Echoes In The Sand
659 Words
The desert had a voice.
Alex first noticed it on their second night of travel. With Bren limping beside him and silence stretching for hours, his ears caught the faintest sounds—whispers, carried on the wind. At first, he thought it was the Fang again, reaching out from its wrappings. But when he paused, he realized the whispers were everywhere, not just in his head.
The dunes shifted with the night breeze, grains cascading down slopes with a soft hiss, like words half-formed. The longer he listened, the more the sounds twisted into meaning. Turn back. You don’t belong. Leave this place.
He shook his head hard and pressed forward. Bren didn’t notice; he was too busy focusing on each painful step.
By dawn, they found another outcrop of rock to rest beneath. Bren collapsed almost immediately, his axe sliding from his shoulder into the sand. Alex sat close by, too restless to sleep. His stomach growled, but they had no food left—only a scrap of dried meat Bren had saved and insisted Alex take. Alex chewed it slowly, guilt gnawing at him harder than hunger.
The Fang pulsed against his leg. It was wrapped tightly, but he could still feel it, like a heartbeat out of rhythm with his own. The blade wanted him awake. It wanted him moving.
He closed his eyes, tried to breathe, tried to will the whispers away. But another sound broke the stillness.
Footsteps.
Alex’s eyes snapped open. He froze, listening. They were faint, but not Bren’s—these were lighter, softer, careful. Someone else was moving out there, just beyond the rocks.
Quietly, Alex reached for the Fang. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the whispers in his head sharpened into clarity: Danger. Draw me. Spill them.
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to draw it. Not unless he had to.
The footsteps grew louder. Bren stirred, groaning, but Alex pressed a finger to his lips. The old mercenary blinked, sat up slowly, and reached for his axe. His eye narrowed as he heard it too.
They waited, crouched low in the thin strip of shade. The footsteps stopped. For a long, terrible moment, nothing moved.
Then, from around the outcrop, a figure appeared.
Not a soldier.
A child.
She was thin as bone, dressed in rags the color of dust. Her hair hung in tangled black strands, and her eyes were wide, too large for her face. She clutched a clay jug to her chest, hugging it like treasure.
Alex’s breath caught. Relief warred with suspicion. In the Empire, spies came in all forms. But there was no blade in her hands, no armor, no threat. Just hunger and fear.
Bren lowered his axe with a curse under his breath. “Desert folk,” he muttered. “Scavengers. Probably lives in the caves nearby.”
The girl’s gaze flicked between them, wary as a cornered animal. Then, with surprising speed, she darted forward and placed the jug on the sand before them. Her hands trembled as she pushed it closer, then she backed away again, eyes never leaving the weapons they held.
Alex hesitated, then knelt and lifted the jug. Water sloshed inside. Cool, clean water. He stared at the girl, stunned.
“Why…?” he began, but she was already running, disappearing into the rocks as quickly as she had come.
Silence returned, broken only by Bren’s hoarse laugh. “Desert gods smile on us after all.”
Alex wasn’t sure it was kindness. He turned the jug in his hands, uneasy. Nothing in the desert came without cost. But thirst won over doubt, and he drank deeply before passing it to Bren.
When he finally lay back, exhaustion pulling him down, his last thought was of the girl’s eyes. Wide. Fearful. As if she knew what followed them—and wanted them gone before it arrived.
The Fang’s whispers lulled him into uneasy dreams.
- Writer
