Page 20

It takes a full second before my body reminds me to breathe. My palms are slick. A cold weight settles low in my stomach. I knew I was in danger the moment I stepped through that door in the tower … but this is different.

We stay hidden until Sacha is certain they’re gone. Then we move, at a speed that has my legs burning while I try to keep up with his longer strides.

By late afternoon, the heat is a weight I can’t shake.

My clothes cling with sweat, my boots drag with sand, and every breath feels heavier than the last. I consider stripping out of my sweater, only that would leave my arms to the mercy of the sun.

But the heat, the distance, the rationed water—they’ve started to wear me down, slow and steady.

“There’s a water source not much farther.” Sacha points to something in the distance. “An oasis. We should reach it by evening.”

The word oasis cuts through the fog in my head. I straighten a little. “Will it be safe? Could there be more patrols?”

“It used to be a stop for nomads who avoided Authority entanglements. If nothing has changed, they’re still seen as neutral, at least on the surface.” His expression stays guarded. “But we’ll need to be cautious.”

The light changes, the sun starts to set, and that’s when I see it … a smudge of green against the endless sand.

“The oasis.” Sacha confirms.

Details become clearer as we draw closer. A cluster of what looks like date palms surrounding a small pool of water, and several dome-shaped tents arranged in a semicircle. Goats graze on the scrubby vegetation at the outer edge, and smoke rises from a central fire pit.

“Stay quiet,” Sacha says. “The nomads speak a trade language. I’ll translate for you.”

“Will they recognize you?”

“It’s unlikely. It’s been many years since I passed this way.” His jaw tightens, just slightly. Enough to make me wonder what he’s thinking. “And those who did see me then would have little reason to remember.”

A tall woman emerges from the largest tent as we approach, her gaze assessing us with obvious curiosity. She’s wearing loose clothing in shades of red and blue, and her hair is covered in an elaborate scarf.

She calls out, her voice carrying across the distance between us. I have no idea what she says, but the questioning tone is clear.

Sacha responds, his stance loosening, shoulders relaxing. He gestures to me now and then, and I do my best to look inconspicuous and tired … which isn’t hard.

Their exchange continues for several minutes, then the woman nods and waves a hand toward the water. Sacha turns to me.

“We’re welcome to enter and access the water. They’ve offered their hospitality for the evening,” he says. “I told her we’re passing through on our way east.”

The pool is smaller than it looked from a distance, but gloriously real.

I want nothing more than to sink into it whole, but I follow Sacha’s lead, kneeling at the edge to drink and refill the waterskin.

The water is cool, refreshing, and sweet, without the odd taste of the tower’s supply, or the bitterness of the desert plants.

“Drink slowly,” Sacha warns. “Too much at once will make you ill.”

One of the nomads approaches with a clay bowl.

The smell of stew reaches me, warm and spiced, rich enough to make my mouth water.

I accept it gratefully, along with a piece of flatbread, and balance both on my knees.

The bowl contains unfamiliar meat and vegetables.

It’s heavily spiced, but it might just be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

“Their hospitality is a sacred tradition,” Sacha explains quietly while we eat. “Even enemies will break bread together at an oasis. Violence here is forbidden by customs older than the Authority.”

I glance around the quiet camp. “How do they survive out here?”

“They’re herders and traders. The goats provide milk, meat, and leather. They gather desert plants with medicinal properties. And they guide travelers through the more dangerous parts of Sunfire Dunes.” He nods toward a group of older men seated near the central fire. “For a price, of course.”

“Have you spent time with them before?”

“Once. A long time ago. Before my imprisonment.”

When darkness falls, the community gathers around the fire, shadows dancing across faces now relaxed.

One of the younger men brings out a string instrument I don’t recognize, closer to a sitar than a guitar, but not quite either.

The strings catch the firelight as his fingers pluck them.

The melody is haunting, the notes bending in ways I’ve never heard before.

Others join in, some singing in low voices, others clapping complex rhythms that seem to speak directly to something older than memory.

“It’s a night blessing,” Sacha explains, his voice softer than usual. In the firelight, the harsh angles of his face seem gentler. “They’re asking the darkness for protection, rather than fearing it. A custom the Authority hasn’t quite managed to stamp out.”

For the first time, I notice how he watches the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, the way the shadows touch him differently than they do the others, almost caressing his outline.

We sit slightly apart from the main gathering, but close enough to feel the community’s warmth.

As I watch these people celebrate, a peculiar feeling washes over me.

For a disorienting moment, Chicago feels like a fantasy—its gleaming skyscrapers and Christmas lights more impossible than the scene before me now.

The celebration continues late into the night, until people begin retiring to their tents, the energy winding down like a music box. The headman approaches us, his face solemn as he speaks to Sacha, who nods in response.

“They’ve offered us a tent for the night.” He rises to his feet, indicating I should follow him. “A courtesy to strangers.”

The generosity of these people, offering shelter to complete unknowns strikes me hard. In Chicago, I’d barely make eye contact with neighbors I’d lived next to for years. Here, survival seems to depend as much on community as it does on wariness.

The tent is small, woven mats covering the sand, and just enough space for the two simple roll-out pallets that remind me of yoga mats. Oil lamps cast a warm glow over the walls.

“We leave before dawn.”

I nod, too tired to argue, and stretch out on the pallet. As sleep pulls me under, I hear Sacha’s voice outside the tent, low and steady, speaking in that flowing, unfamiliar language.

I dream of Chicago.

Snow falls in soft spirals over Michigan Avenue, Christmas lights blinking in windows that shimmer like glass stars.

It should feel familiar, safe even, but something is wrong.

Every street I take leads back to the same intersection.

A cycle I can’t break. People pass without seeing me.

Their faces blur, pulled into shapes that don’t make sense.

I try to call out, but nothing comes. The snow thickens, no longer soft but smothering.

And through it all, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

A hand shakes me awake. I blink, my mind still caught between two worlds.

Which one is real? The snowy streets or this tent that smells of woven grass and spiced oil?

“Is it dawn already?” The words come out thick and sleepy.

“No, but we need to go.” Sacha’s voice is an urgent whisper. “ Now .”

“What? What’s wrong?” I sit up fast, fighting to shake off the dream. The sensation of being trapped, of being invisible, clings to me.

“Authority patrol. Nearby.” His voice is tight, clipped. “A nomad sentry overheard them, and went to investigate. The headman has offered us mounts to move faster.”

The nightmare dissolves under this new, more immediate threat. Chicago seems far away again, a fading photograph compared to the knife-edged reality of danger in this world. The disorientation leaves me off-balance.

Which fear should take precedence? The loss of my world, or the threats of this one?

I follow him out of the tent and across the camp. A young man is waiting with two of the same scaled creatures the patrol rode yesterday. Their hides seem to shimmer with a faint phosphorescence.

“These are called sandstriders,” Sacha explains as he helps me mount. “They’re bred for desert travel. Follow my lead.”

The nomad speaks quickly, pointing east and tracing a route in the air.

Sacha listens without interrupting, nodding once or twice.

When the man stops speaking, he presses something into Sacha’s hand—a small leather pouch.

Then he steps back, touches his forehead, and bows.

To Sacha first, then to me. I copy Sacha’s nod in return.

The sandstrider’s movement is oddly smooth, a gliding motion that isn’t quite the same as a horse’s gait.

Its scaled hide is cool beneath my hands, and it responds to the slightest pressure of my knees.

The last time I rode a horse, I could barely steer it.

This animal moves like it already knows where I want it to go.

We travel in silence, the sandstriders moving swift and silent beneath us. The oasis disappears behind us, swallowed by the dark. In the gray haze before sunrise, the dunes and rocks become ghostly shapes rising out of shadows.

“What did he give you?” I keep my voice low, nodding toward the pouch now tucked into Sacha’s belt.

“Desert bread and dried meat. Enough for a day or two.” He doesn’t look at me. “He also shared patrol routes. Ones we can avoid."

The first hint of dawn appears on the horizon, illuminating shadowy shapes against the lightening sky. The distant mountains are more defined now, jagged peaks and gentler hills coming into view.

“We should reach the foothills by high sun.”

I look back, trying to see the oasis, and gauge how far we’ve come. It’s just a dark smudge behind us. The brief moment of safety already feels like a dream, replaced by the reality of our journey across the desert .

“What happens when we reach them?” I turn back to face the rising sun.

“We find allies, and places the High Authority doesn’t control … if any still exist.”

The pause is small, but it rattles me. For all the strange power I’ve seen him command, and the quiet certainty he carries, there’s a thread of doubt in him. It’s the first time I’ve heard it.

Twenty-seven years is a long time. The world he knew may have changed beyond recognition.

The sandstriders move faster now, guided by Sacha, who seems eager to cover as much ground as possible before the heat builds. The desert changes again, shadows giving way to the clear light of morning.

I cling to the saddle, still trying to match the creature’s rhythm.

Ahead lies a world I don’t understand, full of dangers I can’t predict.

Zealots who would kill for the crime of being different.

Rules I don’t know. Creatures I can’t name.

Behind me lies a desert that nearly killed me once, and might still succeed if given another chance.

And beside me rides a man with power over shadows, his true nature still as unreadable as the day I found him.

I’ve slept under a shelter he created from nothing.

I’ve watched his eyes turn black as night.

I’ve seen anger flash and vanish again. And once or twice, a kind of quiet exhaustion that doesn’t quite fit with the rest.

What awaits us in those mountains? What will I learn about this strange world, and the man who is guiding me through it?

With each mile we travel, the tower and its certainties fall further behind. With each revelation—customs preserved in defiance of authority, the threat that hangs over anyone connected to magic—this world becomes more real, more complex.

With each passing day, one question grows louder in my mind.

Will I ever make it back home?