2.1
As the crunching of gravel continued, Cornelius quickly realized it wasn't just his imagination.
Voices followed—distant at first, then clearer, calling out to each other in urgent tones. He couldn't make out what they were saying. The words felt twisted, unfamiliar, like echoes from another world.
Cornelius shut his eyes as the sound of footsteps closed in. His heart thumped erratically. He couldn't move—could barely think. Panic clutched his chest like a vice.
Then, something cold pressed against his neck.
A firearm, probably.
He froze, breathing shallowly. Any sudden movement could be his last.
"Trá madat szad!" one of them barked. The harsh syllables hit the air like broken glass.
It was a foreign language—one he didn't recognize. Not the same guttural dialect the raiders had used when they tore through his village.
Rough hands seized him. He was yanked up off the ground like a sack of grain, his limbs too weak to resist. Before he could process what was happening, he was hurled onto a vehicle—some kind of transport—and shoved into a coarse potato sack. The scratchy fibers bit into his skin as someone tied it tight, sealing him in.
The engine rumbled to life.
The vehicle lurched forward.
Through tiny holes in the sack's weave, Cornelius caught flashes of the world outside—shattered buildings, scorched trees, crumbling roads. The remnants of civilization.
The road beneath him bounced and jostled at first. Then, gradually, it smoothed. The constant vibration faded into a low hum. Occasionally, the texture would shift beneath the tires, switching between asphalt, stone, and something he couldn't place—like reinforced metal.
He didn't know where they were going. He didn't even know how far they'd gone.
Suddenly, the air changed.
A salty, briny scent crept into his nostrils—thick and unmistakable. Sea air. Strong enough to make him gag.
The smooth road gave way to a new surface that clattered beneath the tires. Wooden planks, maybe? Or some kind of dock?
"Did I zone out?" he wondered. "Fall asleep?" The change had been too fast—unnaturally so. Time no longer made sense in the sack. Minutes could be hours, and hours could vanish like smoke.
But logic wouldn't help him now.
He was a prisoner, kidnapped and stowed away like plunder. A piece of spoils from a raid that had turned his entire world to ash.
The vehicle stopped.
A hard jolt threw him against one of the metal walls. His head smacked into a handle. Pain flared behind his eyes. His already starved, dehydrated body couldn't take much more.
Darkness claimed him.
He awoke swaying.
Forward, then back.
Forward, then back.
Still inside the sack—but the top was now loose, air flowing through. His fingers curled around the frayed edges, but he didn't dare lift it. He could hear the rhythmic crash of waves outside. The groan of wooden beams. The slap of water against a hull.
They were on a ship.
A loud horn blared, deep and long.
Cornelius's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't a small vessel. That was the sound of a cargo ship—a vessel built for long distances and heavy loads.
His heart sank.
The salty air confirmed it—this wasn't the lake north of his village. It wasn't Mornia. He was on the ocean. That meant they had traveled far—very far. Perhaps even beyond the borders of Plaleen.
He thought about the geography. To the west lay the inland kingdoms. To the north, Lake Mornia and the borderlands. But to the east and south—oceans.
Oceans that led to strange lands.
The words echoed in his mind again.
"Trá madat szad."
Not Plaleenian. That much he was sure of. The raiders hadn't spoken it either. Could it be Sarsian?
The Kingdom of Sarsia was massive, stretching across the vast Sarsian Desert just south of Plaleen. A dominant power, rivaled only by the far northern empire of Esmetria, which ruled much of the East Continent.
Cornelius's mind raced.
His father's books had taught him much about the world beyond their quiet village. Maps, languages, kingdoms, trade routes. Most people in his village barely knew of the next province—let alone the distant reaches of foreign continents.
He had knowledge. But knowledge couldn't save him here.
A sharp pain bloomed in his chest. It started with his father—memories of laughter by firelight, of pages turned together under candle flame. Then his mother, always humming by the hearth, her hands forever busy with some quiet task.
Then the village.
His village.
Burning. Screaming. Falling.
Gone.
Everyone—gone.
Cornelius lay still in the sack as tears silently slid down his cheeks, the sound of waves crashing against the hull echoing the breaking of his world.
2.2
As the ship rocked from side to side, Cornelius struggled to keep his stomach from turning.
The constant swaying made him feel like he was about to vomit, but he knew better. These kidnappers didn't look like the kind of men who tolerated weakness. Puking might get him worse than a beating.
Peering through the tiny holes in the grain sack, Cornelius scanned the top deck. He studied the men around him, trying to learn anything—who they were, where they were headed, or where he even was.
Then he noticed one of them staring straight at him.
Or at least, it seemed that way.
The man wore traditional armor—amber-brown plates over his shoulders, probably steel underneath. His face was hidden behind a helmet draped with chainmail, revealing only a pair of deep brown eyes.
That was Cornelius's first real lead.
He recognized the armor. It was native to the southern desert kingdom of Sarsia. Most likely, they were headed to its coastal capital—the infamous city of Mardonia.
Mardonia: the so-called "Diamond in the Desert."
A city built on shadows, known for its underground slave markets, torture dens, and acts too vile to be spoken aloud.
Suddenly, the ship began to slow. Cornelius could feel it gliding along the docks before coming to a gentle stop.
The men hoisted the grain sack onto their shoulders and marched in what sounded like a rigid, military formation.
Cornelius was carried through the streets—he caught glimpses of the lower city: homes made of wood and clay, rough but sizeable dwellings, packed closely together.
Then, darkness.
They had either entered a building with no light, or the sack's holes were now sealed.
Moments later, it was over.
Cornelius found himself alone—stranded in an alleyway. The sack discarded. The kidnappers gone.
"Why?" he muttered aloud.
It was the first word he'd spoken since his town was destroyed.
The question lingered, heavy and unanswered.
Why would they go through all the trouble—transporting him across the central continents—only to leave him here like discarded cargo? Maybe even they didn't know the reason.
Now, Cornelius was alone.
Alone in Sarsia, a land where danger lurked behind every corner and back-alley deal. A land of traders, schemers, and slavers. He didn't know the customs, the language, or the rules of survival here.
But in his mind, he heard his father's voice.
He remembered it from long ago—when he first learned to ride a bike.
"Don't give up yet, my son!"
Cornelius wanted to give up. More than anything. But he knew he couldn't.
Giving up wasn't even an option anymore.
He'd have to survive.
Adapt to this desert city. Learn its language. Understand its people.
And figure out why he had been brought here.
2.3
The wholesome moment was interrupted by the smell of the alleyway.
It smelled of rot and old sweat.
A dog barked somewhere as well.
Shouts in Sarsian and pedestrians walking by.
Cornelius stood shakily, brushing the dirt from his clothes.
His legs were stiff from being bound for so long, but he forced himself to move.
He couldn't afford to linger.
Not here.
He stepped cautiously out of the alley and into a narrow street, keeping to the shadows.
The sun above was blistering—unforgiving, just like everything else in this place.
People bustled past him, most of them cloaked in flowing robes and bright fabrics that shielded them from the desert heat.
No one gave him a second glance. In a city like Mardonia, a lost and ragged stranger was just part of the scenery.
Cornelius kept moving, driven by instinct more than plan. He had no money.
No allies.
Not even a name that meant anything in this place. But he was alive, and for now, that had to be enough.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a young street boy, no older than ten, holding a basket of fruit.
The child flinched, startled—but his eyes, sharp and calculating, quickly narrowed on Cornelius.
"Sar yagara, vyad zva!" the boy said, in Sarsian.
Cornelius froze. He didn't understand a single thing that came out of the boys mouth.
"Uhh..." Cornelius said, trying to understand atleast something.
Then, the boy started laughing hysterically, pointing at Cornelius. What a brat, he thought.
Cornelius moved from the scene, sliding in with the other people just quick enough for the boy to lose him.
"Damn it, damn it all..." Cornelius muttered to himself.
He had just gotten here and he was already tired of this place. He wanted to go home.
Though, he knew it was impossible.
He had no home anymore.
Even if he did, he knew had no one to come home to.
Suddenly, Cornelius caught a glimpse of something in the crowd.
A street stand.
A young woman and an even younger child were standing and selling veggies and bread.
His stomach grumbled, but it was no use.
He had no money.
The money from home was taken from him when he was kidnapped.
As if that currency would work here anyways, he thought. Coping from the loss of his dear Athilian crowns.
He suddenly had a wicked idea.
He walked up to the stand, the woman smiling at him.
"Hoy!" She greeted him with a friendly smile.
"Hoy..." Cornelius responded, not as enthusiasticly as her.
The woman could tell he was a foreigner, one who was pretty hopeless.
"You are foreigner?" She said in a broken accent.
Cornelius looked down, feeling bad for the woman for what he's about to do.
"Yes...I am from Prumore." He said.
He wasn't as energetic as her, but she didn't seem to care.
"Prumore?" She asked, confused.
She probably didn't recognize the village due to the sheer length from where it is from Sarsia alone.
It's also pretty rural so not many know it exists.
"Yeah...Very rural..." Cornelius said, adjusting himself to her broken accent.
"I'm sorry, I have to go." Cornelius said to the woman.
He turned around but was stopped by the woman.
"No no no. Wait a little here Mister. Take this." She said, handing him a loaf of bread.
"You look hungry." She followed up.
Cornelius froze.
He was thinking of stealing a loaf, but here she is giving it to him instead.
Though, he smiles, taking it happily.
"Thank you. And im sorry." Cornelius said as he walked away.
He walked through the crowd, leaving the young woman confused with what he meant with being sorry.