenever he went out, but decided against it, as he did each time. The fear and alertness given to the passersby when they saw a Warden instilled his confidence. His blatant appearance had the possibility of stirring an assassination attempt, or even a riot, but he wasn’t too worried about that either. He could more than handle himself in a fight.
As the civilians attempted to keep their gaze to the heavens, their feet, or vendors—anywhere besides the Warden—they formulated a large bubble of empty space around Anaran that let them keep their distance.
The crowd’s uneasiness didn’t hinder Anaran’s determination in the least. He’d grown accustomed to being stared at, disapproved of, and feared. Without such an aura, he’d be a different person.
