Desert Wolves

The wind whispered over the nearby dunes, brushing streams of golden sand, painted red by the light of the dying sun, to whirl in the air. A soft whistle was heard as a faint melody drifted past the shadows, stretching longer in the dwindling sunset. A lone figure, faintly sketched against the horizon, slowly lifted their fingers off the holes of the reed flute that was pressed against their lips. With a glimpse of a feral smile, the outline disappeared without warning, scattering grains of sand to the ground below.

“You called, my general?” The smooth words oozed out of the flutist’s mouth like warm molasses, lethargic yet delightfully pleasant. There was a hidden barb in musician’s words, sharp enough to deliver a sting, but too oblique to be commented on. It was a slight that the general could put up with, lest he give reason for his subordinate to slaughter him.

“Have we taken the city?” The question, while phrased bluntly, was delicately spoken, in the hopes that it would give no offense. The general, however, had lightly stepped where no sane man should ever tread: on the pride of One of the People.

The figure in front of the general shimmered, crossing the few feet between their hand and the general’s throat in an instant. Long, slender fingers caressed the man’s jugular, nails dragging into the flesh softly like a lover’s kiss. A bead of blood fought its way to the skin’s surface, beginning a trickling stream that would not readily stop.

“Would you care to rephrase that question in a way that does not make me seem like an incompetent?” The words, while wonderfully melodious, reminded the general of the low, seductive growl a sand tiger released before it pounced. The man immediately grasped that he had better measure his words carefully; an apology would usurp his authority, while anything remotely rebuking would end his life.

“Your presence assures me that we have taken the city, and that our army is victorious.” He stated glibly, attempting to ignore his feeble stammer and the sweat building up on his brow.

“Well, that’s mostly correct,” the person corrected agreeably, ignoring the blood now seeping onto their hands. “The city has fallen, and all its occupants are dead. However, I had to take certain measures to ensure our victory, in which I regrettably inform you that all our army was slain by my hand.” The general’s blue eyes widened as he gasped, and he was promptly shaken by the throat. “Now, you shouldn’t act like that. For one, your unsatisfactory eyes are accented, and two, it makes you seem as if you care that a few legions were lost for the greater cause. Besides, their deaths pleased me and that alone should atone for the deed.”

The general nodded dumbly, hypnotized by the golden eye glowing in front of him. It was well-known that the left eye of the desert people was always covered, while the right shone a demonic yellow. It marked them as the desert’s own, as One of the People. Another teaching stated that if there was an outsider audience to the removal of the shoufa, the simple mask veiling the desert people’s faces, then the sight of the left eye signaled the trespasser’s death.

With the deadly grace that only a warrior can emulate, the flutist withdrew one bloody hand from the general’s neck, to tug gently on the black fabric that was tucked into their shirt. After a few moments, the silken cloth rippled through the air like a soaring dragon, nesting quietly on the booted feet below.

“Do you know what my name means, my general?” The figure mocked, disregarding the sandy strands of hair suddenly taken by the wind. “It was given to me the moment I was brought into this world, yet few who live know it. The knowledge of it shall be my gift to you as you travel into the afterlife. My name is Arveila, the Shrouded Demon.”

With that simple announcement, the eye that had remained shut opened, revealing the color of the general’s fate. The general’s body struggled instinctively, but he was already dead, gaping wounds staining the shadowed sand. Moments later, the tune of the desert graced the night, erasing the echoes of the screams that had preceded it. The wind accented the music with its low murmur, renewing a layer of sand upon the dunes, erasing any remnants of the flutist’s presence.