The desert didn't whisper. It howled.
Winds screamed across the cracked bones of the land, carrying sand like broken glass. Under the scorched sun, even the vultures circled lower, greedy and impatient. Kael trudged forward, his boots sinking in red-hot dunes, every step a quiet war.
His armor clanked with each stride—bronze plates dulled by dust and dried blood. He was alone now. The last survivor of the caravan ambushed three days ago. He didn't remember how many had died. Maybe eight. Maybe more. Their screams still haunted his ears, and the heat had twisted time into something shapeless.
Kael stopped on a dune's crest. Far ahead, carved from sandstone and shadow, the spires of Djurah rose like jagged knives. A city untouched by mercy. If he could just reach its gates...
A whisper broke the wind.
Kael drew his blade. The metal hissed against the sheath—dull but loyal. He turned, scanning the shimmering horizon. Nothing but sand. And then, movement.
A rider.
The figure moved like a ghost on a pale sandrunner, robe fluttering behind. Kael narrowed his eyes. Not a bandit. Too direct. Not a merchant. Too alone.
The rider stopped ten paces away, pulling back their hood. A woman. Her eyes were dark as obsidian, her skin marked with tribal ink. She looked at Kael like she already knew the shape of his death.
"You're heading to Djurah," she said. Not a question.
Kael said nothing.
She dismounted. Her sandrunner snorted and kicked at the dust.
"You shouldn't. That city's about to burn."
Kael finally spoke, his voice rough as gravel. "Good. I came to light the match."