THE GOLDEN GALLOP

Kaelen Thorne

"To the horses! Now!" the Silver Weaver commanded. Her voice wasn't a whisper anymore; it was a crack of a whip.

I didn't waste a second. I scooped up Mina and tossed her onto the lead horse, while Elara grabbed Cian. We couldn't take the wagon, it was too slow, a wooden box in a desert full of glass-toothed hunters.

"Leave the supplies!" I shouted as I cinched the saddles. "Just take the water and the children!"

Behind us, the dunes were moving. It wasn't the wind. The Sand Stalkers were closing in, their long, spindly legs clicking rhythmically against the hard packed earth. In the moonlight, they looked like a forest of moving needles.

We kicked the horses into a gallop. The Silver Weaver led the way, her sand-colored silks flying behind her like a banner. She wasn't riding a horse; she was gliding just inches above the ground, her feet churning the sand into a golden mist.

"Stay in my wake!" she yelled over the roar of the wind. "The sand I stir will hide your scent!"

I rode at the back, my eyes darting left and right. I felt naked without my shadow-mantle. I had only a steel sword against creatures made of living glass, but I would die before they touched my family.

"They're gaining on us!" Elara cried. She was holding Cian tight in front of her. The boy was pale, his head lolling against her chest. The blast he’d used earlier had drained him completely.

A Stalker lurched out from behind a rock, its jagged limb snapping at my horse’s flank. I leaned out of the saddle, swinging my sword with all my strength. The steel rang out as it hit the creature’s leg, chipping the glass but not breaking it.

The Weaver saw the pack surrounding us. She skidded to a halt, turning back toward the oncoming swarm.

"Keep riding!" she commanded.

She slammed her palms into the sand. "Earth to air, dust to sky! Veil the path from the Hunter's eye!"

A massive wall of sand erupted from the ground, rising fifty feet into the air. It wasn't just a dust storm; it was a solid barrier of swirling grit that hissed like a thousand snakes. The Stalkers slammed into the wall, their glass bodies screeching as the sand scoured their carapaces.

We didn't stop. We rode until the horses’ lungs were heaving and the stars began to fade into the grey light of dawn.

As the sun began to peek over the horizon, the desert changed. The endless dunes gave way to high, red rock canyons. The Weaver led us into a narrow crack in the stone, so tight our stirrups brushed the walls.

Suddenly, the path opened up into a hidden valley. It was an emerald jewel in the middle of the red waste. Waterfalls tumbled down the rocks, feeding a lush forest of silver leaved trees. In the center sat a temple made of white marble that looked like it had been woven rather than built.

"The Temple of the Weaver," the woman said, finally slowing down. She looked exhausted, her golden eyes dimmed to a dull bronze.

We dismounted by a clear pool of water. Elara immediately pulled Cian from the horse, laying him on the soft grass. He was shivering, though the air was warm.

"He’s burning up," Elara said, her voice trembling. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

"It’s the power," the Weaver said, walking over. "His body is a fireplace, but the fire is too big for the hearth. If he doesn't learn to vent the heat, it will consume him from the inside out."

She looked at Mina, who was curiously touching a silver leaf. The little girl’s hands were sparking with tiny, harmless golden pinpricks.

"You brought them here just in time," the Weaver said to me. "But you must understand, Duke Thorne. Once they enter the Temple, they aren't just your children anymore. They are the first of a new age. And the world, the South, the North, and the Shop will never stop looking for them."

Kaelen looked at his son, then at the beautiful, peaceful valley. He felt a pang of sadness. They had found peace for years, but it was over. A new kind of war was beginning, one where his children were the prize.

"I don't care about the world," Kaelen said, his hand finding Elara's. "I just want them to live."

"Then let the lessons begin," the Weaver said.

But as she spoke, the water in the pool turned black. Not mud, but ink. A single, perfect silver butterfly emerged from the water, landing on Cian’s sleeping hand.

It wasn't a message from Lyra. It was a summons.

The Shop hadn't been destroyed. It had just been waiting for a new currency to trade.