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E SME KEPT TO her saddle atop Ruro and lowered the edge of her scarf to take a sip from her waterskin. She held the moisture in her mouth and let it linger, to better allay her thirst. She finally swallowed with a sigh.

As she awaited word, she did her best to keep distracted. She shifted Ruro a few steps over to the copper pole she had just screwed into its base socket. Past this site, the other four flags of Tosgon whipped in a steady breeze. The old pole, scorched and blackened, lay in the sand. Its flag had been burned to ashes, which were swept away by the winds over the past fortnight until there was no remnant of it.

“Lokh etaar,” she whispered, a Chanr? pronouncement regarding how time erases pain so peace can shine forth.

Or in the common tongue:

The desert abides.

With a sigh, she stood in her leather stirrups, finding easy balance. Already, she had learned to ride much better. She lifted the rolled triangular flag and attached its grommets to the copper locking hooks. Once it was secure, she tossed the woven fabric past her shoulder to catch a gust. Its length unfurled like the crack of a whip, then danced in the wind.

She ducked down and appreciated her handiwork. The other four flags were a rich crimson, a close match to the sands of Ghodlokh. The new one was a pure white to honor the fallen.

She shifted Ruro to the dune’s edge and cast her gaze across the rolling expanse. The scars of the battle had mostly washed away. Sand had swept over blackened ditches, filling them smooth. The dead had been collected and carried to caves in the Samskrag cliffs.

The remains of the ta’wyn had been scavenged of anything useful. For the desert people, nothing went to waste. The rest had been sunk into a deep pit. Each villager had dug at least a fistful of that hole, each contributing to burying their misery away.

One long ridge of dunes would likely remain scarred forever. It had been slagged to glass during the last battle, looking like a lone wave of the black sea trapped among the red dunes. The names of the dead had been etched into the glass. With Ruro at her side, she had joined the ceremony and scratched in the name Abresh.

From the same slagged dune, her companions aboard the Fyredragon had recovered a single ta’wyn cannon. It seemed intact enough to repair. Likewise, the ship’s crew had collected those ta’wyn shields that hummed and defied the pull of the Urth.

No one at Tosgon had objected to them scavenging all of this. The Chanr? owed the crew a great deal, for freeing the village of the Dragon’s yoke. Now, where the black mountain had stood, a new oasis had risen, flowing with good water.

To pay back some of the debt, the villagers were helping to repair the Fyredragon. From Esme’s high vantage, she could see the ongoing work upon the great ship, again moored in the neighboring valley. The work was nearly complete, and the Fyredragon would be leaving in another two days.

While there was nothing to be done about the damaged half of their balloon, a small section had been augmented by scavenging gasbags from the ship’s sailrafts. But the main lift to the Fyredragon ’s bulk would come from those humming ta’wyn shields. The crew had patched the hull’s holes with those shields and lined the same along the keel. Shiya had devised a way to power them from the giant cooling units aboard the ship. The shields should ease the ship’s weight, as readily as they had lifted ta’wyn into the sky.

Once underway, the Fyredragon would continue west to complete a journey that would take them full around the world to where they started. The Chanr? elders, including their leader, Mirash, had mapped the locations of watering holes in that direction, enough to sustain the ship until it reached the Crown.

But I will not be going with them.

She cast her gaze across the desert’s stunning, brutal landscape. Here, she had found Arryn… and a new home. Graylin had warned her what might happen if his group succeeded in stopping moonfall, of setting the world to turning, of the doom that might follow. But in the face of such danger, Esme placed her trust in the same Chanr? adage.

Lokh etaar … The desert abides.

A sharp whistle drew her gaze below to a figure flagging an arm high. It was Irquan. She waved in acknowledgment, then slid Ruro down the slope to meet the huntmaster. Once she reached him, she slid out of the saddle, landing deftly, and patted Ruro to release him. The ürsyn gave a happy harrumph, then bounded off to jostle with others of his kind. Ruro had also found an ürsyn sow he had grown quite enamored with. To impress her, he presented a dramatic flare of his quills.

Esme smiled.

Kash’met clearly applied to ürsyns, too.

Life rolls on.

Along that sentiment, she confronted Irquan. “How is Yazmyn faring?”

Irquan’s face broke with a huge smile. The hunter was an uncle to Arryn’s heart-bound. “Come see for yourself.”

E SME SAT ON the side of the bed, cradling a small babe in the crook of her arm. Tiny fingers grasped her thumb, as if ready to wrestle her to the ground.

“Hakyn will make a fine hunter,” Irquan declared, and passed a long-stemmed pipe to Arryn. “I can tell from the length of his thumbs.”

Arryn drew smoke and puffed it out. “I’m content that he is as perfect as his mother.”

Yazmyn sat propped up, tired but radiant after her efforts. She held Asha in bed next to her, an arm around her daughter. Asha peeked past her mother’s torso at her new brother. She did not seem overly keen to have a sibling.

Esme stared over at Arryn.

Ah, but you will be.

Her brother looked far more relaxed, and not just at the birth of his son. A weight had lifted from his bowed shoulders.

With the destruction of the Dragon, those who had been enslaved in its shadows had all been killed, no longer suffering the incurable mindless affliction that had trapped them. That included the men who had been taken by the ta’wyn while Arryn hid. With them finally at peace, her brother could let some of his guilt go. Maybe not all of it, but enough to reach contentment.

She glanced down to the half sunburst tattooed there, marking her bond with Arryn. Little Hakyn’s fingers clutched to the edge of the symbol. The babe shared their father’s name, as Arryn had promised. Along with Asha, the roll into another generation was complete.

Their mother and father returned again to the world.

Kash’met.

She studied Hakyn’s tiny nails, digging hard, clutching to life. While the desert might abide, she feared for them, for what their new world would look like—or if they would even have a life to share together if the others failed.

She stirred, not wanting to bring such melancholy thoughts into this joyous moment. She put on a smile that already felt strained and passed the child back to Yazmyn. The mother drew the baby to her breast, while Asha continued to look on with suspicion.

Give it time, little one.

Time I hope you get.

Esme said her farewells, hugged each one, then set off to her own quarters. She still got lost in this maze. But she was learning. She listened to the Flüst of Tosgon and its gentle rumbling whisper. During the massive quake, she had been inside Tosgon. She had heard the Flüst surge into a low roar. That fierce grumble held until the ground stopped shaking. As a result, the village had barely rocked, riding the quake like it rode the rolling dunes.

She ran her fingers along the wall, thanking their whispering protector, and continued on. By the time she reached her warren of small rooms—making only one wrong turn—she craved a long bath, to soak the melancholy away.

With a cracking yawn, she pushed through the door’s drape. To her right, a long, deep tub was filled with an inviting, milky warmth. She crossed contentedly toward it. With each step, her malaise lifted.

She knelt down and stirred a finger across the surface, feeling the soothing balm.

Perfect.

As she lifted her finger, a small pale claw reached after her. She lowered her hand to let it grip her digit. It reminded her of little Hakyn’s fingers. She felt a similar determination in that grip.

From the milky surface, eye-stalks rose.

“Who’s the bravest boy in the world?” she whispered.

Crikit’s eyes waggled, revealing the missing one was growing back. The Chanr? were far more adept at caring for and healing molagi than her former people, the Chanaryn. Not that these hardy desert creatures needed much help. They could shed most damage by molting their old, damaged shells and growing new ones.

Crikit proved a soldier in this regard. With the help of village healers and a doting, concerned mother, he had rid the harm done to him, shedding it away. His new shell was still soft and would remain so until what had been torn or broken grew anew.

She scooped Crikit closer and scratched through his eye-stalks, earning a contented rumble that shivered the milky surface. When she tried to stop, his other claw lifted, the one still regrowing. He tried to snap and click it, but the new shell was too soft.

“Hush,” she scolded softly. “You’ll get your voice back.”

Still, she understood what he begged for and returned her fingers to those tender stalks. As she did, she stared at his little healing claw, appreciating the resiliency of the molagi.

Of their ability to cast off a pained past, heal, and grow anew.

Such beautiful creatures were the living example of the desert.

A lesson to all who knew to look.

“ Lokh etaar…” she whispered to her friend.