The scent of herbs lingered in the cool, dusty air of the hut. Talon lay motionless on a woven mat, his brow slick with sweat. The healer, a weathered old man with a clouded left eye and steady hands, leaned over him, applying a salve made from crushed leaves and something that smelled like ash and mint.
"He'll live," the old man murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "But he'll limp for days. Maybe longer."
Kieran watched silently from a corner. The shadows in the room clung to the walls, still and obedient. No twitching. No whispers. Just the low creak of wood and the healer's careful movements.
Outside, the village stirred gently. It was a fragile collection of worn huts and makeshift shelters, surrounded by sand and half-buried stone remnants. Children watched the new arrivals from behind cracked doors. Men and women kept their distance. None asked questions, but their eyes lingered too long.
Rei paced outside the hut, arms crossed. "We should keep moving. This place feels... off."
"And leave Talon to die?" Calla shot back. "We're not doing that."
Selene stood between them, calm but unreadable. Her gaze flicked briefly to Kieran, then back to the argument. "Let's give him a day. Two at most. We'll need supplies anyway."
Inside, the old man spoke again. "You're lucky to have come here. Not many pass through. Fewer still leave in one piece."
"You've helped others before?" Kieran asked quietly.
The healer nodded. "Once. A long time ago. A woman passed through here... skilled in ways that defied the world. She taught me things—healing, reading wounds, mending pain with more than herbs. Then she vanished. Left nothing behind but stories."
Kieran's eyes narrowed. "What was her name?"
The old man shook his head. "She never gave it. But she saved lives. Mine among them."
He returned to his work.
---
The village had a haunted stillness. Stone fragments jutted from the sand like broken teeth. The villagers avoided the western edge, where a shattered archway stood half-swallowed by dunes. When Kieran asked why, a boy only whispered, "It sings at night."
Later, as the sun dipped low, a man emerged from the outskirts, dragging a half-filled sack of roots. He was tall, gaunt, and scarred across one side of his face. A worn weapon hung at his back. The others called him Garran.
He was Awakened.
"Outsiders," Garran muttered when he saw the group. "You walk blind in a realm that devours memory."
Rei raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to be a warning?"
Garran didn't reply. His eyes lingered on Kieran just a second too long.
Kieran met his gaze. "What?"
Garran's expression didn't change. "Some shadows don't belong. Not even here."
He turned and walked off.
---
That evening, the old man lit a small fire and brewed tea made from pale blue leaves. As they sat in a rough circle, he shared more of the story.
"She came from the north. Taught without asking for anything. Said she wasn't staying. Said the realm had plans for her still."
Calla leaned forward. "And you never saw her again?"
"Not once. But I remember her hands. Always warm. Always steady."
Selene glanced at Kieran, then looked away before he could meet her gaze.
---
That night, a low sound drifted in from the western edge of the village. Like wind—but too constant. Too focused. A hum beneath the dunes.
Kieran stood outside, watching the horizon. The moonlight barely touched the sand, casting long shadows across stone fragments. In the distance, he saw it: the faint shape of ruins, almost like a building hunched beneath the weight of the desert. And near it—movement.
Something shifting. Something waiting.
Behind him, the old man stepped outside and looked west.
"She once said the desert remembers what the world forgets."
Kieran didn't respond. He just watched.
The wind whispered nothing.
---