The Golden Sand That Swallowed the Sky

19th Era of the Great Gerhana – Jabal Al-Sawda City, Narajalle Kingdom, Lunanevfa Continent

Dusk in Jabal Al-Sawda always felt like a painting left unfinished. The stone streets held the shimmer of gold dust drifting from old steam engines, while newly lit moon-crystal lamps cast pale halos across rooftops. The smell of warm bread mixed with the metallic smoke rising from the harbor.

The great clocktower tolled seven times, its echo rolling all the way to the slopes of Jabal Al-Sawda.

The sky was too red.

Not the usual color of sunset—but the red of fresh blood.

“A double eclipse,” muttered a broad-shouldered baker, glancing toward the sea. “The blue moon covers the red sun.”

The Eclipse Sea.

A sea that was always red, even at noon.

A sea that never truly slept.

At the harbor, captains and fishermen tightened ropes and checked hulls. When the sea began to sing—a deep metallic rumble from the abyss—it meant Aurathrax was rising.

“Raise the anchor! Pull away from the shore!” a captain shouted.

Too late.

The sea bulged upward. Then something broke through.

Tentacles.

One.

Two.

Eight.

As thick as the Narajalle Lighthouse—one hundred fathoms tall—and so long their ends vanished into the sky. The color was molten gold, liquid metal sliding over itself. Every movement threw clouds of golden dust into the air.

The Southern Trade Ship vanished in an instant. Wood exploded like paper. Sailors turned into golden statues—still alive within the shell.

Panic spread. Families slammed doors, barricaded windows.

Aurathrax rose in full.

Its body was a living mountain, skin flowing like endless golden sand. Its tentacles writhed across the sky like divine serpents. Two burning red eyes swept across the city.

The harbor collapsed under one sweep.

Golden sand poured onto the streets. Houses aged a century in seconds and crumbled. Those who touched the golden dust turned into statues—but their eyes still moved. Conscious. Trapped.

On the slopes of Jabal Al-Sawda, in Zakhmar Citadel, seven ancient vampires gathered in the Blood Chamber.

“Break the seal.”

“Activate the circle.”

“Blood for blood.”

Drops of blue blood fell. A magic circle opened in the heavens—a second moon.

High atop the clocktower, Zakhmar III stood alone. Ninety years old with silver-blue hair and sapphire eyes. The moon crystal pulsed in his hand.

He stared at Aurathrax.

“You are the sorrow that never ends.”

He leapt. His body turned into a streak of blue shadow, landing before the colossal tentacle.

The crystal burst. Blue light pierced Aurathrax’s eyes.

The monster screamed. Its tentacles melted into ordinary sand, collapsing like golden waterfalls. Its vast body was dragged back toward the Eclipse Sea.

Just before it disappeared beneath the waves, Aurathrax whispered:

“I will return. Until I find her. Or until all of you become gold.”

Silence followed.

Only a massive crater remained on the shore. Hardened gold formed new stone.

Half the city was gone.

The survivors knelt in the central square.

“We are your blood.”

“You are our moon.”

Two days later, the Southern Kingdom of Lunanevfa surrendered half its territory in exchange for eternal protection. Zakhmar III accepted the golden crown of Aurathrax—warm, and faintly alive.

On the mountain slope, construction of Baho Citadel began—the throne that would one day rule the entire continent.

In his journal, Zakhmar III wrote:

“Aurathrax is a mirror. When I die at three hundred years old, my descendants will continue the duty—because sorrow that never ends becomes power that never fades.”

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