The sun had dipped beneath the dunes when they set out—its dying light casting the horizon in deep reds and golds before giving way to indigo skies. The desert came alive in the absence of heat. Wind curled over the sands like breath from a sleeping giant, and moonlight spilled across the dunes in soft silver streaks.

  Their group moved in a quiet line, horses stepping carefully over shifting terrain. Hooves left no lasting trail—each step swallowed up by the ever-changing sand. There was no road here. Only instinct, starlight, and memory.

  Zafran led the way.

  His eyes scanned the moonlit landscape, watching for motion where there should be none, listening for any rhythm beyond the crunch of hooves and the wind’s long hum. Behind him, Elsha kept pace with steady discipline, while Ysar yawned loudly for the sixth time in half an hour.

  “This is unnatural,” Ysar muttered, rubbing his eyes. “We’re supposed to sleep at night. Not impersonate ghosts.”

  “No one’s stopping you,” Elsha replied flatly. “Lay down, and the scorpions will keep you company.”

  Ysar made a strangled sound. “You’re joking.”

  “Am I?”

  Karin rode behind them, her cloak pulled tight against the breeze. Her posture was stiff, alert.

  “I won’t be able to used to this” she said after a time, breaking the hush of the night.

  “Riding during the day cooks your brain,” Ysar chimed in. “And Elsha will gets cranky when she sweats.”

  “I’m always cranky,” Elsha said calmly.

  “Exactly my point.”

  Zafran’s voice cut through their bickering. “The heat kills. The dark doesn’t.”

  Silence returned, save for the creaking of saddles and the whispering sand.

  The stars glittered overhead—sharp, cold, unblinking. The moon had risen full tonight, casting long, distorted shadows over the dunes. It was beautiful, in a way only danger could be.

  Karin studied the terrain with open curiosity. “It looks endless.”

  “It is,” Zafran replied.

  “No landmarks. No trails.”

  “Well, there are, but just so hard to see”

  “…You sound like a guide.”

  “I’m now”

  The dunes rolled on. Time lost its shape.

  By the third hour, they stopped briefly to let the horses rest. They dismounted, stretched, checked water and gear. The sand was cool beneath their boots now, but it would not stay gentle for long. Desert fatigue was slow and creeping—just like the danger.

  Karin leaned on a rock, watching the sky. “It’s so quiet.”

  “That’s the problem,” Zafran said. “When it’s not.”

  They resumed the journey in silence.

  The wind picked up slightly, brushing the dunes in long, slithering patterns. No birds. No trees. Just an ocean of whispering earth and the deep pull of distance.

  No one spoke for a while after that.

  Then Ysar said, voice soft, as if afraid to break the mood:

  “…Do you ever wonder if something’s watching from under the sand?”

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  Elsha didn’t respond. Neither did Zafran.

  But Karin, after a pause, whispered:

  “Yes.”

  No one laughed.

  The desert didn’t like jokes.

  The dunes had dulled to grey beneath the fading moonlight, the stars softening in a sky that hinted at morning. The air was colder now, with that strange sharpness that came just before the heat returned.

  It had been hours since they’d spoken. The rhythm of the desert—the sway of horses, the whisper of sand—had lulled them into tired silence.

  Then Elsha pointed ahead. “There.”

  A low hill of jagged stone jutted out from the surrounding dunes—dark and firm, like an island in a sea of shifting earth.

  Zafran nodded. “We’ll rest there.”

  They reached the outcrop just as the sky began to pale. The moon dipped low. A thin breeze swept across the sand, tossing loose grains into ghostlike curls. The horses moved slower now, hooves dragging. Even Ysar was too tired to complain.

  They dismounted in silence.

  Zafran moved first, circling the stone with a careful eye. No signs of recent passage. No ash from an old fire, no scraps of cloth, no tracks in the sand. He scanned the far dunes—nothing moved.

  Satisfied, he gave the signal.

  “Here,” Elsha said, patting the side of a narrow gap in the rock. “Good enough for wind cover.”

  They led the horses into the natural barrier, giving them water before unstrapping the saddlebags. The ground was firm enough, the sand not too deep here. A good resting spot—for the desert, at least.

  They laid down cloaks and travel blankets, forming a rough circle behind the sheltering curve of stone. No fire. No light. Just food, water, and rest.

  Karin sank onto her cloak, her face paler than usual under the grey sky. “Feels like we’ve been riding for days.”

  “Close enough,” Ysar muttered, already chewing a strip of dried meat. “At least no one got eaten by sand beasts.”

  “Yet,” Elsha added, tone dry.

  “Don’t tempt fate,” Ysar grumbled. “I’m tired enough to let one eat me just to get some peace.”

  Zafran passed around a water skin without a word.

  The meal was quiet.

  Bread that cracked. Jerky that fought back. A few bites of dried fruit that stuck to their teeth. Nothing luxurious, but no one complained. They were too tired.

  Karin rubbed her eyes and leaned back against her saddlebag. “I’ll never ask for silent desert again”

  No one disagree.

  Once the food was done, they began to settle. Elsha rolled into her blanket without fuss. Karin took her time, eyes still flicking to the horizon, as if expecting the dunes to move.

  Zafran didn’t lie down.

  He remained seated, sword across his lap, eyes distant.

  Karin noticed.

  “You’re not sleeping?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You said we’d rest during the day.”

  “I’ll take the first stretch of watch,” he replied simply.

  “I can help—”

  “You paid for protection, not shifts.”

  She frowned. “Alright.”

  Zafran said nothing. He just kept watching the sand.

  Karin stared at him a moment longer, then gave in, pulling the cloak over her shoulders and curling into the corner of the stone.

  Within minutes, she drifted.

  One by one, the others followed. Even Ysar, after tossing for a while, eventually stilled. The wind faded. The first rays of sun crept over the horizon, casting golden streaks across the dunes. Heat was coming.

  But for now, it was quiet.

  Zafran sat alone, eyes sharp, body still.

  He didn’t blink when the wind shifted.

  Didn’t flinch when a dune collapsed in the distance.

  The sun had dipped behind the dunes, turning the desert sky to a dull wash of violet and gold. The air cooled fast, but the heat still lingered beneath the sand—trapped like breath beneath a blanket.

  Camp stirred.

  Elsha fed the horses, brushing their flanks and murmuring softly to calm their restlessness.

  Karin crouched beside her pack, securing her scroll tube and checking the map one last time.

  Zafran sat near the edge of the outcrop, cinching his belt and strapping on his straight-edged sword. His eyes scanned the horizon. Too still. Too quiet.

  Ysar yawned, tossing a small throwing knife between his fingers, then sheathed it alongside his curved blade. “That was the worst nap I’ve ever had. I feel like my soul melted.”

  “You snored,” Elsha muttered, already double-checking her own curved sword at her hip.

  “I don’t snore.”

  “You do,” Elsha and Karin said at once.

  Then—

  A sound.

  A whisper of shifting sand.

  Zafran tensed. The horses’ ears flicked. Elsha froze, hand tightening on her hilt. Karin’s head snapped up.

  And Ysar—wandering just a few paces off—caught movement in the dunes.

  Low, sliding shapes. Dark forms cresting the nearest ridge.

  Then another. And another.

  Too smooth. Too close.

  His stomach dropped.

  “—Hey, guys—”

  He didn’t get to finish.

  A sharp whistle tore through the air.

  An arrow slammed into his shoulder.

  He grunted, spun sideways, and crashed into the sand.

  “Bandits!!” he roared.

  The camp exploded into motion.

  Figures burst from the dunes, rising like wraiths wrapped in tan cloth, blades drawn, bows already loosing second shots before the first had landed.

  Zafran met the first with steel—straight blade flashing as it rang against a curved sword, pushing back with brutal precision.

  Karin scrambled back, hands glowing, trying to summon a ward—only for a blur of motion to break toward her from the flank.

  Too fast.

  Too close.

  Zafran stepped in, grabbed her cloak, and yanked her back behind him just as a blade flashed through where she’d been. His own sword answered a breath later, slamming against the attacker’s weapon in a clean, brutal arc that sent the bandit stumbling.

  “Stay behind me,” he said coldly.

  Sand kicked up. Shadows danced under the moonlight. Chaos had begun.