Of Flame, Sand, and Gold

Chapter 37

The desert wind hadn’t calmed—not really. It hissed low across the dunes, dragging dust across bloodstains like it wanted to bury the evidence, to make it all vanish. But the silence that followed the clash was louder than the battle. It throbbed with everything unsaid and unprocessed. Every breath felt earned. Every blink felt like it might break the spell holding the air together.

At the far side, where fear had pressed four the guards flat against the earth, they finally stirred. One by one, they ran—not with urgency, but with a kind of broken reverence—toward the crumpled figure lying face-down in the sand. Vael.

His back rose and fell in shallow motions, breaths pulling dust and defeat into his lungs. The guards moved carefully, like touching him might set off some latent curse. They lifted him—awkwardly, slowly, like the air itself had grown heavier—and began to carry him toward the huddled group near the shattered cart.

Saltana stood with her fists clenched, tightening her jaw.