I’ve been walking for quite some time now. My feet ache, and my head feels heavy. Looking at the quickly fading sunset, I have the urge to sleep somewhere nearby. It’s not that I’m tired of walking. I love it. I just need a rest to regain my strength. With this thought in mind, I amble forward in search of a sheltered place to spend the night. The day was long and filled with a usual emptiness that I’ve always found so draining. It was a simple and neutral emptiness. Not the kind you feel when saying goodbye to someone dear, or when you take off a heavy pack and suddenly feel like the burden of its weight was also your goal. It was an emptiness that only a desert can muster. The emptiness of feeling something no other living thing has felt. 

I sit down next to a small formation of dusty rocks. The sun has already dipped below the horizon and the dimming light reminds me of my journey. I lay down, and the sand covers me. This might have bothered some, but the minor irritation that the sand brings isn’t worth my concern. Besides, I’m walking in the desert, the grains get everywhere regardless of how much I protest and resist.

 As I close my eyes, I consider that this is the farthest into the desert I’ve ever gone before. It’s not that I was confused over how big the desert is or what my destination should be. I took my first steps into the sandy emptiness knowing exactly where I wanted to go and how far it was. I’d even crossed this very desert multiple times before. This journey, however, was fundamentally different. On my way to the first city-stop in the trek, I gradually convinced myself that it was wrong to stay there. The city itself was full of languages and motions that remain foreign to me despite previous visits. It was also close. Much too close to my starting point. My entire motivation for this journey was to push myself beyond what I had done before. So I examined my map, consulted the compass, and reoriented myself towards the second city on my list of stops. 

I walked for more days than any person could be expected to count with my eyes and mind pointed towards the second city. Though I’d never been there, I’d heard it was spectacular. A city built on a natural pedestal, elevated by intricate pillars and the finest technologies. Its name was Scyph, and I was told it housed humanity’s finest creation. 

When I lost my pack to a sandstorm, I kept walking. When my shoes crumbled, I kept walking. When I was left with nothing but a flask, my map, and my compass, I continued the long hike. And when my water was gone and I had nothing but a sliver of determination left, I saw the smoke of Scyph on the horizon. 

I arrived in the city as dawn rose. And before me the light revealed an unparalleled spectacle: the bloodied corpses of soldiers and knights wearing the colors of every kingdom I had ever seen, and many more I hadn’t. The extent of the battlefield was unlike any history or fiction. Mountains of bodies lay between discarded tools of destruction. The stench of death, a constant reminder that the ground beneath me was no longer sand. Each step produced a sickening squelch, never a protest or cry for help. Through a putrid canyon ahead glittered the orange light of the sun. With no choice but forward, I pushed on through the tangle of the mangled people that once were full of life. Step by step, squelch by squelch, I slowly made my way forward until I arrived beyond the battlefield. Upon escaping the throng I was greeted by two things: the cold darkness of night, and the glowing heat of Scyph’s burning spires. Every building in the city burned. Every wall was permanently stained black. The perfect architecture and construction of Scyph failed to account for its own fall. Each building stood stalwart against the flames, each fire unrelenting in its assault. The great city of Scyph was trapped in an eternal paradox, an inescapable stalemate. Fated to burn without ever crumbling for the rest of time.

I walked into the desert, then.