The Dragon Mark

She had agreed! Lysbelle still couldn’t believe it. Half an hour ago, she had gone to see the Phoenix without thinking, proposing her plan, and she had agreed! Delighted by the idea, Azmiyah told her they would leave right after the Call ceremony.

Now Lysbelle was walking toward the healer’s wagon. The moon, already high in the night sky, lit her path, and the large fire that was always kept burning warmed the surroundings. It was along this route that she encountered Mayssa for the second time that evening. She gave her a smile before approaching.

“I was looking for you. Do you mind if I check your stomach wound? Just to clean the bandage and make sure it’s not getting infected.”

“Oh, not at all, please do.”

The two women entered the healer’s wagon and settled in a corner. Inside, only Tyrell was present, seemingly asleep. The space, usually used by no one but the healer and his assistants, was occasionally converted to accommodate guests. As Mayssa removed the bandage, the dragon mark became visible to her once again. But, like the first time, she made no comment on it. Still, she did have something to say about Lysbelle’s injury.

“Hm, did our healer come by to see you?”

“No, why?”

Curious, Lysbelle glanced down. To her surprise, the wound had healed, like her arm. There was no trace of any injuries.

“Well, I don’t know many people who heal as fast as you. I bet the bruise on your cheek will be gone by tomorrow morning if you keep this up.”

Feeling somewhat unnecessary, Mayssa put away the spare bandage she had prepared and apologized for wasting her time. Far from offended, Lysbelle reassured her before walking her back to another wagon. They chatted for a few more minutes until Lysbelle decided to turn in for the night. After all, the past few days had been exhausting, and both her body and mind demanded rest. Returning to the healer’s wagon, her gaze fell on Tyrell—the Fallen. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the news. On one hand, his status meant he had committed some serious wrongdoing. On the other, she remembered the treatment that her mother and she had endured before the Caravan accepted them. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

As she fell asleep sheltered from the wind, cold, and darkness, for the first time in days, she couldn’t help but think of her brother. The little boy who was still enduring many hardships.

In the morning, it was Tyrell who woke her. He gently shook her shoulder, announcing that the ceremony was about to begin. Still groggy from her sleep, she got up with difficulty before following him outside. The sun was just beginning to peek over the rocky formations surrounding the oasis, and everyone was already busy with their tasks.

“Are you feeling better?”

Lysbelle turned to her companion with a surprised look before understanding.

“Yes, sorry... I don’t know what came over me.”

With an understanding nod, he added...

"She often had that effect on people before they learned to respect her. Though I must admit, your reaction surprised me."

They continued walking in silence. It was as if a distance had formed between them since she had learned about his status. Yet, as they reached the center of the half-circle, Tyrell spoke to her once more.

“If you get the chance, ask Azmiyah to teach you the basics of Îme sculpting.”

Startled by his words, she stopped. In the same instant, the bell signaling the start of the ceremony rang. Without delay, all the members of the two Caravans gathered in the center, postponing their tasks. She'd ask him later. Following the flow, Lysbelle sat down with the other nomads, while Tyrell made his way to the large central fire. There, the Elder, supported by his staff and his second-in-command, were already standing. The Phoenix joined them moments later, without a word, and they waited for silence to fall.

Sitting on the ground among the nomads, Lysbelle couldn’t shake a slight feeling of unease. Though the nomads were all part of one big family, she felt surrounded by complete strangers. The only thing that comforted her a bit was Mayssa’s presence nearby. Sensing her gaze, she smiled before turning her attention back to the unfolding scene.

The Elder stepped forward, his eyes scanning the silent crowd as if to ensure everyone was paying attention.

“As announced last night, we will now proceed with the Call ceremony.”

The man, well-versed in speeches, let his words hang in the air before continuing. “For the first time in over ten years, we will perform this ancient ceremony.”

Lysbelle shivered. The last time it had been held, it was for her.

“Thanks to you, Tyrell the Fallen will gain the support of the winds to carry the Call. Thanks to you, his message will reach even the ears of the Protector. Thanks to you, our entire people will hear his plea.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the crowd, quickly silenced by the Elder, who had not finished his proclamation.

“Despite the aversion some of you may feel toward the Fallen, it is our duty to respect the code. So, I ask you this from the bottom of my heart: despite his status, remember that the Fallen is risking his life by invoking the Call. Only the Protector can save him from Mount Ardent's exile.”

Lysbelle clenched her teeth. As much as she didn’t know how to reconcile her respect for the man with his status as a Fallen, she knew that no one had ever returned from exile.

With the Elder’s words, the ceremony began. A deep, guttural chant arose from the nomads, a chant filled with raw power. Lysbelle, like everyone else, knew the words, though she had never had the chance to perform them. Every nomad had to learn the ceremony's process from childhood. Yet, far from expecting what she was about to witness, Lysbelle soon found herself speechless. Without understanding why or how, she felt as though a stream of Îme was emerging from the chant, swirling above them and expanding. The majestic display left her in awe until another nomad gently nudged her to remind her to sing. It took another moment to find the rhythm again, but once she did, she felt a surge of energy course through her body, escaping with each word she sang. For the first time, without outright understanding how, she felt as though she was shaping and controlling Îme. Yet, a quick glance around showed her that no one else seemed to notice. At least, no one appeared to be aware of the mass of energy swirling above their heads. Deeply focused, all the nomads had their eyes fixed on the Elder, who chanted with them.

The chant lasted for a long time, drawing more and more power from the voices, growing stronger with each word, each verse, each stanza. Then, when Lysbelle’s throat had long since dried up, the Elder fell silent, followed by the entire assembly of both Caravans. In the stillness, he turned to Sadris, who knelt and handed him a blade. The old man took it with extreme care, inspecting it from every angle before passing it to the Phoenix. She repeated the gesture, then handed the dagger to Tyrell, giving him a sharp look.

Tyrell took the blade with reverence and stepped forward into the ritual's center. With perfect precision, he sliced the blade across his right hand. The only part of his arm left unbandaged, his palm now bore a deep cut.

The man clenched his fist and the Elder stepped back, leaving him alone before the crowd. He closed his eyes and, with a breath, spoke his Call.

"I, Tyrell the Fallen, once a Caravan Chief, Master of the Îme, and Champion of the Lady of the Sands. Today, stripped of my honor and with my name forgotten, it is by staking my life that I make my Call. I will await you all at the foot of Mount Ardent on the dawn of the next new moon."

As soon as he spoke his words, the Elder and the Phoenix stepped forward.

"I, Idrees Moghadd, Caravan Chief, Elder of the clans, and member of the Council, approve and support this Call."

"I, Azmiyah Ghazal, Caravan Chief and Bearer of the Mark, do not approve but support this Call."

As the words were spoken, Lysbelle watched Tyrell open his wounded hand, letting the blood slowly drip up into the swirling mass of energy above. Then, it all happened in an instant. The blood merged with the Îme, and the energy stabilized before collapsing in on itself, vanishing into a single point.

Silence filled the half-circle as Lysbelle's eyes remained fixed on that point of energy. She had never seen anything like it and wasn’t even sure if she should see it. Without warning, the point of Îme exploded. The unimaginable force contained within was fully unleashed, sending a wave of energy across the desert in the blink of an eye.

Soon, all the Caravans would know of the imminent Call.

As the energy spread to the desert’s far reaches, Tyrell lowered his eyes. He felt calm. At first, he had dreaded it, wondering whether the other Caravans would support him, given his Fallen status. Now, he had no more doubt—whatever happened, he would fight for his principles. He looked down at the gathering that had lent its power to his Call. These men and women, who once considered him one of their own. He could only blame himself for his pride and foolishness.

Then his gaze fell on Lysbelle. The young woman, eyes still fixed on the sky, seemed to be watching the energy waves spreading through the desert. He squinted, hesitating to trust his conclusion, then smiled. Her gift was remarkable—without any training, even with the ease brought by a Mark, few could see the intangible flows of the Îme.

He turned to Azmiyah. The woman was even more beautiful than he remembered.

"Train her in the use of the Mark. You owe me that much."

The woman didn’t respond, merely stepping forward. Then, as she seemed about to address the assembly, he heard her whisper a reply.

"I owe you nothing..."

A shadow of sadness filled his eyes as he stepped back. With the ceremony over, he was no longer allowed to stand among the Caravan chiefs.

"Listen to me!"

The Phoenix's voice drew the attention of everyone present.

"The Call will take place in thirty days at the foot of Mount Ardent. But I don't intend to sit idly waiting for it! Those who wish to accompany me to free the two captive Caravans, make yourselves known. We leave in fifteen minutes."

After making her announcement, she turned around, coming face-to-face with the Elder.

"You can’t."

His deep voice, though final, did not intimidate her.

"I’ll make it to the Call on time."

"We know neither their numbers nor their resources. It’s far too dangerous to attack an unknown enemy without first consulting the Council."

As the tension between them escalated, it was Sadris who intervened.

"Elder, despite your reservations, I support the Phoenix’s proposal."

Azmiyah looked at him, surprised.

"This is our only chance to save them before they leave the desert. If we don't take it, there won’t be another."

The old man, leaning on his staff, sighed deeply before responding. It was remembering Lysbelle's gaze that made him decide. If he prevented the departure, there was a strong chance she would go on her own.

"Very well. But Azmiyah, you know what will happen if you're late to the Call after supporting the Fallen’s request."

"Of course..."

Fifteen minutes later, a Caravan filled with warriors, with enough space and provisions for the prisoners, set out toward the desert's edge.

Aboard the lead wagon, Lysbelle watched the majestic Rhiloos quicken their pace. The large desert-colored birds, adorned with violet feathers, were harnessed in pairs at the front of each wagon.

Certain she had made the right decision, Lysbelle eagerly anticipated the reunion with her brother. She had left the convoy six days ago. But the Caravan was fast. They would likely catch up in three or four days. Next, it would only be a matter of freeing the prisoners, dealing with the outsiders, and heading back in time for the Call. Basic tasks, in fact.