They say the world is a dream, but the real mystery remains: who is the dreamer? In the bitter northern lands of Mesozaca sprawls a vast desert called Thunder Fog, stretching from the bloodred Sea of Azzurol to the cruel Terovahn Mountains. The heat here bends reality. Sand burns through footwear, then skin, then bone. The sun is a white eye that never blinks. Savage and unforgiving, this wasteland devours the unprepared. Untamed, it holds secrets men die for. Many have ventured through its wastes seeking treasure. Most lost their lives to the merciless elements. Those few who returned alive often came back with shattered minds, babbling of things that crawl between the dunes when moonlight strikes the sand just so.

  The desert tribes move like ghosts across endless dunes that shift and swallow and give up dead things in equal measure. They wear only white loincloths stained with sweat and blood, their bodies painted with symbols whose meanings are older than words. The paint cracks on their skin like the desert floor. They have no written language. They hunt. They kill. They survive. That is all.

  They are the original people. Some say they are blind to power. But perhaps they alone know the truth: this world was not built for men but as hunting grounds for hungrier gods that watch from behind the heat shimmer.

  In Thunder Fog Canyon, where rock walls amplify the silence until it becomes a presence, we meet Storm. He is Coyotizon. Fourteen years old. Three kill beads hang from his neck, each one taken from prey larger than himself. He hunts with his brother Varick and his friend Tenzo. Six days out. Nothing killed. Water running low. Bellies empty.

  “The winds are moving fast. We need shelter,” Tenzo said. His voice carried the dry rasp of thirst.

  Varick grunted. His chest muscles tensed beneath tribal scars that mapped his kills like constellations. He had killed more animals than anyone his brother had seen. The sun had burned him until he was the color of old leather.

  “There in that rock. A cave,” Storm said, pointing with a blood-caked finger toward a dark mouth in the canyon wall.

  “Good sight,” Varick said. Words precious as water.

  “Thank you, brother.”

  The three men ran toward the cave, loincloths whipping against their thighs, feet raising small dust clouds that hung in the still air like omens. Inside, the temperature dropped like a stone. They spread animal hides on the dusty red floor of the cave and built a fire from scraps of desert brush. The flames cast long shapes on the walls that seemed to move with purpose.

  “How many nights left?” Tenzo asked. His eyes darted to their nearly empty water skins.

  “None,” Varick said. “This is the end.” The finality in his voice made the cave colder.

  “You’re sure?” Storm asked. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill.

  “I’m more sure than death. We return to camp.” Varick’s face showed nothing. He had mastered the desert’s indifference.

  Storm and Tenzo exchanged looks. Empty-handed hunters know their fate. The tribe cannot feed those who don’t feed it.

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  “The Kah’tunga, then? It comes to that?” Storm’s voice was flat as the horizon, betraying none of the fear beneath.

  Varick poked the fire with a stick worn smooth by desert winds. Sparks rose and died in the darkness like brief lives. “It is the law. Return without a kill, become the kill.” The words fell heavy as stones.

  The men said nothing. The law needed no explanation. It kept the tribe alive when food was scarce. Their silence filled the cave, broken only by the occasional pop of burning wood.

  “What happens when we die?” Storm asked. The question hung in the smoky air.

  “A child’s question,” Tenzo said, the firelight making the missing chunk of his ear a dark hole, a story he never told.

  “No. It’s the hunter’s question. We deal in death. We should know it.” Storm’s eyes reflected twin flames.

  “Even elders don’t know death’s secrets,” Tenzo said, drawing symbols in the dust with a fingertip, then erasing them.

  “The Nahual know,” Storm said. The word ‘Nahual’ seemed to lower the temperature further.

  “Nahuals aren’t real,” Tenzo said, but his eyes flicked to the cave entrance as if something might be listening.

  “I knew one,” Varick said, voice hard as the canyon walls. The fire illuminated half his face, leaving the rest in shadow.

  “Coyote dung.” Tenzo spat into the fire. It hissed like a warning.

  “It’s true. Kioshi. Remember her?” Varick looked at Storm, something vulnerable passing across his features like a cloud shadow.

  “The Mazatlan girl. Father cut you for bringing her.” Storm touched his own thigh in sympathy.

  “Yes.” Varick pulled his loincloth aside to reveal two deep scars on his thigh. The mark of betrayal. Even in the dim light, they looked angry, unhealed despite the years. “He held me down. Made me watch the knife.”

  Storm felt phantom pain in his own leg. Blood memory. The cave seemed to breathe around them.

  “I took her that night. We hid in the oasis grass,” Varick continued. “The stars were so close I could taste their light. She told me Nahual find their spirit animals and become them.” His voice softened at the memory, an unexpected tenderness in this harsh place.

  “Then?” Storm leaned forward, his shadow stretching toward his brother.

  “She said she must go south. Her mouth was still on mine when she changed. Became a hawk. Flew into the sky the color of fresh blood. All that remained was a feather and the warmth of where she had been.”

  “You knew she was Nahual then.” Storm’s eyes were wide, drinking in the tale.

  “No. Mother told me while binding my cuts. Her hands were gentle but her words were not. Said the Mazatlan keep such creatures. Said I was lucky to keep my life.” Varick’s hand absently traced the scars.

  The fire popped. A log broke, sending a shower of embers into the air where they spiraled like falling stars. Outside, wind carried sand that could strip flesh to bone given time. The desert was patient.

  “You lie well, friend,” Tenzo said, but doubt had crept into his voice.

  “Why doubt him?” Storm asked, his young face earnest in the flickering light.

  “I knew him before you had teeth. His stories are like desert mirages. Beautiful until you reach them.” Tenzo’s words carried no malice, only tired certainty.

  “I believe you, brother,” Storm said. The loyalty of youth shone in his eyes.

  Tenzo laughed, a dry sound like sand shifting. “Some make coyote dung, others eat it.”

  Storm’s hand went to his knife. The blade was old, stained dark with kills. Its handle was smooth from the grip of hunters now gone to dust.

  “Stand down,” Varick said, authority in every syllable. “Tenzo speaks true. I tell stories.” The admission cost him something. It showed in the tightening of his jaw.

  Silence followed, heavy as wet season air. The fire burned lower, casting less light, allowing the darkness to reclaim its territory inch by inch.

  “We are Coyotizon, blue coyote’s children,” Varick said finally. “Our duty is to the tribe. Not to dreams.” The statement sounded like a prayer, oft repeated.

  The three men nodded, a ritual acknowledgment of shared fate. At the cave mouth, something moved in the darkness. A shape that was there and then not. Storm saw it. Said nothing. The desert had many secrets, and not all were meant for sharing.