Desa fled into the desert.
She rode atop Midnight as he barreled across the sandy plains, his hooves kicking up dust, his tail streaming out behind him in the wind. She was no longer aware of the ache in her thighs from long hours in the saddle, no longer aware of the gnawing hunger or the sting of leather reins on her palms.
Morning had come, and the sky was now a fierce blue without a single cloud to be seen. There was nothing but an endless expanse of dusty red clay. Even the sparse plants of the scrubland near Fool"s Edge were gone.
She leaned forward in the saddle.
Clenching her teeth, Desa hissed as the wind assaulted her. “Just a little longer,” she whispered for the hundredth time. “We"re almost on him.”
They were; she could feel the presence of her Infused knife within about
