We stayed there, on the dune, for a long ti—what might have been an hour, an entire day, or a discreet eternity—the ti dissolving around us like light in the grains of sand.
We no longer needed to walk, nor to speak, nor even to truly think.
We were no longer travelers.
No longer survivors.
We were simply... there.
Present.
Anchored in that suspended mont, at the edge of a world too beautiful to be explained, too calm to be disturbed by clumsy words.
Sotis we exchanged a glance.
Sotis not even that.
And yet, everything was said.
We observed.
In silence, in a naless reverence, like two souls beco children again before sothing greater than themselves.
We had nothing to add.
Nothing to correct.
We were not the authors of this tableau.
Only its witnesses.
This paradise did not deserve to be rushed through, to be reduced to a fleeting vision or an emotion too quickly released.
It deserved more than a few monts of admiration.
It demanded silence—not as an absence of words, but as a tribute.
Slowness too, that slowness only sacred places impose without command, the one that cos naturally, that weighs each gesture with gentleness.
And finally, surrender—not forgetting, but the renunciation of all vigilance, of all armor, of all urgency.
So, without needing to talk about it much, we had decided to camp here.
Right there, at the frontier of the dream, on the threshold of a world too pure, too intact to be stepped upon without a form of respect.
As if simply staying on that dune, brushing it with our steps without leaving it, was a way of saying: we did not co to take, but to learn to look.
And to celebrate this singular day, this mont suspended in the imnsity of life, I took from my belongings an object I had kept preciously for a long ti, almost religiously.
A sealed bottle of a rare wine: the Blood of the Azuram Hills.
A deep red, dark as a moonless night, but crossed with athyst gleams, heavy and vibrant like secrets.
It was known not only for its aromatic richness but also for its soothing virtues.
Each sip distilled a slow, soft, almost carnal warmth, spreading from the palate to the heart with the delicacy of a twilight fire.
With it, I had brought a smaller flask, more discreet, but just as precious.
Nectar of the Twin Moons.
A rare juice, golden and syrupy, extracted from the delicate fruits of the solstellar tree, which only blood one night per year, between two equinoxes.
Its texture brushed the tongue like a liquid caress, light and sweet, almost effervescent, and left behind a floral note so fine, so elusive, that no known word seed capable of naming it.
It was a taste of light.
A taste of peace.
And that evening, it had the perfect taste.
Today was a day of peace.
Not a forced peace, not a lull between two storms, not a silence torn from war—no.
A true peace.
A day suspended in the breath of a world that, for once, demanded nothing.
A rare day, as only a few exist in a lifeti, and which one often recognizes only afterward, too late to hold it, but early enough to preserve the echo.
A day without battle, without calculation, without plans.
A naked day, pure, placed there by chance or by the benevolence of a world still capable of rcy.
A day when we were not trying to survive, nor to win, nor to grow stronger.
A day when we simply celebrated this: being alive.
Breathing.
Drinking an ancient wine.
Sharing a silence without tension.
And looking at the world, not as a field of conquest, but as an offering.
Today... we celebrated life.
I settled in slowly, letting my muscles relax for the first ti in days, perhaps even weeks, my gaze drifting, suspended sowhere in the vast landscape stretching before us, like a painting too large to be contained in a single glance.
The sun, in the distance, declined with majestic slowness, almost ceremonial, slowly sliding behind the distant ridges, and each ray, before disappearing, seed to offer one last kiss to the earth.
The tall grasses took on a liquid gold hue, undulating under the breeze like a vegetal sea, while the ruins we glimpsed further away, half-buried in greenery, were draped in purple and amber, as if the past itself had finally agreed to be illuminated.
I brought the glass to my lips.
And I drank.
In small sips.
Each was a slow exploration, a step into a mory I had never lived, but which the wine seed eager to tell , note by note, like an old poem recited in a forgotten language, translated by the body before the mind could understand.
Beside , Lysara had risen without a sound, without disturbing the quiet of the mont, and began precisely unfolding the elents of her improvised kitchen, taken one by one from her magical bag—a task she now executed with an almost ritual ease.
She had found that little marvel in town, in one of those discreet markets where more secrets than coins are exchanged, and she had paid a fortune for it, of course, almost reluctantly, but seeing it as an investnt.
And that evening, watching her move, thodical, focused, I saw that glow in her eyes—not arrogant pride, but a soft satisfaction, a spark of restrained, almost childlike enthusiasm, as if she was waiting for my verdict while pretending not to care.
She was proud.
In her own way.
And that was enough to make this dinner, already perfect, just a bit more so.
That evening, she was preparing a true feast.
Not a simple travelers’ al.
Not an upgraded ration or a makeshift assembly.
A feast.
Thought out.
Composed.
Offered.
She took from her bag perfectly preserved exotic fruits, with thin, colorful skins, their flesh seeming to vibrate with trapped aromas, ready to burst at the slightest touch of heat.
Vegetables too—crunchy, alive, in strange hues: ashen purple, nocturnal green, yellow almost translucent, as if the light still passed through them.
Then she lined up a few gnarled, thick roots, from which emanated a deep, rich, almost hypnotic sll—a scent of ancient earth, of awaited rain.
And finally, she delicately unwrapped a piece of dried at, dark, supple, marbled with silvery threads, of an origin completely unknown to .
An unknown species, no doubt.
A new taste to discover.
Her gestures were slow but sure, precise like those of an artisan, of a calligrapher tracing ancient symbols.
thodical.
Ritual.
Almost sacred.
I watched her without saying a word.
Fascinated.
She wasn’t cooking.
She was composing.
Like a musician tuning her instrunt to the pulse of the night.
Like a priestess of the earth calling the spirits through fire, blade, and spices.
And soon, the aroma of her preparations began to mingle with the warm desert air.
Sweet notes, slightly smoky, lifted by that dry bitterness found in rare herbs—scents that overlapped without clashing, that filled the space without invading it, like a gentle mist resting between the dunes.
I almost felt they were calming the very atmosphere, soothing the wind, slowing the breath of the dunes, as if even the sand paused for a mont to listen.
And in this discreet alchemy, made of quiet fire, sure hands, and benevolent silence...
The whole desert seed to wait.
With .
She gave a sideways glance, one of those half-serious, half-playful looks, where that spark shone—the one she only ever showed halfway, as if emotion, in her, always needed a touch of tender nace to remain dignified.
Then, placing the first plate before , she declared in a perfectly neutral, almost ceremonial tone:
— If you ruin this with your brute palate, I’ll stab a fork into your thigh.
I smiled.
Not a polite smile, not the kind you wear without thinking to lighten the mood, no.
A real smile.
A smile that rises slowly from the pit of the chest, that spreads by warming the ribs, that relaxes the jaw before you realize it, a smile that’s lived more than shown.
The kind of smile you only offer to true monts.
I raised my glass.
The wine caught the glow of the fire and the end of the day, casting into the cup purple and athyst reflections, as if the light itself wanted to toast with us.
I t her gaze one last ti.
And I whispered, without pressing the voice, like a pact murmured between two heartbeats:
— To Terra Neutralis... And to us.
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