The desert opens before you like a wound slowly healing over.
You ride in silence. The guide leads with a steady pace, eyes scanning the horizon. Robert brings up the rear, ever watchful, though his shoulders have begun to slump. The sun hangs low, trailing long shadows that make mirages of every dune.
The wreckage is far behind now, swallowed by distance and sand. But the unease lingers, a taut thread running through your spine.
—We’re close to the edge of the old merchant route,— the guide says at last, voice flat. —If they veered from here, they went into forgotten places.
You nod, though you’re not sure what that means. The heat makes everything feel thin—your thoughts, your memory, the space between heartbeats.
You ride for another hour before the guide raises a hand.
—Something’s wrong.
He turns his mount sharply and rides to a nearby ridge. You and Robert follow, cresting it behind him.
Below: a jagged scar through the sand. A gouge where something large passed through, days ago maybe. Smashed scrub. A dark patch that might once have been a campfire—or blood. It’s hard to say.
Robert dismounts and crouches. —There was a struggle here.
The guide nods, frowning. —Could be they split. Some went on. Some… didn’t.
He turns away, looking off toward the west.
Then everything changes.
A sudden shriek of wind tears across the ridge, flinging sand upward in sheets. The horses shy, stamping and tossing their heads.
You squint into the sudden gale. It had been calm a moment ago.
—It’s not a storm,— the guide mutters. —Not yet. But something’s stirring the wind.
You call to Robert, but he’s already halfway down the slope, trying to get a better look at the tracks.
And then it happens—so fast, you can’t react.
A second gust hits, harder. The guide grabs your reins, anchoring you.
But Robert’s horse rears. He shouts—just once—and vanishes in a whirl of dust.
You kick your horse forward.
—Robert!—
The guide blocks you.
—You can’t follow him in this! You’ll lose each other completely!
You twist in the saddle. The wind is surging now, not with the rhythm of a storm, but with sharp bursts, like something unseen is lashing the dunes.
You try to push past.
—Let me go!
—And let you vanish too?— His voice is steel. —No. Wait. It’ll pass.
You grit your teeth, torn. The ridge is already shifting. Sand rolls over where Robert stood seconds ago. The tracks are gone.
Finally, you give in. The guide leads you down the lee of a tall dune, to a hollow where the wind breaks gently around you.
Time passes. You don’t speak.
The wind quiets. But the air still hums with something wrong. Something unfinished.
You climb back to the ridge as the sun dips lower. The desert stretches out empty. No Robert. No tracks.
Just your name echoing inside your own head, over and over.
You don’t know if he meant to call it—or if you only imagined it, just before the wind took him.
The desert offers no apology for its silence. Hours pass beneath the blazing eye of the sun, and each night the crow returns.
You see it more clearly now: perched on your chest, its feathers rimmed in cinders, wings beating in rhythm with your heart. When it opens its beak, flames curl from its throat, and cities fall in the reflection of its eyes. Zalenica, burning. Your uncle, falling. You awaken with your hands clenched around your throat as if trying to rip out whatever curse clings there.
Still, you ride.
The guide says little, as if the desert demands reverence, or perhaps he senses you are not in the mood for talk. Sand gives way to stone, and by dusk of the second day, the desert unfurls into the outer sprawl of Al-Mazir—a city carved in sandstone and grit, held together by old trade and older grudges.
–We can rest here for the night,– your guide says, nudging his mount toward a stony slope. –We’ll press on at dawn. There’s a good inn near the western gate. Decent food. Cheap beds. Try not to get robbed. Or worse.–
You nod, lips too dry to reply. The city swallows you.
The tavern smells of dates, sweat, and something charred beyond recognition. But it has shade, and you’re too tired to care. You eat slowly—flatbread and stewed meat—when something in the corner of your eye draws you up like a blade pulled from its sheath.
Hiacynt.
He’s slouched in a dark corner, a shadow of the man you once knew—cheeks sunken, clothes torn, one eye ringed in purple. But it’s him.
You drop your plate. The sound cracks the room.
You’re across the floor in moments. You grab him by the collar and yank him up with a force born of rage and disbelief.
–Why did you betray me? Why did you leave me to die in the desert?!–
His mouth opens, but no words come. He blinks like someone waking into a nightmare.
–Answer me!!– you roar.
–I thought you were dead…– he manages, his voice hoarse. –We looked. We searched for days. I swear it. I thought you were—–
You hit him. Hard. The crack of knuckles against jaw echoes through the tavern. He stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him.
The manager—a thick-armed man with a beard like wire—storms over.
–None of that in here! Out! Both of you!–
He grabs your arm, but your guide is there in an instant, intercepting him.
–Keep your hands off,– the guide growls, eyes narrow. –My companion is not some drunken thug. Let him leave with dignity.–
The manager hesitates, then shoves you toward the exit. –Then get him out before I do.–
You stumble outside into the night air, heart hammering. The streets of Al-Mazir are quieter than you expected—too quiet, like the city’s holding its breath. The wind smells of dust and old sorrow.
You wait.
You’re not sure for how long. Minutes. Maybe more. People come and go. Laughter spills from open windows. But not Hiacynt.
He doesn’t follow.
You stare at the door, willing it to open, but it stays shut. Behind your ribs, something splinters—not rage this time, but disappointment. Maybe even grief. You wanted answers, and all you got was a man broken worse than you remembered.
Your guide stands beside you in silence, arms crossed.
–He won’t come,– he says at last. –Whatever drove him to leave you wasn’t courage, but fear. And fear leaves rot behind it.–
You say nothing. The door doesn’t open.
The inn is just down the road—warm light in the windows, the sound of a lute filtering through the wooden shutters. Your bed waits. So does the road.
You take a breath.
Now you must choose:
You square your shoulders, jaw tight. Maybe there’s still something to salvage—some piece of truth that Hiacynt owes you. You step toward the tavern door, ready to demand it.
You turn away from the tavern. The door stays shut behind you, like the seal on a tomb.
–Come on,– you say to your guide. –We ride at dawn. There’s work to be done.–
You leave the past behind. Not because it doesn’t matter. But because the future matters more.
The road to Moravice awaits—and so does the fire inside you.
One Comment