The relative peace lasted exactly forty minutes.
The caravan had resumed its westward march across the singing salt plains, moving in single file along a raised spine of wind-packed white chalk-stone crust. Ren walked at the vanguard. His mammoth-bone awl was tucked securely into his apron sheath, his senses extended through the rawhide soles of his boots to maintain the Stalker’s Pace. Every footstep had to be placed with clean, steady care: heel sliding forward without striking, weight transferring through the outer blade of the foot, toes rolling flat against the crust without breaking the fragile water’s skin of the salt.
Behind him, the eighteen refugees from the Red Sieve moved with newfound respect. It stepped exactly into Nomad Ren’s footprints. Master Varos carried a heavy bronze pry-bar like a shepherd’s crook, his watery old eyes darting across the shimmering horizon. The young weavers hauled the water-cart with rhythmic, timed together strides, their breath held low in their throats. They had seen what happened to those who stomped like cattle in the deep dunes.
In the middle cart, Mira sat with the lead plate resting securely across her lap. Her right arm glowed with a steady, quiet lavender light. The violent deep ring of the singing sand no longer tormented her marrow. Her chest chimed in peaceful, melodic counter-point to the heat wind, acting as an internal compass that registered every subtle shift in the basin’s earth-shaking pressure.
