The sound of approaching voices pierced his stupor and his eyes fluttered open. Utter blackness greeted him and he gasped in fear, his hands flailing forward only to stop immediately as they hit something solid. Sand mixed with the air causing him to double over, coughing. Smoke lay heavy across his senses, his mind struggling to focus on anything else. He attempted to roll over onto his back but something heavy lay across his lower half. The voices were coming closer, and as he turned toward them a sliver of light split the darkness overhead. He reached a trembling hand towards the light, fighting to see through watering eyes.

“...someone cough, I’m sure of it,” a voice said from almost directly above him. He instinctively shrank back, still attempting to make sense of his surroundings. There was a grunt and the sound of canvas and sand shifting atop him. Blazing sunlight suddenly drilled into his half opened eyes, completely blinding him as his skull split with pain. His arms fell across his face in a pathetic bid to shield himself from the intruder and the light.

“Eia! There’s a boy here, he’s alive!” the voice above him called. He hesitantly lowered his arms, his eyes stinging as they strove to adjust to the noonday suns blazing overhead. A face slowly resolved before him. Piercing emerald eyes peered out from behind a midnight indigo litham, the rest of her body obscured by a matching thobe. A gloved hand pulled the litham down, exposing a woman’s face weathered both by age and the desert suns.

Her eyes softened and she smiled as she took in his terrified expression. She knelt, and with strength belying her apparent age, began pulling what he now realized was a body off of him. Tangled in the charred remains of the tent that still half covered him, the corpse of a burned and bloodied man was unceremoniously dragged to the side and dropped, face down in the sand. He struggled to speak, but his parched throat only managed a rasping cough.

“Peace, child,” the woman said soothingly as she knelt again. Something about the words felt alien yet he understood her meaning perfectly. With slow, deliberate motions, she reached into one of the many folds of her thobe. She paused when she saw him tense, eyes wide. “Peace,” she repeated, then continued, withdrawing a sizeable waterskin wrapped in layers of deep indigo cloth.  “Drink,” she said, uncorking the waterskin and tipping a steady trickle of tepid water past his cracked and blistered lips. He drank, coughing half of it back up as his desperation for water and air clashed.

Once he had gulped down half the waterskin she stopped pouring, spiriting it back into the folds of her thobe. She reached out to help him as he haltingly propped himself up on his elbows. Leaning forward, she gingerly brushed the sand and ash off him as she studied his face, and for a moment he thought he saw recognition in her dark eyes. He blinked and it was gone, replaced by somber determination as she heaved him to a sitting position, sending sparkling black sand cascading off his body.

Destruction surrounded him, dozens of burned out husks were all that remained of the caravan's wagons and tents. The heat radiating off the sand combined with the smoke to veil the desert around him in a thick haze. Dozens of figures moved solemnly through the wreckage, all draped in the same dark indigo cloth. They had the slow, melancholy movements of a funereal march as they checked the debris for survivors and salvage.

Large black-winged avian forms were visible through the wavering light, scattered throughout the remnants of the caravan attack, picking at the remains of its victims. He squinted through the blurred air and recognized the skeletal visages of a wake of vultures, seemingly unperturbed by the living humans. The people appeared not only unbothered but, to his great surprise, reverently bowed their heads to the blood-soaked creatures as they moved past, always maintaining a respectful distance.

Without the remains of the tent that had previously sheltered him, he suddenly became painfully aware of the sweltering heat from the desert suns beating down upon his unprotected skin. Just as he was about to collapse back into the cool sand below, the woman reached out a hand to steady him before swiftly untying her litham and wrapping it around his head with practiced ease. Immediately the oppressive sunlight abated, and he looked up at the woman, eyes brimming equally with gratitude and pain.

The woman turned, revealing long grey hair tied back in a loose bun, then gestured toward someone he couldn’t see. He swayed, struggling vainly to focus on the swirling indigo forms of the approaching people.

“I am Safiyya,” she said, her tone slow and pleasant as she faced him again, “our caravan saw the smoke at dawn, we had been over a day behind you.” When he made no response, confusion writ across his face, she continued, “what happened to your caravan? Everything is burned, and many of your people fell to the sword. Bandits are rarely bold enough to attack a caravan of this size, and never this destructive.” Her eyes bored into him as she spoke, as if searching his every response for an explanation.

“I… don’t know…” he said finally, voice soft and hoarse, the pause between his words making it clear he was as surprised as they were by his lack of an answer. He frowned, perplexed, and seemed to be attempting to dredge up the elusive memories when two more robed and veiled figures reached him. They conversed quickly in hushed tones with Safiyya before turning to face him. The tall, broad shouldered person on the right knelt beside him.

“I am Gwafa, Amenukai of the Kel Brahim, and this is my son Amastan,” he said, his voice a rumbling baritone. “What are you called? What happened here?” he asked.

“I… don’t know,” came the same uncertain answer.

“It is as I said, ryysa,” Safiyya whispered to Gwafa, “and he is the only survivor. Seven and sixty found, and likely more lost in the ashes.” Gwafa looked down, pensive, then spoke, “You do not remember anything, child? No part of the attack?”

He sat up straighter, brow furrowed in frustration, before finally responding.
“I remember… falling… i-in my tent. There was… screaming… a-and fire everywhere.” He paused, some aspects of that night coalescing into clear memories while others dissolved as he fought to recall them. “Demons… demons all in red… o-or was it blue?” he said, and the eyes of all three listeners widened in surprise.

“In blue--” Gwafa began.

“Demons in red?” Safiyya interjected, interrupting Gwafa. He half turned toward her, indignant, but she pressed on. “That must be… but they're never sent this far past the border.” 

Gwafa paused, clearly troubled by the words, before finally asking, “These demons, child, they wore red armor? Mirrored helmets? Great red swords?”

He gulped, then nodded. Gwafa rocked back on his heels and Amastan let out a low whistle.

“It’s a miracle he is even alive, ryysa,” Safiyya said, inclining her head deferentially to Gwafa with the last word. “A lone child, surviving a raid by the Igni Amundai with no idea how. Truly blessed by the Aether, this one.”

“Blessed indeed,” said Gwafa, face thoughtful. “Safiyya, see to his needs, if it truly was the Igni Amundai we cannot tarry. This road is no longer safe. We must retreat, only the desert herself can protect us. Get him ready to move, we leave before Rana is in the sixth.” Gwafa stood, dusted the sand from his thobe, then added, “and we shall need something to call him if he cannot recall his own name.”

“We shall call him Aedelus,” Safiyya said reverently. Gwafa paused, halfway turned away from her.

“Careful Safi. There are those for whom that is more than just a child's tale.” Gwafa said, "But 'from the Aether' he is indeed," then strode off toward the rest of his people, followed closely by Amastan.