ash and silence
945 Words
Three days after the Watchers vanished into the dunes, Alex still heard their voices when the wind rose.
He and Bren had crossed into a flatter stretch of desert, where the dunes rolled like waves frozen mid-motion. The days burned, the nights bit, and every step felt heavier. Alex could no longer tell if the exhaustion came from walking or from the Fang whispering beneath its wrappings.
The Fang had grown quieter since the circle, but not silent. Its voice had changed—less commanding, more intimate. A whisper that slipped between thoughts.
You did well to resist them, it murmured when he tried to sleep. They wanted to break you, but you’re stronger than they know. You and I, we understand each other.
Alex had learned not to answer.
By the third night, Bren’s limp had worsened. They’d found a ledge of rock that offered enough shelter from the wind to light a small fire. The smoke rose into a sky spattered with cruel stars. Bren sat close, turning a strip of leather in his calloused hands, patching his boot in silence.
Alex stared into the fire. “Do you ever wonder what happens after all this?”
Bren didn’t look up. “After what?”
“The running. The Empire. The Fang. All of it.” Alex’s voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the crackling flames. “Do you ever think there’s something else waiting? Something better?”
Bren let out a rough laugh that turned into a cough. “Boy, I’m old enough to know ‘better’ usually means something different for everyone. But aye… I wonder. Doesn’t mean I expect it.”
Alex smiled faintly. “You don’t believe in hope?”
“I believe in doing what keeps you alive long enough to see if hope’s worth the trouble.” Bren’s tone softened, his good eye flicking toward Alex. “You still got that fire in you. Don’t lose it. The world will try its damned best to smother it.”
They sat in silence after that. The fire crackled low, and the stars shifted overhead. Somewhere in the dark, a coyote cried—a lonely, broken sound that seemed to echo through the dunes.
---
By dawn, Bren’s condition had worsened. His limp became a drag. Every few hundred steps, he had to stop. Alex offered to carry his pack, but Bren waved him off, muttering something about pride and old bones.
As they crested another dune, the landscape began to change. Patches of pale stone broke through the sand, the remnants of some long-buried city. Walls, arches, fragments of old carvings—half-sunken in gold dust.
Alex paused, breath catching. “What is this place?”
Bren shaded his eyes, squinting. “Old ground. Before the Empire, before the wars. Could be the edge of the Oathlands, if the stories are true.”
He limped ahead, his gaze flicking over the ruins. “They say this was where the first kings made their pacts—with gods, or demons, depending on who’s telling the story.”
Alex trailed his hand over a cracked wall. The stone was cool despite the sun. Strange symbols—different from the Watchers’ marks—were carved deep into its surface. He felt a hum beneath his fingers, faint but alive.
The Fang stirred. They built this world with blood and will. As you could.
Alex snatched his hand back. “Stop,” he whispered.
Bren turned. “What?”
“Nothing.” Alex forced a smile. “Just thought I saw something.”
Bren’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t push.
They made camp inside a broken archway that night. The desert wind howled through the ruins, singing through the cracks like a chorus of ghosts. Bren fell asleep quickly, his breathing ragged. Alex couldn’t.
He sat with his back against the wall, staring at the wrapped sword lying beside him. The moonlight made the cloth shimmer faintly, as if the blade beneath were shifting in its sleep.
You can’t keep fearing me, the Fang whispered, soft and coaxing. You felt it when you touched the circle. We are one heartbeat. You only have to stop fighting it.
Alex pressed his palms to his eyes. “You’re not real,” he muttered.
I am as real as your fear.
He wanted to throw the thing into the dunes, to end the whispering once and for all—but Bren’s words echoed back: Those who give in don’t stay themselves for long.
So he stayed still, breathing through the pulse in his ears, until exhaustion finally dragged him down.
---
In his dreams, he stood in the ruins again, but they were whole this time. Towers of white stone reached toward the sky, and the sand was gone. The air shimmered with gold light.
At the center of it all stood a man. He was tall, robed, his face lost in shadow. The Fang rested in his hand, gleaming with that same golden fire.
Alex tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t obey. The man lifted his head slowly.
“You carry my burden,” the stranger said, his voice echoing from every wall. “Tell me, boy—how long before you become what I was?”
Alex woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The fire had died. Bren snored softly nearby, and the night was still. But somewhere out in the darkness, he swore he saw a flicker of movement—like torchlight far away.
He reached for the Fang, feeling its pulse match his heartbeat.
The Empire was coming. And this time, he didn’t know if he could run again.
- Writer
