Sand shifts beneath each step, pressure feeding back through my feet in patterns that resolve before thought finishes forming. Density. Angle. Load. I adjust without slowing.
Safe. Not safe. Adjust.
She moves behind me. Too far. I shift half a step, cutting the angle. The path narrows. Her position corrects. Better.
The air carries heat and something else—faint disturbance, inconsistent, but present. I slow a fraction. Listen. The ground answers. Distant pulses. Structured. Repeating. Not natural. My focus sharpens. Track.
The pattern resolves further. Directional. Persistent. Not drifting. Not hunting. Following.
I change direction immediately, cutting across the dune instead of cresting it. Lower channel. Packed sand. Harder to read. Harder to follow.
She adjusts, slower. I recalibrate pace. Not fast. Alive.
Something flashes. Images.
Hands. Mine. Dark. Wet. Covered.
No horizon. No wind. No heat. Wrong. Irrelevant.
I discard it and move.
The pattern behind us tightens. Not closer, yet, but clearer. They are learning. I increase deviation. Sharper angles. It is less efficient, but safer. She stumbles. Minor. Not a fall.
We are too slow, too exposed. My attention shifts to her longer than it should. Error.
I correct, closing the distance again, narrowing the space between us. She steadies. She continues. Acceptable.
The air changes. I stop. Still. She halts a fraction later. Delay, but it is not relevant.
The ground ahead distorts. Subtle. A slow arc beneath the surface. Something large and heavy circling. Hunting. A separate threat.
I shift, placing myself between her and the arc. Ready. Waiting. The ground pulses once. Closer. A second intrusion on my thoughts.
Metal. Close walls. No sky. My hands striking something that does not give. Blood across skin that should be clean.
Noise. I cut it off and focus.
The movement beneath the sand shifts, then passes. The distance increases. I hold until the pattern breaks completely,then move faster. The second pattern remains behind. It is consistent and persistent. Definitely tracking us.
I cut across another slope, choosing instability over predictability because it is necessary. She follows. Slower. I adjust again.
The pattern does not break. They are not losing us.
Terrain ahead opens and exposure increases. Options reduce. Time compresses. She moves slightly ahead. Too far. Too open. Unacceptable.
Another flash?—
Silence. Bodies. Still. Sand darkened. My hands again. After.
Irrelevant. I remove it.
My hand closes around her arm before the thought completes. Fast. Certain. Too hard. My grip tightens. Error. She is not threat. She is—priority. The directive surges.
Protect.
Something deeper rises with it.
Claim. Hold. Do not release.
