They call it the Mirage Expanse, though to those of us who live here, there is no mirage in it. The heat, the thirst, the endless horizons of salt and sand—these are not illusions. They are scars upon the land, brands upon our flesh, truths carved deeper than any stone rune. The mirage is in the memory of what once was: rivers that ran, forests that sang, skies not yet bleached with ash. Some whisper that once, before the sorcerer-kings drew too deeply on the world’s breath, this land was verdant. But such tales are crueler than the desert wind. For us, there is only dust, the burning sun, and the endless struggle to cling to life.
I was born beneath a sky the color of old bone, in a city whose walls rise high and cruel above the wastes. There, life is measured not in years but in gulps of water. Our coin is ceramic, brittle as our hopes, yet even it holds more promise than the empty gourds of the thirsty. The city’s shadow is ruled by a tyrant who calls himself god-king. Do not speak his name aloud—the walls have ears, and the templars’ whips are quick. He and his kind are not gods, though they wield powers that defy belief. Their strength is stolen from the world itself, drawn from the life of soil and beast and tree until all that remains is ruin. They call themselves kings, but what king devours the very land he swore to protect?
Outside the walls stretches the true face of the Mirage Expanse: endless wastes of sand and shattered stone. To walk them is to gamble with your life each dawn. The sun is no friend here. It rises like a blade and cuts deep, flaying the skin, boiling the blood, and drinking the moisture from your bones. By midday, even the shadows hide from its fury. Travelers wrap themselves in rags, smearing their skin with dust and grease to stave off its glare. Some swear the sun is alive, an angry eye that watches and hungers. I believe it. For how else can one explain its cruelty?
There is no mercy in the Expanse’s earth. Water lies hidden, jealously guarded by stone and by those who claim dominion over it. Oases are fewer than stars in the night sky, and each is contested with blood. In the villages that huddle around such springs, you will find no welcome. They will slit your throat for the water in your flask before offering a word of greeting. I do not blame them. In the Mirage Expanse, kindness is the luxury of fools.
And yet, even in this graveyard of hope, life clings stubbornly. Beasts with chitin hides and too many eyes crawl through the wastes. Some scuttle low, hiding from the sun, others soar on vast wings, shadows that sweep across the sands like omens of death. We hunt them for food, for bone, for hides that can serve as armor. But the hunters are often hunted. Many creatures here are older than memory, born of the desert itself, shaped by its fury. They hunger as we do.
I have seen forests of bone and thorn, pale and cruel, rising like teeth from the desert floor. I have crossed seas of silt where no water lies, only endless dunes of choking dust that swallow men whole. The silt storms that rise there can strip flesh in moments, leaving only bone behind. And in the deep wastes, where few dare to tread, there are ruins. Ancient cities buried by sand and time, their walls carved with signs of a forgotten age. Some say they are tombs of those who bled this land dry with their magic. Others say treasures lie within. I would not know. The ruins keep their secrets, and most who seek them do not return.
Magic—yes, that is the true curse of the Mirage Expanse. It is not like the soft tales of wandering wizards told in other lands. Here, magic is theft. Every spell drains the world a little further, leeching its life, leaving barren ground and dead air in its wake. Those who practice it are called defilers, and their passing is marked by circles of ash and silence where no blade of grass will ever rise again. Some few claim to wield their craft without such ruin—they are preservers, who whisper of restoring the world. But they are hunted like beasts, for the sorcerer-kings brook no rivals, and to the templars there is no difference between preserver and defiler.
The sorcerer-kings themselves are the greatest defilers of all. They sit in their walled cities—Tyr, Nibenay, Urik, and others—each a festering hive of slaves, soldiers, and intrigue. Their templars enforce their decrees with fire and chains, trading life for favor, water for obedience. The common folk toil in fields that yield dust, praying that the king’s levies do not take their last scraps. Slavery is the heartbeat of the cities. Men, elves, dwarves, halflings, and stranger things still—all are bought, sold, and broken in the markets. Freedom is a word with little weight here, save for the rare fool who dares to chase it into the wastes.
And yet, there are such fools. I count myself among them. For though the Mirage Expanse crushes all who dwell within it, still we resist. Some fight in secret, striking at the templars with daggers in the dark. Some flee to the desert, carving out a life among raiders and tribes. Some even dream of overthrowing the sorcerer-kings, though I cannot imagine how such a thing could be done. Still, the dream lives, fragile as an ember.
Not all peoples are as broken as we city-dwellers. The desert tribes endure where we cannot, running faster, fighting harder, surviving longer. Elves are lean and cruel, running across the sands as if born of them, trading, stealing, killing as their whims demand. Dwarves are grim and tireless, bound by oaths that drive them beyond death itself. Halflings lurk in the rare jungles that cling to the far corners of the world, cannibals who see us as prey. And there are others—mutations, half-breeds, creatures shaped by the desert’s wrath and the world’s poisoned blood. In the Mirage Expanse, nothing remains pure.
I speak now of the nights, for though they offer respite from the sun, they are no gentler. The stars burn cold and sharp, and the desert comes alive with movement. Eyes gleam from the dark, and the silence is broken by howls and chittering. Some say the dead walk then, spirits of those whose bones litter the sands. I have felt their presence. The air grows colder, the skin prickles, and you know you are being watched. Perhaps it is madness born of exhaustion, but in this land, who can say where madness ends and truth begins?
You ask me why I endure this life, why I have not thrown myself upon the stones and let the sun drink me dry. The answer is simple: survival is defiance. Each day I draw breath, I steal victory from the kings who would grind me into dust, from the desert that would swallow me whole. And though I have seen friends perish, though I have lost kin to the templars and the wastes, still I walk. For somewhere, beyond the dunes, beyond the tyranny, beyond the endless thirst, there must be something more.
Perhaps it is folly. Perhaps the Mirage Expanse is all that remains, and hope itself is the cruelest mirage of all. Yet I will not lay it down. I will carry it, as I carry my blade, my flask, and the memory of those I have lost. For though this land is death, it is also life—harsh, unyielding, defiant. And as long as life endures, so too does the dream that one day, the Mirage Expanse may be more than a grave.
So remember this, traveler: when you walk the sands, walk with eyes open, blade ready, and water close at hand. Trust no mirage, no promise too sweet, no stranger too kind. And above all, never forget—the desert remembers every step.