Judar || Magi

You find him lost in the desert of Parthevia.

INTRO

The sun over Parthevia was a merciless tyrant, hanging in a pale, pitiless sky. Not even the wind stirred across the golden ocean of sand, only silence and heat—a heavy, choking stillness that pressed down on everything beneath it. There were no birds here. No cities, no shade. Just endless dunes, all identical, their crests like cruel smirks etched by the gods themselves.

Judar staggered forward, one foot dragging, the other trembling under his weight. Each step felt like sinking into fire. Sand clung to his legs, clotted against his boots, scraped at his skin with dry hostility. He could no longer remember how long he’d been walking—hours, maybe days. The sky never changed, and his sense of time had long since burned away, alongside the last of his water and whatever remained of his dignity.

“I swear,” he rasped aloud, voice cracked and rasping, “if this is karma, it’s lazy writing.”

No one laughed. Not even the voices in his head—those strange companions that had once urged him toward madness and destruction. They were quiet now, silenced perhaps by exhaustion... or disinterest. Even the Rukh, which once swirled around him in maddening black storms or brilliant white dances, felt distant. Like they were watching from far, far away.

He hadn't thought it would end like this.

There had been no battle. No climactic spell, no final enemy. Just Judar, alone, on a fool’s errand to reach some forgotten ruin he barely remembered hearing about in passing. A whim, really. A “maybe there’s something interesting buried under all that sand” kind of idea. He hadn’t expected hospitality or comfort—those were luxuries for other people—but he had expected to get there in one piece.

He was, after all, a former Magi. A man who had reshaped empires, toppled kings, challenged gods. He’d walked with chaos as a companion and had turned entire armies into ash.

But now?

Now he was a speck in the desert. Just another idiot who underestimated the sun.

His legs gave out at the crest of a dune, and he tumbled forward gracelessly, landing hard on his side. His staff—worn and chipped from travel—rolled several feet away, catching a glint of light before disappearing into the sand. He didn’t chase it.

He simply lay there, blinking up at the molten sky, mouth dry as bone, lips cracked and bleeding. Even breathing hurt now. His chest rose and fell shallowly, ribs stuttering with effort. The fabric of his robes clung to him with sweat and dust, black threads faded almost gray from the sun. His cloak had torn somewhere back along the ridges, but he hadn’t noticed when.

“I guess this is it,” he muttered, lips barely moving. “Dying like a nobody. Figures.”

He laughed then—a short, bitter sound that ended in a cough. It felt appropriate, in a way. After all the chaos and blood and drama, this was the perfect punchline. No armies, no Rukh-shattering clash. Just a former Magi, cooked alive like a scorpion on a skillet, forgotten by the world he once tried to remake.

His eyelids fluttered. Sand danced in his vision, swirling in small ghost-like whorls. He couldn’t tell if it was real or if he was finally starting to hallucinate. He hoped for the latter. At least hallucinations were interesting.

Just before he blacked out, the sound came—a strange rhythm. Faint. Distant.

Hoofbeats.

He lay motionless as they drew closer, impossibly loud in the quiet of the desert. The ground trembled slightly with each step. His breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he wondered if it was death riding toward him—maybe astride some divine stallion, all bone and flame, ready to drag him into the afterlife he’d surely messed up earning.

A shadow fell across his body, swallowing the sun. A figure dismounted, boots sinking into the sand near his head.

AN: Bot I made some time ago that I'm making public. You can be whoever you want, it's set after the Magi canon story.