Instinct: Book 1

Chapter 1: The Rose in the Desert

The wind whispered over the scorched sand, weaving through dunes that stretched into the horizon. The sky, a brilliant tapestry of blue, shimmered over shifting mirages. Small creatures darted into slivers of shade, hiding from the desert’s relentless sun. In the wavering distance, the town of Hasben pulsed with life—a lone refuge carved from the sands.

The entrance to Hasben was marked by an adobe archway, worn and cracked from years of desert winds. Faded carvings etched into the stone bore the town’s name. Inside, a maze of dirt and sand streets intertwined with paved roads that connected its bustling arteries of commerce. Homes and buildings, formed from reddish adobe and clay, bore the scars of time—sunbaked cracks patched over with crude repairs. Wooden and metal signs, their paint long faded, hung outside shops selling whatever provisions could be mustered from the desert’s vastness.

At the town’s heart, a crystal-clear oasis shimmered in the sun. Water, pristine as liquid diamonds, trickled from a central fountain, feeding aqueducts that carried life to every corner of Hasben. Stands and shops ringed the oasis, their displays rich with the hues of desert-grown vegetables, meats, and fragrant spices that laced the air with earthy warmth. Jewelry glinted under the sun, stones catching the light in bursts of color against the simple linen and silk garbs of merchants and buyers alike.

The sun hung high, an unrelenting force overhead. Sweat slicked the brows of farmers tending their fields to the west. Blacksmiths hammered out fixtures, and craftsmen braced door frames against the ever-present wind. On the north and east ends of town, sunstones absorbed the day’s heat, storing their glow to light the homes when night fell.

The air buzzed with voices—haggling, greeting, laughing. But today, something felt different. The usual chatter had taken on a sharper edge. Muttered complaints about the heat mingled with irritated bartering. Frustration simmered just beneath the surface.

Then, a scream shattered the air.

A woman collapsed onto the dirt, gasping and pointing frantically ahead. Bystanders hesitated, some stepping forward to help. She caught her breath just enough to choke out, "He stole my bag!"

The market erupted into motion. Shadows flickered at the edge of her vision, and she turned sharply—too late. The thief was already vanishing into the crowd, a streak of movement between stalls. But he wasn’t alone.

A young woman, lean and swift, tore after him, her strides powerful and unrelenting. The thief glanced back, his eyes widening as she closed the gap. He shoved past carts and onlookers, sending goods tumbling. She, in contrast, weaved through the chaos, her movements fluid and precise. The thief scrambled over a fence between buildings, his grip slipping on the hot metal. The girl adjusted her course, sprinting along the alley’s side. They ran parallel, a wall between them, until the thief’s momentum faltered. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked, just for a second.

A second too long.

He turned his head just as another figure stepped into his path. A wooden staff struck his shin, sending him sprawling into a stone wall. He groaned, dazed, barely registering the first girl as she approached. The girl with the staff leaned against the wall, a smirk curling at her lips. "You know, Trina, you were just about to catch him. But this was cleaner."

Trina, breath steady despite the chase, rolled her eyes. "Ivanna, next time, let me have my fun."

The thief stirred, reaching for the stolen bag. Trina drew a metallic pistol from her hip holster and aimed it between his eyes. Her voice was calm, almost amused. "Not a real magnum revolver, but I promise—it will feel like one."

The thief went rigid. Moments later, they marched him back toward the town square, where Chief Trast, head of the town guard, was already waiting. She barely looked surprised to see them.

Trina smirked. "Chief, at this rate, you might as well put us on payroll."

Trast chuckled. "Or you could just join the guard, instead of making a hobby out of street justice." Before Trina could respond, two more figures approached. One, taller with medium-length hair, carried two wooden swords and an ever-present glint of mischief in his eye. The other, more reserved, wore glasses and clutched a book titled The Soundness of Intellectual Tactics: A Military History of the Skyine-Tendon Conflict.

Trast sighed. "Look, boys, it doesn’t matter how many times you show up to ‘support’ your friends. They’re not getting paid unless they sign up."

Serif shrugged, his face an exaggerated mask of disbelief. "Chief, we would never try to guilt you into such a dubious exchange… unless that guilt is finally starting to work."

Levion adjusted his glasses, sighing. "You’ll have to forgive our dear friend, Chief. The heat has clearly taken a toll on his ability to feel shame."

Serif gasped in mock offense. "At least I have the heart to help our friends, Levion!"

Levion pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I have the sense to let them handle things without theatrical interruptions." Trast shook her head, exasperated. "You know what you should be doing? Helping your grandfather with tonight’s ceremony preparations."

The group fell silent. "Orion’s light," Trina muttered, rubbing her temples. "We forgot."

Unger—their grandfather, mentor, and storyteller—had been left alone to prepare the town’s anniversary celebrations.

Trast smirked. "Go. Before he makes you regret it."

As they turned to leave, Serif called over his shoulder, "We’ll pick up the payroll discussion later, Chief!" Trast just waved him off, shaking her head.

The thief chuckled. "What are you laughing at?" Trast’s tone hardened as she stepped forward, gripping his collar. She pulled it back just enough to reveal the tattoo beneath—a hawk, clutching a knife.