Opening Sand
A Gauntlet Prologue from Jabir
The gates creaked open with the weight of expectation.
From the shadowed archways of the coliseum, I stepped into the dust. Torchlight curled through the rising haze, dancing along ancient stone as if it, too, remembered what this place was. The pit was silent. Not empty. No, not that. But heavy. Like breath held before the scream. Like soil just before the storm.
The arena had waited long for this.
Above me, a thousand eyes looked on, but none spoke. Not yet. The crowd knew what was coming. They had not gathered for spectacle. They had gathered for reckoning.
And now, they came.
One by one, the warriors stepped into the circle.
Their shapes were varied. Tall and lean, broad and armored, robed, shirtless, cloaked, masked. But none of it mattered. The sand did not care what they wore. It cared only for blood.
They took their places in silence, ringed around me like the points of a compass. Each one faced the center. Each one faced fate. Some stood still. Some shifted on the balls of their feet. One clenched a fist too tightly. Another breathed through their nose, slow and rhythmic.
I had learned long ago not to mistake readiness for calm. Or nerves for weakness.
There were eight.
I turned slowly, letting my gaze pass over them without judgment. I was not here to measure their bodies. I was here to witness what would be made of their choices.
I cleared my throat. Not to speak louder, but to honor the quiet.
"You have come," I said, "as warriors."
My voice didn’t need to rise. The pit carried every word, and the stones remembered how to listen.
"You’ve shaped yourselves in silence. Honed strengths. Guarded weaknesses. Whether with intention or desperation, you made yourselves into weapons."
A breath passed. One of them shifted slightly, but did not step forward.
"This is not a duel of swords or spells. This is a battle of balance. Of instinct. Of resolve. You will not stand across from your opponent. You will not feel the weight of their blow. You will not hear the roar of the crowd at your back."
I paused then. Let it settle.
"When the fighting begins, it will already be decided. Not by a single swing, but by the sum of all your choices."
Another silence. Thicker this time.
"If you lose, your story ends."
That’s when the quiet deepened. No one shifted now. No one breathed too loud.
They all understood that part.
"There is no resurrection in this arena. There is only legacy. If you fall, your name will be added to the Graveyard of the Fallen. And your body, to the burn. You will not return."
The crowd above did not cheer.
Good.
They understood, too.
"But for the one who endures…"
I looked to the sky. The sun had dropped behind the outer wall now, leaving the pit lit only by fire.
"You will earn your glory. You will claim a prize. But you will carry more than either... the memory of what it took to win."
A beat. Then another.
"You will win. And you will walk out."
I let the silence stretch now. Not for effect. For memory. This moment would not come again.
Then I turned from the center, walking slowly toward the edge of the pit. As I passed each warrior, I nodded. Not as their host. But as their witness.
"The matches will begin soon," I said, not looking back. "Prepare your mind. Your story. Your end."
And with that, I left them standing in the sand, beneath the watchful eyes of the coliseum, and the countless ghosts who still lingered in its stones.
The hour was coming. And the sand was hungry.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Welcome to the Warrior Gauntlet
The crowd was already howling by the time the torches lit themselves.
A wave of flame ran the rim of the BlackSand Arena, tongues of violet and gold snapping up into the dusk sky. Drums beat like distant thunder. Dust curled in the wind. The banners of the twenty combatants rippled high above the blood-soaked stone.
And then—silence.
A single bell rang out. Low and old. The kind of sound that reminded flesh it would not last.
In the royal box, draped in black velvet and bone lattice, Jabir of the Waste stood.
He did not gesture. He did not perform.
But when he lifted his hand, the crowd leaned forward as if gravity itself demanded obedience.
Behind him, the skull of Master Alhuan hovered with a green shimmer, its light dim under the still-sinking sun. Verus stood beside him, a mountain in iron, hands behind his back, unmoving.
Jabir’s voice, when it came, was soft. But the arena heard it anyway.
“This is the Gauntlet.”
A pause. Wind stirred the sands below.
“Not a game. Not a sport. Not a tale for children. Here, you will witness the truth that bones remember, and that fire forgets.”
“Eight warriors enter. Only one will leave. Those who fall will be honored. Their deaths will be real. Their names, carved.”
He turned his head slightly toward the banners above.
“These flags you see? They will burn, one by one, for each who fails. Flame makes all things equal in the end.”
Another beat. Then:
“But for the victor—something more.”
The skull beside him flared gently, its green light catching on the silver threads in Jabir’s robe.
“The one who rises through steel and blood will be remembered. Marked. Seen by those who write history in shadow.”
A murmur moved through the crowd. A question, unspoken but shared.
Why does he care who wins?
Jabir did not answer it.
He only raised his hand once more, fingers splayed like the teeth of a trap.
Verus stepped forward, voice exploding into the sky.
“LET THE FIRST BLOOD BE DRAWN. LET THE GAUNTLET BEGIN.”
The drums resumed.
The sand shifted.
And the Warrior Gauntlet was born.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
