Thirst And The Shadows
724 Words
The desert was cruel in daylight.
Alex hadn’t realized how cold the night had been until the sun came, blazing like a god intent on burning the world clean. Heat pressed down from above and shimmered up from the sand below, trapping him in a furnace. His cloak clung to him with sweat, his tongue swollen and dry.
Bren trudged beside him, his limp worsening with every mile. His axe was strapped to his back now—he didn’t have the strength to carry it in his hands. Even so, the older mercenary’s jaw stayed set, his one good eye scanning the horizon for danger.
Alex envied that steadiness. His own thoughts were scattered, gnawed at by thirst and the whispers that never left him. The Fang pulsed faintly at his side, the black blade wrapped in cloth, but even hidden it seemed alive. It beat with a rhythm too much like a heartbeat, steady and insistent, as though reminding him it was still there.
“Water’s near gone,” Bren muttered, lifting the skin to shake it. Only a hollow splash answered. He handed it to Alex. “Sip. Nothing more.”
Alex obeyed, though the single mouthful did nothing to ease the fire in his throat. He closed the skin carefully, guilt gnawing at him. “How far to the next outpost?”
Bren grunted. “Two days, if we’re lucky.” He glanced at the sun, grimaced. “Less, if the Empire’s hounds are already on us.”
Alex’s stomach twisted. He thought of the soldiers in the camp, the way they’d moved—disciplined, precise. Not bandits. Not men you could simply outrun. And if Captain Lucian was half as relentless as he sounded in Alex’s nightmares, then the desert itself might not be enough to save them.
They walked in silence until the heat grew unbearable. When Bren finally called a halt, they crouched in the shadow of a jagged outcrop. It wasn’t much shade, but it was something.
Alex lowered himself onto the sand, every muscle aching. His hand drifted, unthinking, to the Fang. He didn’t even mean to grip it, but his fingers curled around the hilt anyway. The moment he touched it, strength flickered through him—a false surge, like cool water poured down his veins. The exhaustion dulled, the heat felt less suffocating.
He hated how good it felt.
“Don’t,” Bren snapped.
Alex jerked, realizing Bren was watching him. The old mercenary’s gaze was sharp despite the weariness in his body. “That thing’s poison. It’ll make you feel strong. Then it’ll hollow you out until nothing’s left.”
Alex clenched his jaw. “If I throw it away, we die. You know that.”
“Maybe.” Bren leaned his head back against the stone. “Or maybe we live without it.” He closed his eye, sighed through his teeth. “But you already feel it, don’t you? The pull. The hunger.”
Alex didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
A hawk wheeled high above, its cry cutting the silence. Alex followed it with his eyes, envying its freedom. Out here, they were slower than prey and easier to track. Every step left a mark in the sand. Every breath carried a chance of discovery.
As the day dragged on, Bren finally stirred. “We move when the sun dips. Travel at night, rest by day. That’s how desert folk survive. If the Empire’s chasing, they’ll be on horseback—we can’t outpace them in daylight.”
Alex nodded, though dread coiled tighter in his gut. He kept seeing the soldiers’ torches in his mind, winding like a serpent through the night. He kept hearing the captain’s voice, though he’d never heard it at all. We run them down.
When night finally came, they walked again. The stars were sharp and cold above, endless and uncaring. Bren moved slower now, every step pained, but he pressed on without complaint.
Alex gripped the Fang beneath its wrappings. For all the fear it inspired, he knew one thing with certainty: if the Empire found them tonight, if Captain Lucian caught up, this cursed blade would be the only thing standing between them and the sand.
And though Alex hated the thought—he was starting to believe the sword knew it too.
- Writer
