"Gods above," Prince Cyril groaned.

The midday sun bore down on him with savage intensity. Sloping walls stretched up hundreds of feet in every direction, offering little in the way of shade.

After a moment of disorientation, he realized he was lying in the epicenter of a mile-wide crater.

Wincing, he propped himself up on one elbow. He hadn’t felt this terrible since the morning after his seventeenth nameday, when he had passed out less than an hour after father brought out the cactus wine and agave spirits. He imagined he could even taste the alcohol again, moist and thick against his teeth, until he touched his mouth and it came away sticky with blood.

Well, he thought to himself, that is the natural consequence of becoming possessed by one of the Titans. Most fools found themselves under the thrall of some mischievous imp, perhaps an ifrit or even a marid depending on how gravely they had offended the heavens. These vessels usually embarrassed themselves in front of their betrothed or perhaps burned down a couple villages before the tribes mustered enough forces to put them down.

But, no, Cyril had his body usurped by a being capable of devastating nations on a whim. At least it had not crushed his soul; he could feel it, the core of his being, surrounded by the Titan’s existence like an oasis within an endless desert. Like the sun perched in the all-encompassing sky.

His headache prevented the formation of a properly poetic metaphor.

He wanted to deny it, to deceive himself that he was suffering the after-effects of some potent religious hallucinogen or divine vision, but the truth was undeniable. His essence, his personality, remained, obstinate as ever, a contrarian whisper that helped ground the Titan’s apathetic nature. He knew it had chosen him because, on its own, it would continue to purposelessly wander the world for all eternity—not lost, never lost, but only because one could not be lost unless they had some ultimate destination in mind.

He knew this because he was no longer simply Cyril. He was Behemoth as well. As much as he wanted to pretend there was some distinction, his soul separated from the Titan’s lifeforce, they had merged into one entity. He remembered the past eighteen years of his human life, and he remembered aeons stomping around the world: heedless of the magmatic surface of early creation; unimpressed by the toxic clouds destroyed by the passage of his mighty head; stone-facedly falling through the frozen surface of a river to wander the bottom of an ocean for millennia.

He spit blood to the side and forced himself to his feet. For a moment, vertigo seized him, as he imagined himself standing thousands of meters tall, able to see the curvature of the earth from his vantage. Instead, he was standing some six feet off the ground, and in his disorientation stumbled forward like a baby taking its first steps. No earth quaked beneath his feet—his slippers disturbed a few loose pebbles. Cyril struggled for a moment to reassert his sense of self and shrug off the Titan's memories.

It was, understandably, quite a bit to take in. Part of his mind rebelled against the intrusion, no matter the legendary nature of the spirit and the calming effect of its presence. He was meant to tame and bond with a lesser desert spirit, maybe a low-rank djinn, and live a routine life. The massive discrepancy between Behemoth and his personal power made his soul vulnerable to its influence, though he sensed no hostile intentions. In fact, he sensed almost no intention at all from the ancient spirit. Most people would have considered it a divine blessing to be possessed by one of the Titans, but he couldn't help but think it was a heavy burden.

The crater he found himself in was, of course, one of Behemoth's footprints, having broken through the stratum of sand to leave its imprint in the cracked clay beneath. Cyril tested the side of the crater with a little kick and, finding it solid enough, began his laborious climb upward.

Fortunately, no one was around to observe him clambering up the side on all fours, careful not to slip on the veneer of sand. And, he reflected, I even have handholds!

Behemoth's foot was jagged enough to leave an imperfect impression, the once-flawless stone exterior chipped and pockmarked from all manner of obstacles it had encountered over the years. Few materials were capable of leaving their mark on a Titan, but countless monsters and landmarks had vented their fury on it over time—enough to erode even a mountain.

It took about a few minutes to ascend up the crater. The unfathomable reservoir of energy inside of him was a metaphysical weight, as contrarian as Cyril himself. Tapping into the Titan’s lifeforce would have enabled him to run up the sheer face of the wall in a fraction of the time. But he refused, climbing as a Mundane would, unsure what the act proved but determined to see it through regardless.

The last quarter of the climb was the most difficult, since a layer of sand had trickled down to coat the surface. Not a few times he had slid back before catching hold of a crevice. Two steps forward, one step back.

He hauled himself over the lip of the crater and sat on the level ground, panting. Damn, he was out of shape. He had neglected his physical training due to his--for a human--vast energy reserves, even prior to his possession. Why spend hours of discomfort honing his body when he could Reinforce himself, exceeding the natural limits of any Mundane? His mother often called it indolence, but Cyril was not on the path of a warrior. Was it lazy for a blacksmith not to practice the harp?

Sighing, he wiped his bloody mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. All of his clothing, including his slippers, were made from an enchanted material that remained spotless. Not even sand could infiltrate his garments--after all, it would be improper for a prince to have sand lodged between his toes.

“What a day,” he muttered to himself.

Behemoth had stepped on him, hadn’t it? Somehow, his body had survived the ordeal of being crushed beneath a mountain. At least his clothes had not been shredded, sparing him the indignity of being hounded by maniacal women when he returned to his tribe.

He glanced up at the sky. Not long before the sun would begin to drift back beneath the horizon. Already flares of pink and peach and lavender painted the heavens with the promise of dusk.

How long had he been out here?

More importantly, where, exactly, was he?

The last thing he remembered was being home, in his feather bed, sleep weighing down his eyelids as he struggled to read one more page of his new favorite romance tome. The city-dwellers failed at much, with their inscrutable, rooted ways of life, but he begrudgingly admitted they could spin a good yarn.

So, he had lost at least one day. Behemoth offered no help in determining the passage of time. It wasn't that it was so ancient that years became seconds. It simply paid no attention, existing in the moment with the nirvanic clarity of an imbecile.

In response to the thought, something shifted inside of him. A sharp pain in his lower dantian, like he had eaten spoiled meat. Apologies.

The Titan didn't deign to respond.

Cyril heaved himself to his feet. Supposedly, one in tune with the desert could recognize their location from subtle differences in the landmarks. All he saw were endless dunes and jagged sandstone outcroppings. And, far off in the distance, the edges of another crater from Behemoth’s preceding step.

He rubbed a finger against the side of his nose and shrugged. Even he knew a few Cantrips to help him survive and navigate through his birthland. Not to mention the desert of borrowed power stretching his core beyond human limits.

Closing his eyes, he read the surface layer of his soul. The compact, elegant runes of the divine language greeted him:

Prince Cyril, Vessel of Behemoth
Early Condensation Stage

 

Dominions:

Sun, Second Sphere 245/1000
Knowledge, Second Sphere 352/1000
Earth, First Sphere 0/100
Gravity, First Sphere 0/100
Mass, First Sphere 0/100

 

Cantrips:

Flicker
Mind Scroll
Pressure
Reinforce

The Dominions of Earth, Gravity, and Mass originated from Behemoth, along with the Pressure and Reinforce Cantrips. Not a bad haul, especially since it only scratched the surface of the Titan’s true abilities. In time he would grow into a more suitable vessel, better able to express the more esoteric nature of his little guest.

At first glance, there seemed to be an unfortunate lack of synergy between his innate Dominions and the new ones. An obvious overlap was by no means required, but the higher Spheres could fuse into specialized domains. The ruler of the Stormwind Isles had a rather self-explanatory set of powers that permitted his continent to float in the upper threshold of the atmosphere, sparing his people from the vast majority of calamities earthbound civilizations faced by necessity.

The thought summoned one of Behemoth’s memories: the top of his head scraping along the foundations of the Stormwind Isle, inflicting a meteor rain of dislodged bedrock onto the land below. Cyril winced.

Hands on his hips, he observed the ethereal palette of the sky for a moment before kicking up a spray of sand. Was the desert itself not a combination of the Sun and Earth? Did the gods not exclaim that all things under creation, even diametric realities like Heaven and the Earth, existed in relation to one another?

Satisfied, the prince chose a direction and began walking. North, judging from the position of the sun. Though he had not trained as a navigator, he had received the same basic education as every other youth in his tribe. Once the night stars populated the heavens, he should be able to find his way back home. Or, at least, head toward their approximate location.

There was a chance he was moving in the completely wrong direction, but his people were nomadic by nature. An hour or two of wandering about the desert would not make much of a difference in the long run, though he was somewhat concerned his family may be searching for him. Still, it was nice to stretch his legs. Climbing the crater alone had soothed much of the ache in his muscles from being stepped on.

Also, he admitted to himself, he was curious to test his new Dominions. As long as he had not wandered too far from the tribe, the area was relatively safe. He would not have risked it before--especially alone--but simply Reinforcing his body with Behemoth's borrowed qi would make him all but impervious to any monsters in the vicinity.

And if not, it would be more productive to scout his opposition opposed to sitting around like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

He cycled through the Cantrips as he walked along at a leisurely pace.

A pale flame ignited across his outstretched palm, eerie shadows dancing in its presence.

It vanished, replaced with a papyrus scroll that unfurled above his head. He knew, without looking, it was an itemized list of his favorite romance series, random titles crossed out; it was difficult to complete it in chronological order so far from the Great Cities, even with his family’s resources and connections.

The next two did not come to him so naturally. He focused on the runes for each one on his Soul, bringing their descriptions to the forefront:

Reinforce - concentrate qi onto a specific part of the body to imbue it with enhanced durability.
Pressure - concentrate qi into an external locus to apply kinetic force.

Not exactly the most enlightening of descriptions, but having reached the Second Sphere of Knowledge granted him a far more useful instruction than the basic notation from the First. Beneath each overview was a visual guide on how to best circulate his qi in order to cast the associated Cantrip.

In the modern world of written Knowledge, both skills were considered fairly useless since the information on basic Cantrips could be purchased for a pittance. For a young man lost in the desert with a new set of abilities, it was a gift from the gods.

Smiling to himself, Cyril stretched out one hand and circulated qi through the channels leading down his arm. Pressure required a sophisticated expression of control, rotational force turning around and upon itself in a counter-rhythm. It took several minutes until his internal energy settled into the proper pattern.

A pillar of sand blasted into the air six feet in front of him. He resisted the urge to leap in celebration, especially when the sand rained down and buried itself in his shaggy hair. Sputtering, he wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand, eyes twinkling with triumph.

As he continued along, he casted the Cantrip off to the side and slightly behind him, reducing the amount of applied qi to spare himself from another geyser of sand. Small plumes rose from the landscape periodically.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself after a few more minutes, satisfied he had the hang of it.

Of course, applying it in combat would be far more difficult than savaging some helpless sand dunes. He would train more in the future. For now, he wanted to make sure he could summon the Reinforce cantrip on command. Reinforcement would be more than enough for most of the monstrous denizens of the desert, but he suspected a proper framework for his qi would make him nigh-impervious.

The ground beneath his feet tremored, wiping the smile from his face.

He knew that sensation. Every citizen of the desert did.

Frantically, he glanced around the area. There--a burgeoning tunnel of sand, as wide as a full-grown man, forty paces behind him. He groaned as his worst fear was confirmed.

Sandwyrm.