Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 91: The Lessons of the Sand

Chapter 91: The Lessons of the Sand

After several uninterrupted days of walking, the desert had slowly changed its face. The overwhelming heat, that burning breath biting at our bones with every step, had lessened, as if the world itself had finally agreed to loosen its grip. The temperature, without fuss, had gently slid into an almost unusual mildness, a temperate, bearable climate, where the skin no longer seared at every moment, where breath no longer burned the lungs.

The air had changed.

It was no longer saturated with ashes or anger. It now flowed with a calmed slowness, a discreet caress gliding over the skin without violence. A light breeze would occasionally lift the edges of our clothes, as if apologizing for its former excesses. There was something washed out in the atmosphere, something purer, as if the days of effort, of blood and dust, were behind us — even if we knew, deep down, that they were never far away.

And the creatures too, as if by tacit agreement, had vanished.

Nothing. Not a shape. Not a threat. For hours, no hostile presence, no gaze in the shadows, no rumble beneath the sand. The silence didn’t weigh — it soothed. A healthy silence, almost welcome, like a reprieve granted by a world tired of struggling.

And we, in the heart of this strange calm, continued to move forward. Less tense. Less armed. But always vigilant.

At times, around a dune’s curve, when the wind grew more discreet and the slanted light softened the landscape’s contours, we still glimpsed a few solitary, twisted plant silhouettes, like remnants forgotten by the rest of the world. Immobile shapes, rooted in the dust, vestiges of obstinate life. Among them, some drew our gaze more than others — not for their beauty, but for their strangeness.

The Scream-Thorns.

The name alone, discovered during my research on the region, had struck me. It evoked a muffled cry, an ancient pain frozen in vegetal form. And when I saw them for the first time, I understood why the name had imposed itself.

They looked like cacti — but of a dark, almost charred variety, with thick, squat stems that seemed sculpted from frozen ash. Their tops, flared, opened into an oversized mouth, bristling with twisted thorns like the fangs of a beast fossilized mid-agony. A vegetal mouth. Gaping. Grotesque. Frozen in a silent scream.

But despite that terrifying, almost caricatured appearance, they were not dangerous. Or rather — only to those who were dangerous themselves. The Scream-Thorns possessed a rudimentary consciousness, a strange sensitivity to intent. They only stirred, screamed, or pierced those who embodied a threat: predators, raiders, bearers of aggression.

To all others, they remained silent.

Immobile.

Harmless.

And sometimes, generous.

For at their base, hidden beneath the blackened shell, they stored water. A precious reserve, left accessible to lost travelers, to those who walked without malice. A mute offering, placed in the sand like forgiveness.

We never touched it.

But we respected them.

And every time I crossed paths with one, standing there like a forgotten totem in the golden immensity, I couldn’t help but slow down... and observe it for a moment. As if that frozen scream spoke to an older part of myself.

Because Terra Neutralis was not just a name etched on ancient maps.

It was a promise.

A land of true peace — not imposed by force or preserved through fear, but born of a singular, almost inviolate history. The only region in this world to have never known war. Not a battle. Not a siege. Not even a forgotten tribal conflict. As if something older than civilization, deeper than the memory of peoples, had decreed that this land must remain intact.

But it wasn’t only history that made it a haven.

It was life.

Everything here breathed a rare form of harmony, almost inconceivable elsewhere. Fauna and flora seemed to speak the same language. Every species occupied its place without ever trying to take it by force. The cycles were fluid. The relationships, balanced. Even the wild beasts... were peaceful.

Herbivores, for the most part, they merely observed travelers with a calm, indifferent, sometimes curious eye. No hostility. No fear. Unless one broke the implicit pact of this land: do no harm. Do not deceive. Do not desecrate.

For here, nature is not naïve. It is just. And it punishes betrayal.

The region was arranged like a sanctuary drawn by patient hands.

At its center, a gigantic oasis, the beating heart of the territory. A source of life, of water, of magic — a nourishing well with blurred borders, from which ancient, fertile energy flowed. All around it, a crown of greenery, a meadow of abundance, fertile and buzzing, like a living cloak laid upon the earth. And farther still, at its periphery, where our steps had carried us for days, a circle of golden dunes encircled the whole like a supple, undulating, scorching wall.

A natural frontier.

A line traced in the sand between two worlds.

As if the desert itself, in a surge of millennial wisdom, had agreed to play the role of rampart. As if it protected, with its heat and dryness, this small miracle of peace against the brutal tides of the outside world.

And we walked.

Slowly.

South of the great wall of sand, heading north.

Toward the heart.

Toward the oasis.

Where, it was said, the crystal had been formed.

Where peace was not just a state... but an essence.

Our days followed one another, flowing like slow waves, carried by a strange rhythm — a cadence mixing effort, tenderness, and a series of small, unforeseen challenges. No longer the taut chaos of survival, nor the heavy silence of impending battles. It was something else. Something rarer. Something more precious.

A lull.

Lysara spoke now.

Not too much. Never uselessly. But just enough. Just enough for each word, each sentence, to become a light in my day. She was no longer that enigmatic, silent silhouette, half-locked in her own scars. She was opening up. In small touches. She commented on meals, identified plants, shared her observations on flora with a precision betraying real, attentive curiosity. Sometimes, she asked questions in a half-whisper, as if the words escaped her despite herself. And above all... she teased me.

With disarming elegance.

A fine irony, never cruel. The kind of jabs that make you laugh, because they come from the heart. Because they strike just right.

In the evenings, around the fire, these moments became almost ritualistic.

She prepared everything herself. Carefully. With a seriousness bordering on ceremony, as if feeding someone was also a way of saying "I’m watching over you." The spices, the leaves, the roots — all chosen, handled, arranged with quiet precision. And always, that mischievous look, that faint crease at the corner of her lips when she handed me my plate.

One evening, as I was chewing a spoonful of some strange stew — a mixture both bitter and sweet, almost floral but impossible to identify — she turned to me, arms crossed, head slightly tilted.

— I wonder if you’re still alive because you’re strong... or just lucky to survive my cooking.

Her tone was neutral. But her gaze sparkled. And I, mouth full, unable to answer, burst out laughing.

A frank laugh, almost breathless, born from the heart.

My eyes shimmered in the firelight, amber reflections and happy fatigue. And in that precise moment, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.

With her.

But the essential thing, despite the apparent calm, despite the laughter and the meals shared around a gentle fire... remained our training.

Relentless. Intense. Harsh.Violent even — sometimes to the edge of bearable.

Every day, without exception, like an obsession carved into our flesh, we fought. Not just to maintain form. But to push limits. To turn each other into worthy obstacles, merciless mirrors. It was a dance of pain, of shallow breaths and flashes of steel. A ritual of endurance. Of raw will.

And me... I always won.

Even when my chest was streaked with bruises, when my ribs reminded me of themselves with every breath, or when a well-placed cut along my flank reminded me I had underestimated an angle. Even when blood flowed. Even when my arms trembled.

I won.

Always.

Lysara, for her part, remained unscathed. Shielded by her precious Noctifer armor, she absorbed my attacks without a flicker. The living obsidian, reactive, adapted to my blows like a second, intelligent skin. Untouchable, yes. In appearance.

But I saw.

I read in her eyes.

Every time she bent a knee, lowered her blade, released a heavier breath... I read in that burning gaze a silent acknowledgment. No frustration. No anger. Only a quiet clarity. A sharp glint. That of someone who accepts defeat — not as humiliation, but as instruction. A note. A step. And sometimes, on her lips, that smile would bloom. That crooked smile, half-mocking, half-admiring. The one that said: "This is only a rehearsal."

Only once, however, had she caught me.

Once.

And what a time it was.

It was a brilliant trick. Tactical. Calculated with an almost insolent boldness. She had faked imbalance, let slip signs of weakness, seeded double-meaning words like bait. And I, too sure of my advance, bit.

I found myself caught.

Not physically. Mentally.

She had led me precisely where she wanted. Into her rhythm. Into her game.And the fight ended in perfect equality.

Neither of us moved. The sand still suspended in the air. Silence, sharp as a blade. Then she stepped forward, her steps light across the sand, her armor still humming with contained energy.

And she whispered, voice almost innocent:

— See? Even the untouchable can trap the victorious.

I laughed. But since that day...

I paid double attention.

And despite the aches.

Despite the knotted muscles, the cracking bones with each motion, the acidic sweat in my eyes, and the wounds that took just a little longer to close each day... I knew.

I knew she kept going.

That she endured.

That she was growing stronger.

Because she learned. With each hit taken, each broken guard, each breath clawed from the burning sand, she processed, absorbed, internalized. She turned defeat into comprehension, pain into strategy. She always got up with more silence... but also with more precision.

And every duel between us, every clash of blade or hammer, didn’t just hone her.

It bound us.

Every victory, every reversal, every glance between two strikes... solidified that strange and absolute connection between us. A bond made of blood, respect, stubbornness. Of love too, of course. But not a fragile love. A fierce one, forged in fire, hewn in survival.

And even I...

Even I was learning.

I didn’t want to admit it too quickly, but it was true. I constantly adjusted my movements, refined my reflexes, reexamined my certainties. She forced me to evolve. She forced me not to grow complacent in experience. She forced me to stay alive.

A warrior, I thought.But not a warrior like the others.

Far more intelligent, far more adaptive than anyone I had faced so far — warlords, generals, hunters, ancient demons. None had made me stay this vigilant. This strategic. This... humble.

Between her mythical armor, responsive to her breath like a second skin, her levels earned through sweat and fists, her skills wielded with surgical precision, her survival instinct, her combat intuition, her capacity to learn — to anticipate, to read, to sense even before a movement existed...

Yes.

She was truly a demoness made for war.

A creature born for battle, for adversity, for conquest. Not a brute. Not a beast. An entity designed, forged, sculpted through demand and the fierce desire to grow.

And in that immense desert, suspended between hell and paradise, between the ashes of the past and the mirages of the future...

She had become my objective.

My reason.

My direction.

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