Page 24

I climb onto my own mount, my movements awkward compared to his. I was gone a while. Sitting on a rock, naked, drying clothes in the sun like that was normal. I have no idea how close he stayed, or if he ever really left. The thought twists something in my gut.

“How far is it to an actual settlement? Somewhere I can find proper clothes?”

“Ravencross is another day and a half’s ride. If it still exists.” Something in the way he says it makes me glance over. But his face gives nothing away.

We follow what appears to be a game trail winding between the rocks. Scrubby brush gives way to proper scrubs, and occasional trees cling to the hillside. The air starts to feel different, cooler, and carries scents that remind me of pine.

The sun is high when Sacha halts and raises a finger to his lips. I hold still, watching while his eyes turn black, then return to normal.

“There are travelers ahead. A merchant caravan, moving toward Ravencross.”

My heartbeat picks up. “Authority again?”

“No.” He urges his sandstrider forward with a single tap of his heel. “Independent traders. They used to be common around here.”

We reach a rise in the trail, and the valley unfolds below.

A caravan of perhaps twenty people moves along the valley floor, leading pack animals loaded with goods.

From this distance, they look ordinary. Just people going about their business, unaware they’re being watched by an escaped prisoner and someone from another world.

“We’ll approach openly,” he says. “Their kind values commerce over politics. They’ll have things we might need.”

“Do you have anything for trade?”

He pauses, head tilting in that way I’m coming to recognize as him considering what to tell me.

Then he lifts his hand, palm up. The air above it darkens, shadows coalescing.

They swirl and compress, until they’re reduced to small uneven shapes.

His fingers curl, trapping them against his palm.

His lips move and he whispers a word I don’t catch, and then his fingers open again.

Three rough-cut gemstones rest there, black with deep blue and violet threads. They don’t catch the light, they deflect it .

“What? How?” I reach out, but don’t touch, my finger hovering above them.

“Shadowstones. Crystalized darkness. Rare and valuable, particularly to those with certain … interests.”

“And you can just … make them?”

“I’m the only one who can. That’s why they’re valuable.”

The casual display of power makes my stomach flutter. Not entirely with fear this time, but with something closer to wonder. The realization that I understand so little about what he can do, about what's possible in this world, settles over me.

“Come.”

He turns the sandstrider toward the caravan, and we continue our approach. We take our time, making sure they’re aware of us before we get close.

My pulse hammers against my ribs. Despite Sacha’s calm presence, my mouth is dry with nerves. I’ve seen others since I got here, but this is different. These are the first people I’ll have to really interact with. The first time I might be seen for what I am.

What if they notice? What if they know I don’t belong here?

As we draw nearer, I glance sideways at Sacha … and falter. He’s shifting. Not physically, not overtly, but something in him folds inward. The strange intensity I saw this morning—the way his eyes caught the light, the way shadows curled too eagerly around him—it’s gone. Dimmed.

He looks like a man again. Even his voice, when he calls out a greeting, sounds different. Back to how it sounded in the tower.

The lead travelers spot us. A subtle signal moves through their ranks—hand gestures, glances—and the caravan slows to a halt. Several men step forward to meet us, hands resting casually near their weapons. Ready, but not hostile. Capable of becoming dangerous in an instant.

Their clothing is clearly made for travel—loose-fitting pants and tunics in sun-faded earth tones that blend into the landscape, designed for movement and desert heat.

Each man wears a brightly colored sash wrapped around his waist, the vivid patterns striking against otherwise muted fabric. Status markers, maybe, or clan symbols.

Sacha raises his hands, palms open, in the universal gesture of peace. One of the men calls out. Sacha responds.

I straighten instinctively, trying to project a calm I don’t actually feel. I’m still in jeans and snow boots, sticking out like a wrong note in a familiar song.

After a brief exchange, the tension around the group eases. The leader, a stocky man with an impressive beard streaked with gray, steps forward, bows slightly, and nods in my direction.

“They welcome fellow travelers," Sacha tells me. “They’re headed to Ravencross. They’re happy for us to join them.”

“So it still exists then?”

“It was only a small settlement in the foothills the last time I was there. Back then it straddled the border between Authority-controlled lands and the free territories. A place where people met to trade.”

The caravan leader speaks again, his gaze flicking to my clothes.

“He’s asking where you’re from. I told him you’re from beyond the Western Boundaries, where customs and clothing are different. ”

I nod, hoping my expression conveys appropriate gratitude for allowing us to travel with them. The leader smiles, then calls to a woman standing near one of the carts.

She moves quickly, retrieves something from a pack, and crosses the space between us. She offers it to me, a folded bundle, and says something in that fluid, melodic language. I glance at Sacha.

“Clothing. She says you must be finding travel uncomfortable in what you’re wearing.”

I take the bundle with both hands, startled by the unasked for kindness.

“Thank you.”

“ Narem. ” Sacha says to the woman. He glances at me. “It means thank you.”

She smiles and pats my arm before returning to her position.

“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.

She doesn’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.”

My head turns sharply. His face is unreadable, but I’m certain there was a note of humor in his voice.