Venos kept his eyes sharp, doing his best to stay quiet and hidden. He wasn't much of a fighter, but this task weighed heavily on him—protecting one man from any hunters who might come sniffing around. Even so, the responsibility only twisted his nerves tighter.
His gaze lingered on the cabin door where Temoshí slept. Every instinct told him it wasn't safe to linger here. Yet they had no other refuge, and he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth—that their boat had already been spotted by travelers crossing the dunes.
"I don't know how much longer we can stay put," he muttered under his breath. "Maybe… maybe we should move on."
He slipped to the helm, heart pounding, and started working the controls, intent on steering them away from the dunes. But when he reached for the fuel gauge, his breath caught. The needle hovered at empty. He froze, staring in disbelief, before frantically checking again. Nothing. No fuel left.
Panic clawed at his chest. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white.
"Damn it, no, no, no… not now!" he hissed, slamming the console. If hunters were already closing in, they were sitting ducks—stranded with no way to run.
Venos's hands trembled as he yanked open the hatch and checked again, as if the fuel might somehow magically appear. Empty. Bone dry. His breath came in quick bursts, his pulse hammering in his throat.
"This… this doesn't make any sense," he muttered aloud, stumbling back a step. "I checked— I know I checked before. How—how is it all gone?"
His voice cracked, panic spilling out as he turned in frantic circles on the deck. "This is bad… this is really bad. Without fuel, we're stranded out here. We can't move, we can't hide, we can't—" He stopped himself, clutching at his hair, the weight of his responsibility crashing down harder with every word.
He shot a desperate glance toward the cabin door where Temoshí slept. His throat went dry. "If someone drained it… then they knew. They knew exactly what they were doing. And now… now we're just sitting ducks."
Venos staggered back to the gauge again, rubbing his eyes as though fatigue was playing tricks on him. The needle didn't budge. He slapped the side of the panel—once, twice, harder the third time—but the reading stayed pinned to empty.
"No… no, no, that's impossible," he whispered, his voice breaking into a rasp. "I filled it myself. I made sure—I know I did! There was enough to last days, enough to get us across without worry…"
He crouched, running both hands through his hair, nails dragging against his scalp as if scratching at the truth would make it surface. "How can it all be gone? Was I wrong? Did I… did I miscount? No, I couldn't have… I don't make mistakes like that."
His mind raced, swinging between self-doubt and suspicion. "Unless… unless someone tampered with it. But who? When? We've barely docked anywhere, barely had eyes off this ship."
His chest tightened, breaths shallow and ragged. He could still hear the faint hum of the sea against the hull, a cruel reminder that they were adrift, helpless. He gritted his teeth, staring at the empty gauge like it was mocking him.
"Damn it… how could I have been so wrong?"
Venos's breaths came quick and uneven, panic clawing at his chest as his mind raced in circles. He stared at the empty fuel tanks, hands trembling, unable to piece together how everything had vanished. It didn't make sense—he had double-checked before, measured it, convinced himself there had been more than enough to last them. Yet here they were, stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing left to move them forward.
And then it hit him, the realization striking like a knife twisting in his gut. All that fuel—every last drop of it—had been burned away during that reckless chase against Razor, back when pride and stubbornness had pushed him to prove himself on the open sea. He had wasted it all on her, on keeping pace with her madness, instead of saving it for survival.
The weight of it cracked something inside him. His face contorted, half fury, half despair, and he let out a sharp, broken laugh that quickly spiraled into a choke. "I wasted it… I wasted all of it on her!" he shouted, clutching his hair, pacing the small deck like a caged animal. His body shook as if he could physically shake free of the truth, but it clung tighter the more he struggled.
The image of Razor's wild grin flashed through his mind, mocking him, and Venos slammed his fist against the railing with a hollow thud. The sound echoed back at him, empty, just like their chances now.
Venos's chest heaved as his breaths grew shallow, his eyes darting frantically across the deck as if an answer might just appear out of thin air. He stumbled from one side of the ship to the other, muttering half-thoughts under his breath, trying to piece together some kind of miracle. "Maybe… maybe if I drain the reserves—no, they're gone… or I could rig the sails—damn it, there's no wind! Maybe… maybe we could… no, no, no—none of it works!"
His hands clawed at the air as if reaching for an idea that kept slipping away, and the more he thought, the heavier the weight pressed down on him. Every option collapsed before it could even form, every thought smothered by the same crushing truth—there was nothing left. They were stranded.
The silence of the sea mocked him, broken only by the hollow creak of the ship beneath his frantic steps. He could feel it now—the helplessness. They weren't just stalled; they were sitting ducks. Easy prey for anyone with sharper teeth, just waiting to be swallowed whole. His mind painted the image of enemy ships closing in, raiders sweeping across the deck, tearing apart everything while he stood powerless.
"No, no, no… they'll come, they'll see us dead in the water—easy pickings, nothing left to fight with…" His voice cracked as he sank to his knees, his head in his hands, sweat dripping down his temples. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out reason. He could already see Razor's mocking face among those shadows, laughing as he lost everything all over again.
The storm raged across the endless dunes, cloaking the world in whirling sand. The Desert Fangs pressed forward through the chaos, their cloaks snapping like torn sails in the wind. At the head of the group strode Zevros, every step firm and deliberate despite the shifting ground. Just behind him followed Rhyven, his presence steady, a shadow trailing the leader's resolve.
Zevros narrowed his eyes against the storm, scanning the wasteland as if expecting hidden shapes to reveal themselves. "Strange," he muttered, voice carried by the howl of the wind. "The dunes are nearly barren of travelers and hunters. That shouldn't be the case—not when word spread of a ship spotted at the southern dock. But who saw it? And why was no one else made aware?" His gaze lingered on the empty horizon, suspicion etched across his face.
Rhyven tilted his head, unbothered by the storm, his tone calm yet edged with disdain. "Why does it matter who saw it?" he replied, stepping closer so his words wouldn't be swallowed by the storm. "If anything, the king made certain we wouldn't know. Keeping us blind isn't an accident—it's deliberate. He doesn't trust us, Zevros. And why would he? To him, we're just tools. Hunters, nothing more."
Rhyven narrowed his eyes, his voice low but edged with dry disdain.
"Most likely one of the king's soldiers. Who else would've been that close without us knowing? They think they're subtle, but they're not."
Zevros glanced over his shoulder at him, his brow furrowed. "You're saying the king's men are poking around down here? In the middle of this storm?"
Rhyven gave a humorless chuckle. "Wouldn't put it past them. They don't care about the storm—they care about us not knowing what they see. If they spotted the ship first, then they'll keep it quiet until it suits their purpose."
Zevros nodded slowly, piecing it together. "So we're walking blind, while they sit on the information. That way, we can't make a move until they've already decided what's convenient."
"Exactly." Rhyven's tone grew sharp. "They're not out here to protect anyone, they're here to control the flow. If they wanted to warn us about who's docked, they would've done it already. But no—they'd rather keep us guessing."
Zevros gave a dry smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Then we're left to do what we always do—work around the king's games."
Zevros's eyes narrowed as he scanned the ridgelines, his voice carrying a note of irritation.
"But it doesn't add up. We cut straight through the shortest path, yet not a single trace of another scout. Even in this storm, a figure in the sand shouldn't vanish so easily. Unless…"
Rhyven scoffed lightly, pulling his scarf tighter against the grit.
"Unless someone wanted them unseen. You're wasting your thoughts on this. The king's men aren't exactly known for playing fair. If word reached him that fast, then one of his soldiers must've been planted there from the start."
Zevros let out a quiet breath, his gaze still drifting along the dunes as if daring something to appear.
"Then that would mean this whole errand is nothing but a leash. They're leading us around like blind hounds."
"Exactly," Rhyven replied calmly, his tone clipped but firm. "Which is why I don't bother caring how the message spread. If the king wants us running in circles, he'll make sure we do. Simple as that."
Zevros turned his head slightly, studying Rhyven with a faint smirk.
"You speak as though you've already accepted it."
Rhyven shrugged, his eyes focused ahead through the storm.
"Not accepted. Just not surprised. I'd rather keep my freedom of thought than chase ghosts in the sand."
To be continued...