The desert doesn’t forget. Not bones, not blood, and definitely not betrayal.
Calder Rook had spent fifteen years hauling contraband and broken promises across the Sunreach Expanse—a hellscape of rust-red sand, jagged salt flats, and nomad warbands that hunted like wolves. He was a relic now. Leather-skinned, scar-sketched, with a left boot that clicked from a buried mine years back. But one last job came knocking, like they always do.
They called it the Map of Cinders—a burned leather scroll stitched from outlaw skin and etched in flameproof ink. Rumor said it led to a buried convoy, swallowed decades ago in a sandstorm and stuffed with enough tech, gold, and weapons to build an empire. The buyer? A woman named Delilah Vane. Black coat. Dead eyes. Paid in platinum shards and a whisper: “Bring me that map… and I’ll make you disappear from every bounty list east of the Dagger Rims.”
Calder liked that idea.
He rode a patched hoverbike named Gretta, fueled by bad gas and worse luck. First stop? Gravewater Gulch, where an old contact named Soot still ran guns and coffee out of a shack made of scrap tanks.
“Soot,” Calder growled, pushing open the rusted door, “you ever hear of something called the Map of Cinders?”
Soot didn’t answer. His neck had a knife in it, and his eyes were stuck open in surprise.
Then came the voice behind Calder.
“You’re late to the treasure hunt, Rook.”
Three figures stood in the dark. Ex-mercs. Scar-faced. Hungry. Calder ducked left as bullets punched holes in the wall. He dove through a window, igniting a grenade mid-air. The shack exploded behind him like thunder in a coffin.
Gretta groaned beneath him as he rode hellbent across the open salt. Dust devils chased him. So did the mercs—mounted on stolen drones and death-cycles. The Expanse came alive: sandstorms roared like beasts, ancient mines blinked red, and scavenger birds circled like they knew.
It wasn’t just a map. Calder discovered that halfway through the Bad Tunnels—a maze of collapsed war bunkers where time forgot to breathe. He found carvings. Names. A symbol that matched a tattoo on Delilah Vane’s neck.
This wasn’t a treasure map.
It was a kill list.
Each location, a grave. Each name, someone who betrayed the old world order before the Fall. Delilah wasn’t buying the map—she wanted them dead. And Calder was just a pawn in her resurrection play.
But Calder Rook didn’t like being used.
He rerouted. Found one of the survivors: a desert priest with iron hands and haunted eyes. Together, they decoded the rest of the map while fending off war gangs and blood raiders. Each clue brought them closer to the truth.
The final location?
The Spine—a jagged cliff where black glass jutted from the ground like obsidian ribs. Buried there: a cryo-chamber with a sleeping figure. Delilah’s twin brother, Lucien Vane—former warlord of the Dust Wars.
Delilah hadn’t wanted the treasure.
She wanted her brother back.
And when Calder refused to hand it over, she sent everything she had: gunships, sand tanks, and a mechanized death squad called The Shards.
The last stand was a furnace of violence.
Calder rigged Gretta with enough explosives to light a city block. The priest lit a flare and opened the chamber.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
Calder struck a match with his teeth. “Some maps shouldn’t be followed.”
He sent Gretta roaring down the canyon straight into the heart of the Shards. The explosion could be seen from three towns over.
They never found Delilah’s body. They never found Calder’s, either.
But the desert doesn’t forget.
Sometimes, when the wind howls right, you can hear the click of a broken boot pacing along the cliffs, and the hum of an old bike echoing through the blood dust.
Calder Rook had spent fifteen years hauling contraband and broken promises across the Sunreach Expanse—a hellscape of rust-red sand, jagged salt flats, and nomad warbands that hunted like wolves. He was a relic now. Leather-skinned, scar-sketched, with a left boot that clicked from a buried mine years back. But one last job came knocking, like they always do.
They called it the Map of Cinders—a burned leather scroll stitched from outlaw skin and etched in flameproof ink. Rumor said it led to a buried convoy, swallowed decades ago in a sandstorm and stuffed with enough tech, gold, and weapons to build an empire. The buyer? A woman named Delilah Vane. Black coat. Dead eyes. Paid in platinum shards and a whisper: “Bring me that map… and I’ll make you disappear from every bounty list east of the Dagger Rims.”
Calder liked that idea.
He rode a patched hoverbike named Gretta, fueled by bad gas and worse luck. First stop? Gravewater Gulch, where an old contact named Soot still ran guns and coffee out of a shack made of scrap tanks.
“Soot,” Calder growled, pushing open the rusted door, “you ever hear of something called the Map of Cinders?”
Soot didn’t answer. His neck had a knife in it, and his eyes were stuck open in surprise.
Then came the voice behind Calder.
“You’re late to the treasure hunt, Rook.”
Three figures stood in the dark. Ex-mercs. Scar-faced. Hungry. Calder ducked left as bullets punched holes in the wall. He dove through a window, igniting a grenade mid-air. The shack exploded behind him like thunder in a coffin.
Gretta groaned beneath him as he rode hellbent across the open salt. Dust devils chased him. So did the mercs—mounted on stolen drones and death-cycles. The Expanse came alive: sandstorms roared like beasts, ancient mines blinked red, and scavenger birds circled like they knew.
It wasn’t just a map. Calder discovered that halfway through the Bad Tunnels—a maze of collapsed war bunkers where time forgot to breathe. He found carvings. Names. A symbol that matched a tattoo on Delilah Vane’s neck.
This wasn’t a treasure map.
It was a kill list.
Each location, a grave. Each name, someone who betrayed the old world order before the Fall. Delilah wasn’t buying the map—she wanted them dead. And Calder was just a pawn in her resurrection play.
But Calder Rook didn’t like being used.
He rerouted. Found one of the survivors: a desert priest with iron hands and haunted eyes. Together, they decoded the rest of the map while fending off war gangs and blood raiders. Each clue brought them closer to the truth.
The final location?
The Spine—a jagged cliff where black glass jutted from the ground like obsidian ribs. Buried there: a cryo-chamber with a sleeping figure. Delilah’s twin brother, Lucien Vane—former warlord of the Dust Wars.
Delilah hadn’t wanted the treasure.
She wanted her brother back.
And when Calder refused to hand it over, she sent everything she had: gunships, sand tanks, and a mechanized death squad called The Shards.
The last stand was a furnace of violence.
Calder rigged Gretta with enough explosives to light a city block. The priest lit a flare and opened the chamber.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
Calder struck a match with his teeth. “Some maps shouldn’t be followed.”
He sent Gretta roaring down the canyon straight into the heart of the Shards. The explosion could be seen from three towns over.
They never found Delilah’s body. They never found Calder’s, either.
But the desert doesn’t forget.
Sometimes, when the wind howls right, you can hear the click of a broken boot pacing along the cliffs, and the hum of an old bike echoing through the blood dust.
