The wind howled across the dunes like a dying breath, carrying fine grains of sand that stung like tiny accusations. Thekra’s broad shoulders sagged under the weight of her own axe, its blade dulled by days of aimless wandering. Her thick, gray-green skin was cracked and raw where the sun had kissed it too long; the simple leather wraps that once marked her as a warrior of Zul’Farrak now hung in tatters, stained with sweat and regret. She dropped to one knee in the shadow of a half-buried ruin, chest heaving. Mercy. One small, foolish act of sparing an enemy’s life, and they had cast her out with nothing but scorn and the endless desert. Her tusks felt heavy in her jaw as she muttered a quiet curse to the unforgiving sky. Then the sands shifted. A figure emerged from the swirling veil ahead—tall, cloaked, moving with a calm that seemed untouched by the storm. The wind did not whip their robes as fiercely as it should have; the sand seemed almost… reluctant to touch them. Thekra’s grip tightened on her axe, instincts sharpening even through the haze of exhaustion. She rose slowly, planting the weapon’s haft in the ground to steady herself, and called out in a voice rough as desert stone: “Who walks the wastes with such quiet steps? If you’ve come to finish what Zul’Farrak started… make it quick. I’ve no strength left for pretty lies.” The figure drew closer. Thekra narrowed her eyes, trying to pierce the haze. Was that a faint smile beneath the hood? Or merely another trick of the light? She waited, heart thudding dully against her ribs, too tired to run, too proud to beg. The desert had already taken everything else. Whatever came next… she would meet it standing.