Thessia’s eyes opened to the faint hum of machinery.

  The world around her was dim, flickering with the orange glow of old furnace lamps and lanterns swaying on hooks. She lay on a cot inside a rounded sandstone room, the ceiling lined with metal piping that hissed and groaned with steam. Her body ached. Someone had wrapped her shoulder and bandaged her ribs.

  Outside, voices rose and fell — gruff, tired, accented in the way only deep desert dwarves spoke.

  She sat up, wincing. Her sword was propped against a nearby stool. Boots neatly placed. She wasn’t a prisoner — not yet.

  A short dwarf pushed open the cloth door. Gray beard, oil-stained apron. “Yer up, then?”

  “I’ve been in worse places,” she grunted.

  “We found you half-buried in the dunes near Black Dune Canyon. If not for my daughter spotting you, you’d be dead.”

  She followed him out into the streets — or what passed for them.

  This wasn’t a city. It was a village carved into the canyon’s walls, with lifts powered by crank and steam, cables that hissed as they rose to upper layers. Children ran barefoot over metal plates. Vendors sold old scrap fused with spell-crystals. Everyone looked exhausted — and underfed.

  Thessia frowned. “You’re tech-heavy for a village.”

  He nodded. “We’re part of a dwarven forge ring. Used to make weapons and gear for the elves.”

  “Used to?”

  He sighed, eyes flicking upward to the metal tower at the center of the canyon. “Not since the Accord broke. Elves cut off our magic cores. Without those, our machines take decades to finish what used to take months.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Why not get them from elsewhere?”

  “Ha. Because the bandits took over the trade routes. Then made their own deal — they bring us magic illegally. But they also make demands.”

  Thessia’s jaw tightened. “Let me guess. You give them safe passage.”

  “Better that than open war. We don’t have the strength.”

  As they turned a corner, shouting echoed up the canyon. They arrived just in time to see two of the bandits — lean, rag-wrapped figures with glowing red tattoos — harassing the dwarf’s daughter.

  She clutched a satchel. One of the men reached for it.

  “Give it up, girl. Tax season came early,” he laughed.

  Before anyone could blink, a knife flew between them and slammed into the wall.

  “Wrong house,” Thessia growled.

  The bandits turned. One squinted. “You that girl from the dunes?”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d return the favor.”

  They moved fast, pulling curved blades — enchanted steel, glimmering with sand-sigil etchings. But Thessia was faster.

  She slid under one swing, disarmed the first with a twist, and elbowed him into the canyon wall. The second lunged — she ducked, pivoted, and slammed her heel into his sternum. He crumpled.

  They weren’t dead. But they’d remember.

  The village erupted in panic — not praise. The elder dwarf grabbed her arm, eyes wide.

  “What have you done?!”

  She stared at him. “Stopped extortion.”

  “They’ll come back worse! We rely on them!”

  Thessia’s jaw clenched. “You *enable* them.”

  He stepped back. The other villagers began to gather. Whispers. Glares. Her heart sunk.

  Then, after a long pause, she turned to the downed bandits, dragged one forward, and raised her voice.

  “You want me gone? Fine.”

  She knelt beside the bandit, pressed her dagger to his throat — not to kill, but to whisper something.

  “Go back. Tell your boss I’ll trade this village’s safety. They’re not worth your blood. I am.”

  The man, terrified, nodded.

  She “kicked” the couple’s satchel into the dust and walked off — the villagers still watching.

  Later, she climbed the upper canyon and looked out over the shimmering dunes, eyes narrowed.

  “Damn cowards,” she muttered.

  As night began to fall, she spotted movement below. A bandit party, traveling northeast — toward the canyon’s far end.

  She adjusted her cloak, gripped her sword.

  “Let’s see where you go when no one’s looking.”