Land of Heathens

Chapter 7 - Strange Encounters

The bridge rose at the city’s edge, where the streets gave way to open, untended paths. Dust from the dry outskirts clung to the uneven stones, kicked up by the faint wind sweeping through the deserted evening. Beneath its arch, a thin boy crouched on the gritty sand, tracing tight, precise circles with his fingers. He murmured numbers in a soft, deliberate cadence, each syllable carrying a weight as if the figures themselves breathed.

The patterns, the crescent shapes beside the numbers, the sharp, looping strokes, matched Baasit’s handwriting exactly. He leaned closer, studying the symbols with tense focus. “Baasit,” he whispered, his voice careful, almost reverent.

The boy didn’t look up. He muttered under his breath, counting in a rhythm that felt like a chant. His moderately long black-silver hair fell across his face, dust-laden, falling in thin strands, eyes hidden yet fixed on the ground.

Mehrak’s shoulder pressed against Navir’s. “Does he …?” His voice trembled with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Navir held his position, leaning in just enough to study the crescent without disturbing it. His voice dropped, steady and tense. “No… I think he's connected.”

The boy’s head snapped up, red eyes sharp and calculating. His whispered words sliced through the quiet, sending a shiver down Navir’s spine: “You’re next.”

Before Navir could react, Nimi yanked him backward.

Twilight deepened across the alley as shadows gathered beneath the weak flicker of a lantern. A figure stepped into view, short, slightly obese, his weight shifting unevenly with each step. A rough scar carved across his face, swallowing one eye entirely, turning it grey. The other, a sharp red, fixed on Navir with unsettling precision.

“You’re late,” the man said, voice cracking, carrying a weight that pressed against Navir’s chest. The syllables slashed through the quiet, cold and unfamiliar.

Navir froze for a heartbeat, recognizing nothing but danger in the man’s tone. His fingers clenched at his sides, veins taut. Then, as if propelled by instinct, he stepped faster, nearly breaking into a run, heart hammering against his ribs.

Mehrak and Nimi kept pace silently, eyes darting over the shadows.

The man’s harsh shout ripped after them, echoing off the alley walls: “They’ll come for you too!”

Navir’s stomach twisted. Whoever “they” were, the threat felt immediate, unavoidable, and impossibly close.

They turned onto a darker stretch of the street, the lanterns thinning until only a faint glow rimmed the path. Navir slowed first. A barefoot girl stood ahead, as if she had been waiting, silver-black hair falling in uneven strands around a still, pale face. Her wide red eyes locked onto Nimi with unnerving precision.

“I know you,” she whispered.

Nimi froze. Her breath hitched, shoulders tightening, every instinct recoiling even as her feet refused to move. The girl didn’t blink. She studied Nimi with a depth that felt invasive, as though seeing far beyond skin and memory.

Nimi took a careful step backward.

The girl moved faster.

She lunged, cold fingers snapping around Nimi’s wrist with startling force.

Nimi flinched, but before the grip tightened, Mehrak seized her arm and yanked her free.

The trio bolted, the girl’s silhouette standing eerily still behind them, watching.