The heat was still rising when they left the site of the ambush. The desert did not simply press down, it pulled at them. Every step sank into the loose surface, grains sliding treacherously underfoot, as though the ground itself wanted to clutch at their ankles and hold them there until the sun finished its work.
They moved in silence, conserving air and strength. The shimmer on the horizon bent and twisted every shape, the dunes swelling like slow-moving waves.
Shelter came in the form of a crumbling sandstone bluff, its face cracked into jagged layers where centuries of wind had chewed away the weaker stone. Flakes as thin as paper littered the base, crunching underfoot. The rock cast a thin strip of shade, not much wider than a body, but enough to blunt the full fury of the sun. The air there was still heavy and hot, but without the glare, it was survivable.
Shira dropped first, letting his back thump softly against the rock. Sweat had soaked through his tunic, darkening the fabric in irregular patches. His shoulders rose and fell in deep, steady pulls of air. Daiana knelt beside her pack, fingers careful and deliberate as she unhooked her water gourd, cradling it like a jar of fragile medicine.
"We ration.", Isan said simply. His own mouth felt dry as sand, his tongue thick, throat raw enough that each swallow scraped. Still, he passed the gourd to Shira first.
Shira drank just enough to wet his lips before passing it to Daiana. She took two slow, measured sips and handed it over. Isan drank last, the water barely more than a rinse over his tongue before he forced himself to stop.
The afternoon passed in stillness. Daiana tightened the seals on her storage scroll. Isan sat cross-legged, sharpening a set of shuriken with smooth, unhurried strokes.
The rasp of metal against whetstone was the only sound, mingling with the faint hiss of wind snaking through the bluff's cracks.
By evening, the light softened from white to molten amber. The three of them rose and moved again, following the land's natural slope into a shallow basin. Here, the sand thinned, giving way to cracked earth split into plates like old pottery. At its lowest point, Daiana found it, a dark stain in the ground, ringed by brittle reeds.
A shallow pool lay there, fed by a slow, hidden seep beneath the surface. The edges were crusted with white mineral, the water itself cloudy and foul-smelling. Flies clung to the damp edges, their wings flicking lazily in the fading light. Without hesitation, Daiana knelt and pressed a purifying seal into the water.
By nightfall, they had refilled every container.
The fourth day fell into a rhythm of survival.
Before dawn, when the air was almost cool, they hunted. Moving across the firmer morning sand, they followed faint depressions that Shira spotted ahead. Two hares bolted from the brush, one vanished into the dunes, the other met the glint of Isan's kunai. Shira caught another in a sudden lunge, sand spraying as he pinned it.
Daiana dressed the meat over a small, smokeless fire shielded by stones. The scent of cooking flesh briefly cut through the dry mineral tang of the air. They ate quickly, wasting nothing.
By midday, they sheltered beneath a jagged stone outcrop shaped like the ribs of a buried beast. Even in the shade, the heat pressed on them like a weight. Speaking felt like burning energy they couldn't afford to waste.
That night, the wind carried voices.
At first, they were faint, low murmurs warped by distance and the shifting dunes. But the tone was unmistakable: rough, easy, confident. Men who feared nothing but thirst. Then another voice joined them, it was younger, faster and eager to please.
Far to the west, beneath a silver moon that painted the dunes in cold light, a cavern yawned in the face of a massive sandstone bluff. From within, a faint, flickering glow spilled out into the night, a campfire's light, trembling against the stone as if reluctant to betray the presence of those inside.
Stepping into the cavern's shadowed mouth, one would find a camp that reeked of violence and wear. The air was heavy, saturated with the stale tang of sweat, the musk of cracked leather, and the iron scent of old blood baked deep into the sand. Crooked tents hunched low to the ground, their weather-beaten canvas patched in mismatched scraps, stained by years of grit, smoke, and storms. Flies clustered thick on ropes and seams, refusing to scatter even when brushed aside.
At the camp's heart stood the largest tent, its flap drawn back as though daring the night to peer inside. From within emerged a man who seemed almost carved from the same stone as the bluff itself, nearly two meters tall, bald scalp gleaming in the moonlight. His leather vest strained across a belly padded with bulk, but his forearms were thick with knotted muscle. Resting casually across one shoulder was a warhammer so massive it could splinter rock, yet he carried it as though it weighed nothing at all.
He stopped before a rough pen cobbled together from scavenged timber. Inside, captives slumped in the dirt. Some turned their faces away immediately; others stared back hollow-eyed, their expressions dulled by exhaustion and thirst.
Two armed men flanked him, curved blades swinging at their hips. A third figure trailed behind, slighter, younger, posture too straight for a common bandit. His clothes were dust-streaked and frayed, but the cut of them still marked him as shinobi in training.
"You've proven to be useful, kid.", the large man said without turning, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot. "Didn't think your village would hand us an opportunity like this. More bodies means more leverage."
The boy swallowed, his gaze darting toward the pen before returning quickly to the man's back.
"I said I'd earn my keep."
One of the older bandits gave a dry, humorless laugh. "A shinobi pup with sense. Maybe there's hope for him yet."
The leader shifted the hammer to his other shoulder, the movement slow, deliberate. "Hope or not, he's useful.", his eyes slid to one captive too weak to stand. "The rest? They live only as long as they don't make trouble."
The boy hesitated, then asked, "And if they do?"
The leader's grin came slow, almost lazy, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Then the desert will take them. One grain at a time."
Low chuckles rippled through the men. From the pen came a dry, hacking cough, thin, brittle, like twigs snapping in the wind.
The boy shifted his stance, eyes tracking the giant as he turned back toward the tent. The warhammer swung in his grip with casual ease, and the expression on his face was calm in a way that made it more dangerous.