A low groan escaped Jhon Rackham's lips as he forced himself upright. His body protested every movement, muscles stiff from wounds both fresh and fading. He wasn't sure if it was the nightmares or the relentless heat that had wrenched him from sleep, but either way, rest had been nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
The small, sand-brick room smelled of spices, sun-dried cloth, and the faint trace of desert wind sneaking through the wooden shutters. A worn-out tunic hung on the wall, draped over a rusting hook—his only spare. His boots sat by the door, covered in dust no matter how many times he had tried to clean them. With a grunt, he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and dragged himself upright.
Outside, the voices of the village drifted in—bartering, arguing, laughing. Zafir, the old man who had dragged him out of the desert when he had collapsed from exhaustion, was likely already working. The man's kindness had saved his life, though his sharp tongue made Jhon question whether it had been an act of mercy or sheer amusement.
Jhon shoved his feet into his boots and stepped outside. And just as expected, the moment he crossed the threshold, a gruff voice greeted him.
"By the sands, boy—are you just now waking up?"
Jhon barely had time to rub his eyes before he spotted Zafir, standing by a wooden stall, arms crossed, watching him with a mix of exasperation and mild entertainment. The old man's skin was darkened from years beneath the unrelenting sun, his beard streaked with silver, his frame wiry but strong. Jhon squinted up at the sky. The sun was already at its peak, burning down mercilessly.
He yawned. "Sun never goes down here, old man. What's the point?"
Zafir clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "No, no. You foreigners—you all say the same thing. 'The sun never sets, the heat never fades.' As if complaining will make it stop!"
Jhon stretched, groaning as his back cracked. "Not complaining. Just accepting my fate."
Zafir scoffed. "Your fate, huh? Your fate was to die in the sand and let the vultures pick you apart, but I ruined that plan for you, didn't I?"
Jhon smirked. "Worst mistake of your life."
The old man waved a dismissive hand. "Hah! It is too late for regrets. My wife already scolds me enough—I do not need another mouth to add to the chorus."
Jhon chuckled, but there was something bitter beneath it. The casual banter, the simplicity of the morning—it almost felt normal. Almost. But then his mind betrayed him.
A flash—blood on sand. The screams of his crew, the gleam of metal cleaving through flesh. The Iron Foot insignia, painted in crimson. His hands clenched. The warmth of the sun suddenly felt suffocating.
Zafir, perceptive as ever, narrowed his eyes. His voice softened, just slightly. "Come. Eat something before your thoughts eat you first."
Jhon exhaled slowly, shoving the ghosts back where they belonged. "Yeah," he muttered. "I could use a drink, too."
The old man sighed. "If you get drunk before noon, my wife will beat you herself."
Jhon managed a smirk. "Sounds like an honorable death."
Zafir barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he led Jhon toward the house. "You are an idiot, boy. But if you wish to fight the Iron Foot, you will need more than idiocy."
Jhon's smirk faded. He already knew that. But for now, just for a moment, he let himself pretend this was just another ordinary morning in a village untouched by war. For now.
Jhon chewed slowly, the warm, spiced bread melting in his mouth. The food was simple—flatbread, dates, a bowl of lentil stew—but to him, it tasted better than any feast he had ever known. Maybe it was because he had spent too many nights with nothing but sand and regret in his gut. Or maybe it was just because he was alive to taste it.
Across the small wooden table, Zafir watched him with quiet satisfaction, his weathered face creased into a rare smile.
"You eat like a man who has been starving for years, not just days."
Jhon swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe I have."
Zafir chuckled. "Good. A man who eats is a man who still wants to live."
Jhon didn't respond right away. Instead, he let the weight of those words settle over him.
Did he still want to live?
He had survived, yes. But survival wasn't the same as living.
Zafir must have sensed the shift in the air because his smile faded. "You are thinking again. That is dangerous for men like you."
Jhon exhaled sharply, setting his spoon down. He leaned back against the rickety chair, staring at nothing in particular.
"You want to know what I'm thinking?" he muttered.
Zafir folded his arms, nodding. "Speak, then."
Jhon licked his lips, tasting salt and memories. "That night," he began, voice quieter now, "I remember everything too clearly. The way the screams cut through the air. The smell of blood mixing with the desert wind. My men—they weren't just killed. They were torn apart, like animals."
His hands clenched on the table, the knuckles turning white.
"And I?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I lay in the sand, bleeding out, while those bastards walked away like it was nothing. Like we were nothing."
Zafir said nothing, letting him speak.
"I should be dead." Jhon's voice cracked, and for the first time, he let himself admit it. "I should've died with them."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, Zafir spoke, his voice firm but not unkind. "Yet you live."
Jhon scoffed. "And you think that's a good thing?"
"I think it is fate," Zafir said simply. "The sands of Sol-Mayora take who they wish. If they spat you back out, perhaps they still have use for you."
Jhon looked away. "Or maybe they just weren't done torturing me yet."
Zafir sighed, rubbing his beard. "You can curse your survival, boy, but you cannot change it. You are here. Now the question is—what will you do with it?"
Jhon didn't hesitate.
"Revenge."
The word fell from his lips like a blade, sharp and unwavering. He expected Zafir to scoff, to tell him that vengeance against the Iron Foot Clan was madness, that it would only lead to his death.
But the old man only sighed.
"So you've decided, then?" Zafir asked, his voice weary.
Jhon nodded. "I decided the moment they left me to die."
He pushed his chair back, standing. The weight in his chest had been there since that night—since he had woken up alone, buried beneath blood and sand. Saying it out loud made it heavier. Made it real.
Zafir leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? March into their camp with nothing but anger?"
Jhon smirked. "Not alone."
The old man's expression hardened. "What did you do?"
Jhon exhaled sharply. "I went to the bar last night."
Zafir's lips pressed into a thin line. "Drowning yourself in drink won't bring your friends back."
"I wasn't drinking," Jhon said.
"Then what?"
Jhon held his gaze. "Gathering."
Zafir frowned. "Gathering what?"
"People. Fighters. Idiots."
A short silence followed before Zafir let out a dry chuckle. "Idiots, indeed."
"Stupid men with nothing to lose make the best kind of soldiers," Jhon muttered.
Zafir shook his head. "And what did you promise them?"
Jhon clenched his jaw. "A chance."
"A chance?" The old man leaned back. "A chance for what?"
"To burn the bastards who burned them."
Zafir studied him, his face unreadable. The flickering lantern overhead cast deep shadows in the lines of his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was grim.
"Do you even know what you're up against?"
"I know enough."
"No, you don't," Zafir said. "The Iron Foot Clan is not a gang of petty raiders. They are a war machine. They take no prisoners. They do not bargain. They only conquer and destroy."
Jhon's fingers curled into fists. "Good," he said. "That means I won't need to show them mercy."
Zafir exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Vengeance is a fire, boy. It does not burn in one direction."
Jhon's voice was steady. "Then let it burn everything."
The wind howled through the cracks in the wooden walls. Zafir watched him carefully, his dark eyes searching Jhon's face as though looking for something—hesitation, doubt, regret. But there was none.
The old man sighed.
"How many?"
"A dozen. Maybe more." Jhon crossed his arms. "They're not trained, but they're ready to fight."
"Madmen."
"Men with nothing left to lose."
Zafir's expression didn't change. "That's the same thing."
They sat in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken warnings. Then, at last, Zafir leaned back, rubbing a hand over his beard.
"You'll need more than blind rage to win this."
"Then teach me," Jhon said without hesitation.
Zafir raised an eyebrow.
"You know this land," Jhon continued. "You know how they fight. You saved my life—now help me make something of it."
The old man didn't answer right away. He watched Jhon for a long moment, as if measuring the weight of his words, as if trying to see whether this broken, furious young man would survive the road he was about to walk.
Then, finally, he let out a small, tired chuckle.
"You really are a fool, Jhon Rackham."
Jhon allowed himself a smirk. "I know."
Zafir sighed. "Then let's make sure you're a fool who doesn't die too soon."
Jhon and Zafir burst into laughter. It wasn't the kind of laugh that came from joy—it was bitter, raw, the kind that only men on the brink of madness could share. Jhon knew he was out of his mind, and Zafir knew it too. And yet, they laughed.
"By the gods," Zafir wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"
Jhon smirked, shaking his head. "I must be the biggest fool in Sol-Mayora."
"The biggest fool, indeed," Zafir agreed, slapping the table. "And here I thought I had met all of them."
Their laughter grew louder, filling the small house, as if mocking the fate that awaited them. If death was inevitable, then at least they would greet it with laughter.
Then, the door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside, carrying a woven basket filled with goods from the market. Her dark headscarf was slightly askew, and a few silver strands of hair peeked through. She had warm, amber eyes that carried both kindness and weariness—like a woman who had seen enough suffering but still found the strength to smile.
"Zafir," she sighed, placing the basket down. "What are you cackling about this time?"
Zafir grinned and stood up, wrapping his arms around her in a firm embrace. "Ah, Safiya, my love! Just laughing at the madness of this young men."
Jhon watched the scene unfold, his smirk fading into something quieter. Something ironic. Here they were, in a land where death lurked behind every dune, and yet, Zafir and his wife still found moments like this—where love, warmth, and laughter could exist despite the looming shadow of war.
Jhon envied them. He envied how easily they could enjoy something as simple as an embrace, knowing full well that any day could be their last.
Safiya set the basket aside and looked at Jhon with gentle eyes. She had always been the calm presence in this home, the one who could listen, really listen, without judgment. But today, her gaze was different.
"What is it, Jhon?" she asked softly, her voice carrying an edge of concern. "What have you shared with my husband that has him laughing like that?"
Jhon glanced at Zafir, who had returned to his chair, shaking his head with an amused, yet weary, smile. Jhon opened his mouth, unsure where to start. But in that moment, he realized that he was no longer just telling a story to Zafir. He was telling it to Safiya, too. He had to.
"I told him," Jhon began, his voice a bit quieter than before. "That I've gathered a group of men to take on the Iron Foot Clan. I'm going after them. I'm going to kill them for what they did to my crew."
Safiya's expression didn't shift at first. But the silence that followed was enough to make Jhon feel the weight of her gaze on him. She didn't need to ask more questions—she had heard it all before.
After a moment, she sat down across from him, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "And what makes you think you can do it?" she asked, her voice steady but with a depth of sorrow that Jhon could hear. "You've survived, yes. But you're not the first one to come through those doors, Jhon. You're not the first one to think they can take on the Iron Foot Clan and survive."
Jhon opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He had nothing to say. Because she was right. He wasn't the first. And what did that mean for him? Was his fate really any different?
Zafir said nothing, just watched them both with a quiet understanding, as if he had seen this play out too many times before.
"You think I don't understand," Safiya continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "You think this is something new to me? That you're the only one who's lost everything?"
Jhon didn't answer. He couldn't. The room seemed to grow smaller as the weight of her words pressed down on him. He wanted to explain, to make her see that he wasn't like the others. That he had to do something, anything, to honor his fallen comrades. But as she spoke, Jhon realized that Safiya didn't need to understand—she already had enough pain in her heart to last a lifetime.
She looked at him, and for the first time, Jhon saw something in her eyes that made his chest tighten.
Tears.
But no tears fell.
Her eyes were dry, the sorrow in them deeper than any cry she had ever made. It was the kind of grief that had built up over time, over too many faces—too many broken promises, too many men like Jhon who came in here, battered and broken, with dreams of revenge and redemption.
"Jhon," Safiya whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "you're not the first one to survive. You're not the first one Zafir has brought here. And I am tired of hearing these stories. I'm tired of seeing men come and go, thinking they can win against the darkness that is the Iron Foot Clan. It's too much, Jhon."
Jhon didn't know what to say. He simply stared at her, feeling her words wrap around his heart like chains, pulling tighter with every breath he took.
She wiped her hands across her face, as if trying to push the weight of her emotions away, but they lingered in her voice. "I've heard enough of these stories, of men who think they're different, who think they'll be the one to defeat them. But in the end, they all end the same way. Just like the rest. And I can't watch it happen again."
Jhon could feel the weight of her grief in the air, thick and suffocating. He had hoped for understanding, maybe even support. But what he got was a woman who had seen too much, a woman who knew the price of survival, and knew how it never really ended.
Jhon's throat tightened. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt the tears threatening to fall. But he fought them back. Because he knew what Safiya knew—that no amount of crying would change anything.
The pain, the loss, the endless cycle—it was all too much. And yet, it was all they had left.
"I understand," Jhon said softly, though his voice was barely above a whisper. "I know what it costs."
Safiya nodded slowly, and for the first time since he had arrived, she reached out to him. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't pity. It was simply a recognition of shared pain, a quiet acknowledgment of the world they lived in.
And as her hand rested on his, Jhon knew. He knew what it meant to survive. But in that moment, he also knew what it meant to endure.