It’s nearly impossible to sleep, no matter where the sun is in the sky. When we rest, my thoughts flit from one anxiety to the next while Aren attempts to nap.
When I finally drift off from sheer exhaustion, I’m too tired to dream of anything but endless sand and sun, and empty crystal streets.
Marcus was right—I’ve stepped into a hellhole. Worse, I’ve brought Aren with me. She doesn’t deserve any of this suffering.
How many days have we been walking?Time plays tricks with your mind in the desert.
“You don’t look good,” Aren says one morning, studying my face.
I snort.
“And don’t say ‘speak for yourself,’” she adds with a weak chuckle.
“You always look good,” I blurt out. I’m half-delirious, and I don’t intend to flirt, but she smiles, and that’s enough to get me back on my feet.
I can’t imagine surviving this torturous trek on my own. Her presence is the only thing keeping me going. I need to survive for Aren; I can’t leave her alone here. Before I met her, I had come to terms with my inevitable demise. But now, with her by my side, she gives me newfound hope for survival. Just when I want to start living, I can’t very well die. The irony is too grand.
We come upon no village, no outpost, nor even an abandoned hut, and the supplies in our backpacks dwindle with each passing day. We’ll need to further ration our food and water.
“Here,” I say, offering Aren my waterskin. I pretended to drink my share so she can have more.
“You didn’t have any.” It’s not the first time she’s noticed, but her protests grow softer each time.
I shake my head. “Take it.”
Too weak to argue, she does as I say, and I’m relieved to see a bit more color in her cheeks.
There’s no life here at all. Sand gets everywhere: between my teeth, under my eyelids, beneath my fingernails. The dry heat ripples across the horizon, warping the land and creating more illusions. I know they aren’t real, especially when they show me my white city in Loegria, with its lush pools and verdant gardens.
When we rest, wasting precious hours, she lies on her back at my side, her face twisted up in agony. In her dreams, she cries out for someone, though I can’t tell if the name on her lips is mine. Her sleep is always fitful. Her lips are cracked and bleeding, her cheeks burning red, her skin peeling. Her eyes are sunken, her gaze distant, and I know I don’t look any better. We save what little food and water we have for when we must walk another step.
I know I’m dying. More importantly, Aren is, too.
I have no idea how much farther we need to go. We follow the sun. All I know is that we need to keep moving east.
We come upon the head of a large statue that is buried in the sand. As we lie in its shade, I think the illusions on the horizon are playing another cruel trick on me. But as I stare, an image comes into focus, and I hear the sound of a wagon.
Despite my aching muscles, fear jolts me into action. I scramble to sit up, my heart racing. I reach over to Aren and touch her shoulder. She lurches awake, and I press a finger to my cracked lips, then cup my ear, urging her to listen. Her eyes widen when she hears it, too. It’s not a mirage after all.
We stare at each other. Whoever comes our way could cut our throats as easily as rescue us. Fearing the worst, we tuck ourselves deep into the statue’s shadow, pressing against the hot stone to stay out of sight.
Why is there a wagon in the ruins? How?
I lean low, just enough to see the hooves of a horse and four wheels rolling through the sand. Is it the Usurper’s scouts? Is Penrith’s army here? Or has some other enemy—perhaps the ones who kidnapped and killed Lydia—found us?
But I can’t let our potential saviors slip away. We’re going to die if we keep going the way we are.
Nodding at Aren, I slip out from the statue’s cover, and she follows. Together, we approach the wagon as it passes. It’s a covered sleigh pulled by a single horse, its wheels wide enough to glide over the sand. The linen canopy conceals the driver, but there has to be someone inside.
“Wait,” I whisper. My voice cracks, dry as a piece of toast. Straining, I raise my voice. “Wait!”
The wagon stops right in front of us.
There’s a rustling sound, and then the back door opens. A veiled figure emerges, their face and body obscured entirely by flowing white cotton.
Aren stiffens beside me. She’s seen it, too: the glint of metal in the stranger’s hand. A sword.
Instinctively, I move in front of her as the figure jumps from the wagon, sword pointed directly at my chest.
