The sun rose like a shy ember behind the dunes, casting soft golden light over the desert. It painted the sand in hues of rose and amber, and each grain seemed to shimmer as if kissed by fire. The Caravan of Kindness trudged slowly along a narrow path between sleeping dunes, its worn wheels creaking, and bells faintly jingling from the stitched cloth awnings.

  Princess Prick blinked awake from the sway of the cart that they got in before sleeping, nestled between Mira and Kira, with Whisk slouched nearby, mouth wide open in a goofy sleep. The air still held the crispness of night, but already the heat was crawling up from the sand like a serpent stretching in the sun.

  “Mmm… Morning?” Prick mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

  “Barely,” Mira replied with a yawn. “But the sun’s coming up fast. Mother Niva said we should be out of this stretch before midday.”

  Whisk groaned, rolling over and thudding against the cart wall. “My sword’s poking my back again... why do I sleep like this...?”

  Kira, always more energetic in the mornings, leaned over and poked his cheek. “Because you’re weird,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  Mother Niva walked alongside the cart, humming a soft desert lullaby. Her steps were slow but steady, her sun-worn cloak fluttering like sails in the wind.

  A cluster of other travelers—healers, merchants, and desert-dwellers who joined her kindness route—marched ahead, pulling carts of supplies or walking hand-in-hand with tired children.

  “Good morning, little stars,” Mother Niva called up, her warm voice breaking through the sleepy silence. “Dream well?”

  “Sort of,” Prick replied, leaning over the cart’s edge. “I dreamt of a tree that grew from the sand. It had glass leaves and whispered my name.”

  “Ooooh,” Mira said dramatically. “Prophetic dreams already?”

  “Maybe she’s going crazy,” Whisk said, now fully awake and stretching. “Or maybe it’s heatstroke.”

  “Or maybe,” Mother Niva said, “the desert’s starting to speak to her.”

  Prick tilted her head, curious. “Speak to me?”

  “The sand holds stories,” Niva said. “It sings in the wind and howls in storms. You just have to know how to listen. Would you like to hear one?”

  “Yes, please,” Kira chirped, eyes lighting up.

  “Very well,” Niva said, pulling her shawl tighter as they walked. “Long ago, before the Ironhart Kingdom, before even the Beastmen Kingdoms, the desert was ruled by a great serpent called Zehala. She slithered beneath the dunes, curling around ancient wells and guarding secrets with a tongue made of starlight. Travelers would follow her tracks, hoping for blessings or curses.”

  “Did she eat people?” Whisk asked.

  “Only the rude and evil ones,” Niva smiled.

  They all laughed, and for a moment, the warmth of the desert didn’t feel so heavy.

  After the story, Niva turned to them, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

  “Now, I have to ask. You four seem like you’re too young to be partaking in a journey in this dangerous desert. What path are you really on?”

  Prick glanced at Whisk, then took a deep breath. The wind tugged lightly at her blonde hair.

  “I’m looking for the Lost Oasis,” she said, her voice steady.

  The caravan slowed. Even the bells seemed to quiet for a moment.

  Niva blinked. “The Lost Oasis? The one from the old songs?”

  “Yes,” Prick said. “I believe it's real. And I think… no, I know, it’s connected to the curse. The stone sickness is spreading, and I have to find the truth.”

  Niva stared at her for a long moment, then softly exhaled. “Child, many have chased that dream. Wanderers, prophets, fools, and warriors. Most never return.”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous,” Prick said quickly. “But this isn’t just a whim. My kingdom is cursed. My people are frozen in time. I’m the only one who can move. I have to believe there's a reason for that.”

  There was silence. Mira and Kira both looked at her with gentle support, and Whisk crossed his arms like he always did when trying to look serious.

  “I believe her,” Whisk said, nodding once. “Even if I don’t understand half of what she says.”

  “I believe too,” Mira added.

  Mother Niva's eyes softened, and a small, sad smile tugged at her lips. “Even if it’s a myth, the world needs dreamers like you. The kind who walk into the fire with hope in their hearts.”

  “We’re not heading to the Oasis yet,” Prick said. “First, we’re going to a town called Sandhollow. We’re looking for clues about their parents… they got captured by bandits, so we’re trying to find information.”

  “Sandhollow,” Niva murmured. “A city half-swallowed by the dunes. Lonely place. But kind, in its rough way. You’ll find stories there, if not answers.”

  “You’ve been there?” Prick asked.

  “Many times, my child,” Niva said. “I believe I still have a map tucked away in the supplies. It was a gift from an old wanderer who found peace in our caravan.”

  “That’d be perfect!” Mira and Kira said eagerly.

  Suddenly, a shout rang out from the front of the caravan.

  “Bandits!”

  All heads snapped toward the dune ridge to the east. Dust was rising—five, no, six figures —faces wrapped in cloth, weapons glinting in the sun.

  “Prick, Mira, Kira—stay behind me!” Whisk ordered, standing up in the car, and unsheathing his absurdly large sword. The blade shimmered in the light, nearly as tall as him, its edges dulled from years of misuse.

  Whisk instantly leapt from the cart, sword in hand, wobbling slightly under its weight.

  “Wait, Whisk!” Prick shouted.

  “You can’t fight all of them alone!” Prick argued.

  “I said stay back!” he repeated when Prick started to protest.

  “Just trust me this once!” Whisk grinned, ears twitching with adrenaline. “Time for the legendary swordsman to make his debut!”

  Before she could argue again, Whisk dashed forward, raising his blade overhead with both hands. His form was messy, and his footwork kicked up more sand than power, but his heart burned like fire.

  The first bandit lunged. Whisk met the strike head-on, parrying it with a surprising burst of force. The clang of metal echoed. A second bandit followed from the left, swinging low. Whisk ducked, barely avoiding the blade, and swung his own in a wide arc, knocking the attacker back with sheer brute strength.

  Two more came at him from opposite sides.

  Whisk twirled with a wild, uncoordinated motion. “Yaaaaah!” he shouted, spinning clumsily but managing to block both attackers with a desperate sideways slash. It wasn’t elegant—more luck than skill—but it worked.

  The caravan’s guards joined the fray, spears clashing with the bandits’ jagged blades. The air filled with the cries of battle, metal on metal, grunts of pain, and the crunch of boots on sand.

  Despite his lack of refinement, Whisk fought like a cornered beast. His oversized sword carved through the sandstorm, forcing the bandits to give ground. One tried to flank him, but Whisk turned sharply and, with a heavy upward strike, sent the man sprawling with a shout.

  “That’s four!” he barked, grinning despite the sweat on his brow. “Who's next?!”

  Prick shouted from behind the caravan, “Whisk! Above you!”

  Whisk looked up just in time to see a bandit leaping from a dune, dagger in hand. He stumbled backward instinctively—and tripped.

  The dagger slashed the air where his throat had been a heartbeat before. Whisk kicked upward, catching the attacker in the gut and sending him rolling into the sand.

  He scrambled to his feet, panting hard. “That... almost got me.”

  Only two remained now, and one was clearly nervous, hesitating as his comrades fell. Whisk didn’t wait. He charged, gripping his sword tightly, using every ounce of strength in his wiry frame.

  The sixth bandit was clumsy with fear. One wrong move—and Whisk struck, knocking the blade from his hands with a two-handed swing. A guard quickly subdued him with a rope.

  Silence fell over the dunes.

  Then came a low, amused voice.

  “Well, well. Look at you.”

  The final figure emerged from the edge of the dune, walking slowly but with the confidence of a lion. His armor was mismatched—scavenged from fallen mercenaries—but his poise was unmistakably military. Unlike the others, he wore no mask. His face was scarred, one eye pale with blindness, the other sharp as a hawk’s.

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  He raised a curved saber with a gloved hand and pointed it at Whisk.

  “You’re the one who cut down my men?”

  Whisk didn’t answer. He stood straighter, breathing hard, his arms trembling from exhaustion.

  “I like you,” the man continued. “Too bad I have to break you.”

  With impossible speed, the man dashed forward. Whisk raised his sword, but the man’s strike was too fast. Metal screamed as his saber clashed against Whisk’s blade and knocked it to the side with a sharp twist.

  Whisk stumbled, barely catching his balance. He swung wildly—but the man ducked and countered with a jab to Whisk’s gut that sent him gasping.

  “Whisk!” Prick cried, moving forward—but Mother Niva held out a hand to stop her.

  “He must hold. We intervene too early, and they’ll go for the young ones.”

  Whisk’s legs wobbled. The sword felt heavier now—like he was lifting a boulder with every breath.

  “I’m not done yet…” he muttered.

  The bandit leader approached calmly, saber dragging in the sand.

  Whisk raised his sword again with both hands. “I'm a hero... I have to beat you.”

  He lunged—but the leader sidestepped with ease and slammed the hilt of his blade against Whisk’s back, sending him crashing into the ground.

  Dust swirled.

  The desert wind howled.

  And Whisk didn’t rise.

  Whisk lay motionless, face pressed to the sand, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. His sword, once gripped with so much hope, lay buried beside him, too heavy for his trembling hands.

  The bandit leader cracked his neck and turned his gaze toward the caravan.

  “Now then,” he muttered.

  With long, confident strides, he made his way toward the frightened circle of travelers. Mother Niva stood firm at the center, arms stretched protectively before the children—Prick, Mira, and Kira. Her soldiers, bruised and battered, still rose in her defense, spears shaking in their hands.

  “I’ll say this once,” the bandit leader growled as he stopped just short of them, eyes scanning the caravan. “Give me your camels, your food, your water... and the children. The young ones fetch a fine price.”

  “Over my dead body,” one of the guards spat.

  The leader’s saber blurred.

  In one brutal motion, four soldiers fell to the sand, weapons clattering beside them. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “No one else has to die,” he said, brushing dust from his shoulder. “I don’t enjoy wasting talent. Now hand over the goods, and the brats.”

  That’s when his eyes fell on Prick.

  He tilted his head.

  “Well now…” His lips curled into a toothy grin. “That face. I’ve seen that face.”

  Prick tensed, instinctively stepping back, but the man stepped closer.

  “You’re the spitting image of Queen Seraphina Ironhart… Could it be?” He let out a bark of laughter. “It’s my lucky day! The princess herself! Out here in the dirt!”

  He lunged forward.

  Prick froze. Everything around her slowed. Her limbs felt like stone, her heart a frantic drum in her chest.

  A voice screamed.

  “Don’t you touch her!”

  The bandit leader paused, eyes narrowing.

  From the side, Whisk staggered to his feet.

  He was shaking—bloody, bruised, and wobbling on unsure legs—but somehow standing. His eyes were dull, but determined. He clenched his fists, dragging his sword behind him.

  “You’re still alive?” the leader said with a laugh. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

  The man turned from Prick, curiosity gleaming in his eye.

  “Fine, one last dance.”

  He charged, sabre raised once more.

  Whisk stepped forward—not to meet him, but to shield Prick.

  The first strike came fast, but Whisk blocked it, barely, the impact rattling through his bones. The second came quicker. He ducked, clumsy but instinctive.

  Pain screamed through Whisk’s side as the saber nicked him, but he didn’t fall.

  “Whisk…” Prick whispered, her hands shaking. “You idiot... you’ll die.”

  She looked around. The guards were still down. Mother Niva stood ready but could only defend, not fight. Mira and Kira trembled beside her.

  She had to do something. Anything.

  “Hey!” she shouted, throwing a rock toward the bandit leader. “You swing that sword like a broom, you desert lizard!”

  The bandit leader paused mid-strike. “What did you just call me?”

  Prick smirked, stepping forward, heart thundering. “You heard me. I've seen kinder swings from my Mother—oh wait, she was turned to stone and still had more grace than you!”

  He turned to her, snarling.

  “Big mistake, girl.”

  But that moment was all Whisk needed.

  Something inside him snapped—no, awoke.

  He roared.

  A cry unlike anything they had ever heard tore through the desert, shaking the very dunes. His voice echoed against the cliffs and carried like thunder. From his eyes burst beams of radiant gold, and his sword—his dull, worn sword—glowed with ancient light, lines of unknown script burning along the blade.

  The sand around him quaked. A sudden gust whipped his hair back, and a strange, cold aura radiated from his form.

  The bandit leader turned, eyes wide.

  “What… is this?”

  Whisk’s expression was blank. Calm. Like something else had taken the reins.

  He stepped forward.

  The bandit swung.

  Whisk caught the blade—with his bare hand.

  It sizzled against his skin, but he didn’t flinch.

  He raised his own sword and, with a fluid, practiced motion unlike any he had shown before, he struck. Sparks flew, metal rang—and the bandit was forced back for the first time.

  They clashed again.

  This time, it wasn’t even close.

  Whisk’s blade danced, faster than it should have. Every strike pushed the leader back, and every step Whisk took pulsed with power.

  Prick watched in awe. “Whisk… what is happening?”

  The final blow came in a blur of gold light.

  Whisk spun, his glowing eyes narrowing as his sword sliced clean through the man’s defense, straight into his arm.

  A scream tore from the bandit’s lungs.

  His left arm dropped to the sand, severed at the elbow.

  He fell back, clutching the wound, blood painting the desert red.

  “Whisk!” Prick called, rushing forward.

  The glow faded.

  Whisk dropped his sword.

  His legs gave out.

  And he collapsed.

  “Whisk!” she cried again, catching him just before he hit the ground. His body was cold. His face was pale. The strange light in his eyes—gone.

  The bandit leader staggered to his feet, breathing hard.

  “I’ll kill you for this… I swear it.”

  He stumbled back, barely standing. “My brother… my brother will hear about this!”

  And then he was gone, disappearing over the dunes, leaving a trail of blood behind.

  Mother Niva didn’t waste time. “Everyone! Secure the wounded! Form a perimeter!”

  The people of the caravan scrambled to retrieve the unconscious and tend to the injured. Kira and Mira helped carry a fallen soldier, while others wrapped bandages and splashed water on bruised faces.

  Prick knelt beside Whisk, gently brushing the hair from his face.

  “You dummy…” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “Why do you always have to go and do something reckless like that?”

  He didn’t answer.

  His chest rose and fell softly. At least he was breathing.

  Mother Niva approached moments later, her expression grim but calm. “We’ll make camp nearby. There’s shade by the canyon edge. We’ll regroup and treat the wounded.”

  She glanced down at Whisk.

  “And we’ll figure out what just happened to him.”

  Later that night...

  The fire crackled in the center of the camp, shadows flickering across the worried faces surrounding it.

  Whisk lay bundled in blankets, his breathing shallow but steady. A poultice of herbs and desert moss covered his wounds, and Mira sat beside him, whispering prayers to Whisk.

  Kira leaned against her sister, exhausted but alert

  .

  Prick sat quietly at Whisk’s side, her knees hugged to her chest.

  She stared at his sleeping face. It looked so peaceful now, so different from the furious warrior that had screamed light and power hours ago.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” she whispered. “I don’t think you knew either.”

  She reached out and gently squeezed his hand.

  “Please be okay.”

  She hadn’t even noticed Mother Niva approach until she spoke softly from behind.

  “You care for him.”

  Prick blinked and quickly wiped her face. “He’s my friend...”

  “A friend worth fighting for,” Niva said. She knelt beside her and placed a hand on Prick’s shoulder. “Whatever’s inside him… it woke up today. And it chose to protect you.”

  Prick looked down at Whisk again, her expression unreadable.

  “Do you think it’ll wake again?”

  “I don’t know,” Niva said. “But I do know this... powers like that don’t come without a cost.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Then Niva pulled something from her satchel.

  A parchment map—worn, but clearly marked.

  “This was what I meant to give you… before the ambush,” she said. “The way to Sandhollow.”

  Prick accepted the map with both hands, holding it like a sacred scroll.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Rest tonight. All of you,” Niva said. “Sandhollow is not far—but you’ll need strength to reach it.”

  Prick nodded. But she didn’t take her eyes off Whisk.

  The night deepened. Stars scattered across the sky like ancient stories written in silver.

  And beneath them, Princess Prick sat at Whisk’s side—silent, watchful, and waiting.

  Thank you so much for reading Tales of the Lost: Princess Prick and the Lost Oasis

  This is just the beginning—the first week of many more to come!

  New chapters drop every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so stay tuned for more adventures!

  Your support, comments, and feedback have meant the world to me so far. < 3

  If you’re enjoying the story, don’t forget to leave a rating—it helps more readers discover our journey!

  Chapter 4 releases this Monday! See you then~