The Horizon's Omen
Shelmil. The land where sandstorms dwell.
Surrounded by the vast Dorag Desert alongside Melpis, this small nation situated at the southwestern edge of the continent had lived in near-total isolation from other countries—save for its neighbor Melpis—due to its remote location and the harsh environment around it.
Of course, that very isolation had allowed the small kingdom to survive the last great war, but the war's drain on its strength, followed by a devastating drought and famine, had reduced it to little more than a vassal state dependent on Melpis's aid.
“The sandstorm is quiet today.”
“Yeah. At least the alcohol doesn't taste like sand.”
The guard who spoke pulled out a leather canteen and took a sip. The canteen had been issued to soldiers to prevent dehydration, but its contents were not water—they were alcohol.
Stationed atop the walls to watch for enemies who no longer came, the guards existed only for appearance's sake. No one could demand tension or discipline from them. They stood there enduring the sand winds not out of duty or honor, but simply for their wages and rations.
“Still, isn't it strange? Sandstorms sometimes skip a day, sure, but there's not even a breeze today.”
Shelmil had earned its nickname as the land where sandstorms dwell because the winds blew so often. Yet today, for some reason, not a single gust had stirred since morning. While calm periods did exist, they were still several months away.
“What does it matter? Even the great gods have their whims sometimes. If a sudden sandstorm can rage, then a sudden quiet day can surely happen too, right?”
The older guard spoke and raised the canteen to his lips again, but his younger colleague could not. A pounding heart and a strange unease gripped him, and his gaze kept drifting toward the distant horizon beyond the sands—where nothing should have been.
“……”
Of course, the horizon was empty. Aside from the absence of the sandstorm, nothing had changed from yesterday. Still, he soon forced himself to look up at the sky. Every day he had stood watch on these walls, that horizon had been ordinary, yet now it felt as though he must tear his eyes away from it by force. As if it were something profane, his instincts and every god he had ever named seemed to deny its very existence.
“Aigoo, aigoo, my legs.”
Whether the drink was getting to him, the older guard set down his spear and sank to the floor.
“I wish every day could be like this.”
The younger man did not want to agree. For reasons he could not name, the words filled him with instinctive revulsion.
He was still young. He remembered the last great war, but unlike his colleague, he had never witnessed real battle with his own eyes. Shelmil lay in a remote corner of the continent, far behind the allied forces' final defensive line.
Support troops and supplies had been sent forward, yet no fighting had ever reached this region. By the time he first held a spear, victory reports of the hero Rowell and his companions were already echoing across the land. The horrors of the war he knew came only from refugees or those who had spoken with them.
“……”
He fought to keep his eyes on the sky. Again and again his head tried to drop, and he forced it back upward as though the act itself were some vital duty.
He knew how foolish it was. Why should he fear looking at the horizon? What meaning could it possibly hold? And even if it were something to dread, could he truly escape that fear by simply refusing to look?
His mind told him to lower his gaze—that it was the sensible thing to do, the only way to end this unnatural compulsion. Yet his instincts and his heart fiercely rejected the command. His body would not permit him to look down, as though doing so would bring some terrible conclusion.
Time passed. His colleague lifted the canteen several more times, exhaling alcohol-scented breath while humming an unrecognizable tune, but the younger guard remained staring at the sky.
Still, he sensed the moment would soon end. His neck ached, and within the anxiety and vague dread, a dark urge to confirm what lay ahead was steadily growing. Several times he nearly lowered his head, only to close his eyes and jerk it back up, barely avoiding the sight of the horizon.
“……”
Yet despite his efforts, he finally lowered his head and looked. He said nothing. For a moment he simply gazed at the scene before him, then tightened his grip on the spear.
Otherwise, he was no different from before. His expression had not changed; if anything, he looked more at ease than when he had been forcing himself to stare skyward. He walked over to his seated colleague, silently took the canteen, and drained what remained in one long swallow.
“Hey! I would've given it to you if you'd asked.”
After finishing the last of the alcohol, he exhaled a deep, steady breath—as though he had accepted everything, as though everything had been resolved. He handed the canteen back and walked to the door, where he seized the trumpet hanging there and blew it with all his strength. It was the enemy-attack warning horn that no one had ever sounded, the one that had hung untouched even during the last great war, slowly gathering sand and dust.
“H-Hey, what are you doing?”
The startled colleague staggered to his feet and rushed over. As he tried to stop him, the younger guard ignored him completely, continuing to blow the trumpet while pointing toward the horizon. The older guard followed the gesture with his eyes.
“……?”
At first he did not understand. Between the alcohol and his aging eyes, it took time to register the change.
“……!”
His pupils widened as the drunken haze vanished in an instant. Fear and despair flashed across his face, followed at once by resignation. With a calm expression, he lifted the empty canteen, shook it once more, and tossed it over the wall.
“Damn it. You could've left me at least one sip.”
Upon reaching the nearby city, we first locked Cliven inside a special detention cell designed to suppress magic. Though he was a skilled summoner, the barriers and spells that disrupted mana flow would leave him powerless.
“Understood, Anak-nim. I will keep a close watch on him.”
Fortunately, convincing the guard captain and the jailers that the man making the request was Anak—one of the hero's companions—was not difficult.
After all, there were three other Anaks besides the one standing before them.
Of course, until identities were properly confirmed, the officer in charge, the captain, and the jailers had each greeted whichever Anak they believed to be the real one, but that much was understandable.
“What will you do now?”
Though Geil asked politely, his eyes were already urging us to leave at once.
“First, let's go to the Mage Guild. We need to inform Medrup-nim of the situation. He will likely be able to help.”
No matter how capable the three summoners were, if they had been strong enough to defeat Kainaknus-nim, charging in blindly would be reckless. The situation with Raiven's clones was urgent, yet seeking assistance was still the wiser course.
“Understood.”
I quickly removed my ring and other artifacts, tucking them deep inside my clothes. I had already shown Geil my sudden disappearance once, but I had no desire to reveal the study's existence, so this was the only option. Even if the crystal ball's connection grew faint, Medrup-nim would surely recognize famous ancient artifacts.
Elena, meanwhile, donned her long robe once more. She seemed aware that her appearance drew more attention than necessary.
“…By the way, how did the two of you know Cliven had betrayed us?”
“I was suspicious from the start. Setting a trap requires knowing the exact route or location. I simply lacked certainty. But when he mentioned the skeleton man, his pupils wavered. He offered a clumsy excuse, of course, but the decisive moment came when he showed relief after I said I had no more information to extract. You noticed it too, didn't you, Elena-nim?”
“Yes. He clearly showed relief.”
I wasn't certain how it appeared to another summoner, but his control over his expressions was truly abysmal.
“But calling for Cliven from the beginning—was that a coincidence, or had you already suspected something?”
It might simply have been that he happened to be the closest summoner besides Geil, yet that alone did not seem to explain it.
“After seeing Kainaknus-nim attacked, I considered the possibility that the enemy had obtained information from us. And since Cliven's crystal ball had gone silent without reason not long ago, I couldn't help but wonder—if there was a traitor, it might be him.”
“…I still can't understand why he came there of his own accord.”
I could not fathom what courage Cliven had possessed to walk straight into that situation. No matter how many tasks remained for him to complete, how could he believe he would not be discovered in such suspicious circumstances, especially with such poor control over his face?
If it had been me, the moment I received Elena's message, I would have fled immediately to the rendezvous point and claimed the mission had failed.
“Cliven did not know of Anak-nim's existence until he arrived. He probably thought he could persuade me—or at least threaten me.”
“Or perhaps he simply wasn't thinking at all.”
I nodded at Geil's assessment. Given that he had remained still without any attempt to flee or fight, even while knowing we could not kill him, that possibility seemed the most likely.