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I’m distracted from asking when the woman who gave me the clothes approaches and touches my arm. In her other hand is a bowl, which she offers with a small smile and a gesture toward the fire circle.

“She’s inviting us to sit and eat with them.” Sacha’s voice has returned to its usual clipped register.

We follow her to the edge of the fire circle and lower ourselves onto the ground in the space made for us. A few of the other travelers glance our way but make no move to speak. Their wariness doesn’t feel hostile, just alert.

The bowl is warm in my hands, filled with something thicker than soup but not quite a stew—root vegetables and grains simmered in a dark, savory broth, with flecks of green herbs I don’t recognize.

A thread of something tangy winds through the richness—sharp and citrus-like, but deeper.

Maybe fermented. Alongside it is a folded strip of fire-blistered flatbread and a small dish of deep-red paste that smells sweet and smoky.

I dip a corner of bread into it, and the flavor explodes—sun-dried fruit, spice, and a slow-blooming heat that builds at the back of my throat.

I eat slowly, letting the unfamiliar textures and tastes ground me.

It’s only the second proper meal I’ve had since arriving here, but unlike with the nomads, I’m not too stunned to feel it.

The flavors are rich, layered with spices I don’t recognize.

One bite of a darker-colored root dipped in something tangy, makes me cough, tears springing to my eyes.

Laughter flares from the group around us. Someone mimics my expression, fanning their mouth dramatically. Another leans over with a grin and offers me a different piece, no dip this time, muttering something in the local language that sets off another round of chuckles.

I glance at Sacha. “What did he say?”

“He said that root is reserved for waking up lazy husbands,” he replies, dry as ever.

I blink, startled, then laugh. The sound feels strange in my throat, like it doesn’t quite belong. I haven’t laughed since I got here. I haven’t felt anything light enough to let it loose. Across from me, Sacha gives me a faint smile.

Occasional laughter ripples through the people around us as they talk and eat. A few glance at Sacha, but their attention quickly returns to the conversation at hand without speaking to me again.

“They keep looking at you. Do you know why?”

“It’s nothing. They’re cautious around strangers, that’s all. Especially those who appear from the desert. Few make that journey willingly.”

The explanation seems reasonable, yet something about it makes me think it’s more than that. I decide not to push … for now.

“Will they tell anyone we were with them?”

“Not unless we threaten their caravan in some way. Their loyalty is to commerce, not those in power. ”

As night falls, small oil lamps are lit around the perimeter of the camp. Watches are organized, guard duty taken in pairs throughout the night. We’re offered a place beneath one of the simple shelters, and bedrolls are provided, thin but clean.

Sacha takes up his customary position at the entrance of our shelter, his profile etched against the night. I lie on my side, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“Why do you always sit there? At the entrance, I mean."

For a moment, I think he'll ignore me. His stillness is so complete he might be carved from stone. Then his head turns, just enough that I catch the edge of his face in the dying firelight.

“For twenty-seven years, I lived in a room with no windows. While the sun is ... welcome, I prefer the night. The stars. The dark." There’s a softness to his voice that says more than his words do.

In that moment, I see something more than the stranger I helped to free. I see a man who lost nearly three decades of his life to darkness and isolation. Who lost the stars. Who lost the wind on his face, and the freedom to simply look up.

I open my mouth, but I'm not sure what words could possibly address such a loss, so I stay silent.

"We'll reach Ravencross tomorrow," he says, voice returning to its usual measured cadence, the moment of vulnerability sealed away once more.

“What will we find there?” I pull the cloak tighter around me, to ward off the growing chill of the night.

“Information, hopefully.” His profile is sharp against the backdrop of the fires outside. “Maybe connections to my old network, if any survive.”

“And those stories you mentioned?”

“There have always been stories. Predictions of changes to come, or shifts in power. They give people something to hold onto.”

“Are you part of these stories?”

“Some believed so, once.” His voice is soft. “Before my capture and imprisonment.”

I study his silhouette, clear against the night sky. “What about me? Why was I brought here? Where do I fit into all of this?”

He turns to face me. “That is what we need to discover.”

Silence falls. Beyond our shelter the caravan settles for the night, murmured conversations fading into silence, broken only by the occasional call of night birds, and the soft sound of wind through trees.

Sleep hovers just beyond reach, my mind churning with questions that only multiply the longer I remain in this world.

What awaits us in Ravencross? What secrets lie in the stories Sacha won't explain? What force pulled me off a Chicago street and dropped me into a desert tower in another reality? And now that his familiar has returned, now that he’s becoming whole again, where does that leave me?

The man sitting at the entrance of our shelter is keeping secrets, and revealing only what serves his purpose.

I know that the way I know the sun will rise tomorrow.

And that knowledge settles uncomfortably in my chest. Because the truth is, I don’t know if he sees me as an ally in all this, or just a means to an end. A tool. Something to be used, then discarded once it’s served its purpose.

The woman who gave me clothes today showed me more kindness in one moment than Sacha has since the day we met.

And yet … I still find myself watching him. Trying to read him. Seeking something, approval maybe. Understanding. Or just a reason not to be afraid of what he’s becoming.

My fingers trace the weave of my new clothes. The fabric feels real beneath my fingertips, grounded and foreign at once. Chicago feels more like a dream with every passing hour. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it brings a strange, hollow ache.

I close my eyes and picture Ravencross somewhere in the mountains ahead, its name a promise or a warning, I can’t yet tell.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s where I’ll find the answer to the only question that truly matters.

Why me?