Scarlight

 In a far-off land, beneath a swirling, blood-red sky, a lone figure stumbled through the desolate wasteland. The air was thick with ash, and the ground beneath his feet was charred and blackened. He had no name, for names had long since been forgotten in this place of eternal suffering. He was known only as the Wanderer, for that was all he had ever been: a wanderer, lost in the endless darkness that had engulfed his world.

His clothes hung in tatters, his flesh ravaged by the relentless winds that howled through the landscape. His eyes, once a vibrant shade of blue, were now clouded and bloodshot, reflecting the endless torment that he endured. His once-strong limbs now trembled with exhaustion, every muscle aching from the ceaseless struggle to survive in this unyielding hell.

As he trudged through the ash, the Wanderer caught sight of a distant object shimmering in the darkness. It appeared to be a pool of water, glistening like a beacon of hope in the otherwise desolate landscape. With renewed strength, he pushed forward, his weary legs carrying him ever closer to the oasis. As he drew near, he could feel the moisture in the air, taste it on his parched lips. It was real. It was there. He was almost there.

With one last surge of energy, the Wanderer stumbled forward and collapsed into the cool, refreshing water. The sensation was overwhelming, like being born anew into a world of pure bliss. He closed his eyes, letting the water wash away the ash and the grime, cleansing him of the endless suffering that had defined his existence. For a brief moment, he forgot the world outside the pool, and he allowed himself to feel something he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity: peace.