Toward a pale, bleached horizon, the crimson sands of the Western Desolation stretched without end.
For three days following the destruction of the phantom caravan, the heavy four-wheeled wagon had creaked westward through waves of choking dry heat.
The sky was the color of tarnished pewter, heavy with airborne rust and powdered bone.
Beside the wagon, Lu Chen walked with measured, unrushed strides.
Every time his heavy iron-soled boots struck the burning red dunes, the sand beneath his soles fused with a sharp, glassy hiss.
Tinkle-crunch.
Small beads of semi-clear green glass formed under his heels. It rolled down the slopes like cold emeralds.
At a resting baseline of one hundred point zero degrees, his body acted as an unending heat anchor in the waste.
