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“Is there somewhere I can change before we carry on?”

“There’s a stand of trees just ahead where you’ll have privacy. We’ll wait.”

I slip away to the small grove and shake out the bundle. It holds loose-fitting pants in a sturdy brown fabric, a tunic-style top in muted green, and a long vest with multiple pockets. There’s a sash to tie everything in at the waist, a hooded cloak for cooler weather.

… and two long strips of leather.

I hold one up, turning it over. No buckles. No buttons. No obvious purpose. They’re too short to be belts, too irregular to be sleeves. I have no idea what they’re supposed to be.

A sound behind me makes me freeze.

The woman from earlier steps into the clearing, smiling. Shedoesn’t speak. Just kneels beside me and takes one of the strips from me. She taps my leg, then carefully lifts my foot and begins to wrap the leather around it—tight, precise, crisscrossing up the ankle and tying it off with a final knot.

Not shoes. Not really. But protection.

When she finishes both feet, she touches the wraps again in quiet approval, then gives me a warm smile, and slips away.

The wraps are light. Flexible. A world away from the cracked boots I’ve been dragging through the desert. I breathe out slowly. It’s the first time I’ve worn anything from this world, and it feels like a step I can’t undo.

I emerge from the small grove feeling strange. Not just cleaner, but less like the person I was. Like each new layer I pull on takes me another step from home.

When I return, Sacha is waiting. He says nothing, his eyes moving over me, but he nods, then guides me to a position near the middle of the caravan. The travelers seem curious about us, but respectful of distance and privacy. Occasionally, one will approach Sacha, talking briefly in a low voice before continuing on their way.

“What are they saying?” I ask when we get a moment of privacy.

“The Authority’s presence has increased in the foothills over the past couple of days. They’re searching for something … or someone.”

“You?”

“Possibly.” His expression reveals nothing. “Though there is talk about old stories resurfacing.”

I’m about to ask what kind of stories, when his head snaps up, eyes narrowing, as he scans the higher peaks around us.

“We’re being watched.” He nods toward a rock outcropping ahead.

I squint, seeing nothing but stone and vegetation. “By who?”

“Not Authority. Something else.”

The caravan continues moving forward, oblivious to whatever Sacha has detected. I keep searching the outcropping, trying to see what he sees. At one point, I think I see a flash of movement.

“What was that?” I whisper.

“The watcher. Someone is tracking this caravan.”

My mind immediately goes to all the old Western movies I’ve watched. “Bandits? Is that a thing here?”

“Perhaps.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

The caravan takes a turn, following a narrow path that climbs steadily into the hills, away from the place where the watcher waited. Trees rise on either side now, and wild blossoms brush against my legs as we pass, releasing bursts of sweet, unfamiliar scents.

The air is cooler here. Cleaner. After days of heat and dust, it feels like breathing for the first time.

By late afternoon, the caravan leader announces we’ll make camp in a sheltered valley ahead. The site shows signs of long use—blackened fire pits, half-buried stones arranged in a circle, a few shelters built from canvas and weathered branches. A small spring bubbles up between the rocks nearby, just loud enough to mask low voices.

The travelers move easily into routine, fires kindled and tasks divided without instruction. I stay near Sacha, who’s attaching nosebags full of feed, gifts from the caravan, to the sandstriders.

“You look much less conspicuous now,” he says, quiet enough that only I can hear. “This is an improvement over the wild woman look you appeared to be embracing.”