The Shattered Star: Chronicles of Andarin
When a falling star fractures the world and shadows gather at the edge of reality, one young villager dreams of darkness and flame. Joined by a rogue mage and a haunted ranger, Eiran embarks on an epic quest spanning haunted forests, besieged cities, and forgotten deserts. As ancient secrets unravel, and allies and enemies blur, Andarin’s last hope lies in forging the impossible—from the shattered pieces of the world, a new dawn...if he survives the night.
Sands of Destiny
The sands did not welcome them. They devoured.
Sunrise found Eiran and Mira standing at the threshold of the Elnari, the haunted desert of legend—a world away from snow and ancient stone, their breath already clagged with dust, skin pricked raw by the wind’s cruel caress. Behind them, morning flickered through the black trees, the memory of war and winter receding, but not their wounds. Narsa, battered but present, joined them before the first dune, her face wan and wary.
It was Narsa who named the place, staring hollow-eyed over the bone-pale ridges.
"The Elnari sands," she whispered madly. "Where all is lost, and nothing forgiven."
Mira gave her a wry look. “Let’s hope the stories lied.”
The air burned—a dry, searing heat unlike anything Eiran had known. There were no paths here, only endless undulation, scoured by winds that erased every trace of passage. Already the shapes of their boots were devoured at each pace, as if the world cared for no memory but its own.
They covered their faces, bound rag and scarf against the relentless scouring, and struck out beneath a sun that glared like the unblinking eye of an old god. Water was doled out in slow, reverent sips. Conversation died. Step, stumble, slip—sand infiltrated every crease and wound.
Midday, delirium threatened. Mirage and memory twisted behind every wind-sculpted rise: Mira would blink and see, just beyond the next dune, the rooftops of old Vael, hearth-smoke curling promisingly, laughter spilling from vanished mouths; Narsa saw shapes dancing in the heat, order-masters from her childhood, hands raised in welcome or accusation; Eiran pressed forward, drawn by a compulsion he could not name, the star stone thrumming at his chest.
Each time they faltered, the wind would moan, a song just beyond hearing, until even Narsa ceased her complaints and walked with blank determination. The desert, it seemed, was alive—less a place than a test and a judge.
On the second day, the sun vanished, blotted by a wall of wind and sand—an oncoming zephyr, older than any living thing. They hunkered together in a shallow hollow, bodies covered with wrapped cloaks. The world shrank to a fury of scouring grit; teeth ached, skin cracked, the taste of stone on every tongue.
It was in this suffocating silence that the guardians came.
At first, Eiran thought it was a trick of the storm: half-seen shapes floating just beyond the bandage of sand, shifting faster than eye could follow. But then… forms solidified. Cloaked in flowing drapery, faces obscured by veils of silver and indigo, their eyes glinted with flecks of lapis. They moved with the unsettling certainty of beings that had always been here, and always would.
Their leader, staff coated in glyphs, spoke not in words but in the language of gesture and presence: arms extended, palms bare, an invitation or edict.
Narsa, nearest collapse, tried to rise and collapsed. Mira steadied her, voice ragged. “Eiran—trust their terms, for now.”
Eiran nodded. He laid his hands, open-palmed, on the sand beside him, lowering his gaze. The closest guardian studied him, and at an unseen signal, drew a circle in the sand. Another stepped forward to trace a crescent within—a symbol that shone half with memory, half with intent. The wind banked, withdrawing for a breath.
Then the guardians beckoned, compelling but not cruel.
The party, dizzy and desperate, followed wherever there was less pain. Through gust and shifting blindness, the world changed: the scree abating, the land gently sloping into a natural amphitheater flanked by standing stones snagged with ancient lamps.
Here, beneath a canvas of stars, the Sahiri revealed themselves—the forgotten people of the desert edge, draped in veils recalling lost generations. Their speech was low, full of musical cadence and throat.
“It is not kind, the path you tread,” spoke their eldest, features traced by white tattoos. “Few come to the Elnari seeking hope. Fewer still leave marked by wisdom, rather than dust.”
Mira bowed formally, exhaustion yielding respect. “We seek fragments lost to history—a star broken in the long before. Darkness hunts us. We have nothing to offer but honest need.”
The eldest Sahir traced a line in the sand between them. "Prophecy led you here. Prophecy, and guilt. Both burn, both blind. But even dust has memory."
He gestured for them to sit. Attendants brought bowls of earthy water, bitter but life-saving, then a meal of dates and crumbly dark bread mysteriously unsalted. The Sahiri did not touch iron or speak of gods.
Narsa, wary but parched, asked, “Do you know of a fragment—a shard of fire—that fell into this land?"
The old man’s eyes glittered, agate-bright. “We keep many secrets. We remember what others forget. The star you seek—the Shard of Dawn—lies ringed in the ruin of those who tried to shape fate itself. None who go unaided to its tomb ever return. Answer our questions, and perhaps you will fare differently.”
He turned sharply, gaze pinning Eiran. “Yours is not the first hand to bear the mark of prophecy. What makes your burden worthy of survival?”
Eiran’s throat locked. Ash from the storm still seared his lungs; the star stone against his skin gave no comfort, no clue. He closed his eyes, trying only to speak plain truth.
“I carry the shard because I must. Because a world that forgets hope gives itself to hunger. I failed those I loved, but that pain—if it can save what remains—it is not wasted.”
The elder nodded, and another Sahir, younger, intoned:
“Each soul that confronts the Dragon of Memory is given three faces: the one it mourns, the one it fears, the one it hopes to become. Which are you?”
Mira answered, voice flat as the horizon. “I have worn all three. Tonight, I choose the last.”
At this, the old man smiled slightly. “Good. For this is a land of truths laid bare.”
That night, as the stars glimmered unfamiliarly bright, they gathered around the central fire. The Sahiri burned strange herbs, blue smoke curling upward, and the air took on the taste of dreams.
Eiran’s eyes blurred. Time skipped.
He found himself on a sand-blasted plain beneath a sky torn open—three moons wheeling, a star bleeding fire above a pyramid taller than reason. At the base, a mirror shimmered in the heat. Eiran’s reflection fractured, multiplying: one figure bowed in endless apology, one cowered beneath shadows with black eyes, the last stood, battered but upright, a gleaming fragment pulsing in his palm. The desert wind whined, whispering: Choose. Choose.
Pain throbbed in his chest: every friend lost, every trust betrayed. He thought of Mira at his side, Narsa’s defiance, Talin’s last rally. He stepped forward—not to the mournful, not to the fearful, but to the loner holding the fragment. As he touched the mirror, the reflections collapsed, merging into one.
He awoke with dawn—miraculous, cool—spreading across the dunes. The Sahiri were gathered, forming a circle. Eiran sat in their midst; Mira and Narsa elbow-to-elbow, each appearing as stunned and emptied as he felt.
The eldest Sahir leaned in.
“Last night, memory judged you worthy. The world turns on the courage of the broken. The tomb you seek lies beyond the White Wall—guarded by fire and root. The Shard of Dawn will not surrender to the hopeless, nor can it be stolen by force. Only those who hold memory, fear, and hope together may wield it.”
He pressed a clay amulet into Eiran’s hand—cool, etched with half a star. “This will lead you beyond illusions. But beware: not all who seek light do so for love. And the cult has learned new ways to walk the sands.”
A hush, heavy as fate, fell. The Sahiri drew hoods, blending again with the rising sun. Eiran stowed the amulet, eyes bright with exhaustion and fire.
Mira slung her pack, offered her hand. “If there’s hope, that’s enough.”
Narsa stared toward the shimmering east, expression unreadable. “Another test. But perhaps… not all tests break us. Some build.”
They walked from the circle, the sky now opening blue and gold. Though the desert threatened at every turn, something new traveled with them: the memory of pain forgiven, the choice of hope re-cast. Far ahead, bright on the horizon, waited the tomb and the star shard—and, beneath the surface, the knowledge that destiny could be claimed, not merely endured.