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Chapter 781: Sand Road, Wolf Heart

This was a long dream.

A dream Lorgar knew she was inside.

The moment the Four-winged Eagle had fallen upon her, the pain moved through her like grinding stone — her legs unmade beneath her, crushed as wheat under a millstone, the same patient destruction she had watched her clansmen perform on grain bought from the north, though she had never learned to grow it herself. There would be no standing again. No fighting. Not in this body.

But now she stood.

A dream, then. Only in dreams could the made be unmade.

She breathed deeply and looked ahead. A sand road began at her feet and unreeled toward the horizon. She stepped forward, and one by one they came — opponents she had bested, walking toward her without laughter or mockery, passing in silence and dissolving into the endless sand behind her.

The sandworm was first.

Her first kill. Twelve years old, the pride of it still bright somewhere in her chest.

Sandworms were hardest to find when skulking still — the motionless sand gave nothing away. But the people of the Sand Nation were more cunning than any creature the desert bred, and Lorgar had crouched behind a dead bush and waited, patient as the dunes themselves, until the worm came close enough. Then the spike. Clean through sand and flesh both.

That kill had stood above the achievements of her siblings, of children from the great Iron Sand City clans — and more than the worm itself, what she had taken from it was the joy of confrontation, the fierce bright pleasure of a thing matched against her strength and found wanting.

The sandworm in her dream did not hide. It raised its head and moved through the sand like a lazy serpent. She braced for venom — a ruin of her face, acid unmaking — but nothing came. It passed in silence.

A Scorpion followed. Then a Desert Wolf — her second and third opponents.

The Scorpion passed without pause, but the wolf stopped. It stood for a moment, seeming to weigh something, then walked toward her and lowered its head to sniff her bare, calloused feet. Its tail moved once. Then it turned and fell in at her side.

She remembered the real fight. The Mojin women had to prove twice what the men proved once, which meant she had moved from sandworms and scorpions to wolves without rest, hunting upward. She had targeted a wolf pack.

But the wolves in numbers were more fearful than she had known. A sandstorm had scattered her hunting party, and when it cleared, wolves stretched across the horizon. The Sand Nation fighters had held — fought hard, fought valiantly — and still fallen one by one to claws from every quarter. Lorgar had known, in that last moment, that she was done.

Then the sharp pain took her, and she woke into something larger.

The King of Wolfheart.

She had stood on sand soaked black with blood, and the wolves that met her eyes had simply folded, as though greeting a god they already knew.

The road after that was wider.

Strong fighters of her generation. Clan warriors. Battle-hardened men who had survived a dozen storms. They came one by one and fell behind her. Lorgar felt her chest tighten.

Perhaps the dream ended when the last opponent passed.

There wasn’t much time.

She wanted to slow her steps, but the road did not answer her will.

Then the sky went dark.

She looked up. The Four-winged Eagle filled the air above her, enormous and absolute.

The last moment, arriving.

At the same instant, the Desert Wolf at her side roared — a sound that shook through her ribs — and launched itself at the beast. They collided with the force of falling stone. Blood and feathers. The battle that had never finished on the Burning Stage played out above her now, each blow precise and total.

Lorgar stopped breathing and watched. Her body recorded everything — each strike, each angle, each half-second of opening — the same way it had always recorded combat, logging what her mind could not consciously hold. If she faced the eagle again, she would last longer. She might take its head before Ashes needed to intervene.

A pity she would never have the chance.

She tried to step forward and join the wolf. Her body refused. The numbness had moved up from her feet to her throat, slow as tide, and she could not move even her jaw now.

Wake up, she thought. Wake up.

The wolf screamed. The eagle had torn open its belly. Intestines gleaming. The great animal faltered toward her on failing legs, still placing its body between her and the strikes coming from above. Three steps. Two. It fell in her direction — dying — still blocking.

The eagle’s blows landed on its back like hammer strikes against her heart.

No.

Lorgar opened her eyes.

Sand road, beasts, wolf — gone.

Her maid’s voice, breaking with relief: “Princess — you woke up!”

“Yes.” The word came slowly. “I woke up.”

Which means the time I can stand is —

Wait.

She saw the maid crossing toward her in a panic, towel in hand, and felt the damp cloth against her skin. The roof of the old tent. The knife on the wall. The brazier burning low. Everything sharp and distinct, more vivid than it had any right to be.

But how was she seeing it with both eyes?

Her hand moved to her left eye. Intact.

Not just the eye. Both arms whole. Her entire body without pain — even her feet, even her crushed, ground-under-stone feet, carried her weight without complaint.

She threw back the covers and stood.

The maid startled back.

“What happened?”

“The new Divine Lady — the one brought by the northerners — she healed you.” The maid’s voice was barely holding together. “She didn’t use any medicine. She touched you, and the wounds just — closed.”

There’s a witch called Nana in Neverwinter of Graycastle who can heal anybody, even someone breathing their last, even someone with every limb broken.

Ashes had not been offering comfort. It was real.

“Where are they now?” Lorgar reached for her coat. “I need to thank her.”

“They’ve gone.”

“Gone.” A beat. “And Ashes?”

“She left too. Two days ago, the Osha clan took the first group of Sand Nation people to the Southern Territory.”

“How long was I out?”

The maid held up three fingers. Then three more.

Six days. Six days for that long road through the sand.

“Is there anything else that happened while I was sleeping?”

The maid’s expression shifted to something smaller, more careful. “The Wildwave clan absorbed what was left of the Black River clan. They challenged us.” A pause. “Lord Chief didn’t accept. He conceded outright. Our rank has dropped to third. We can’t hold the Stone Castle anymore.”

Lorgar raised an eyebrow. “I need to see my father.”

“Princess — wait — your hood, your cloak —” The maid hurried after her with the garments. “There have been many visitors to the castle lately, some to negotiate, some to —” Her voice fell to something barely audible.

“Drive us out?” Lorgar reached up and touched the tip of her pointed ear, then smiled at the maid. “Keep them. I won’t be needing those anymore.”

“But —”

Her father had told her to conceal what she was — the ears, the other things — until she was chief. Even a Divine Lady, he had said, could be mistrusted for the wrong shape of her face. But she had walked the full length of the sand road and come out the other side understanding what she wanted, and it was not concealment.

Half woman, half beast. A monster, some would say.

Did it stop her from fighting?

Lorgar waved once — no more words — and walked toward the top floor of the Stone Castle.

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