The world had slowed into a haze of muted golds and bruised purples as the sun bled itself across the horizon, melting into the distant dunes. The air, once blazing and sharp, had cooled into a brittle dryness, and yet every step Vartha took still carried the weight of exhaustion.
Luke could feel it even without looking—her strides had lost that bounding strength, the smooth rhythm of a predator in her element. Now, her paws sank deeper into the sand, each push laboured. Her tail no longer flicked with alertness, but dragged behind like a limp banner. The great muscles of her shoulders rolled with effort rather than power.
He wanted to tell her to stop. He really did. But when he glanced at Ilyrana, he saw she was watching Vartha too, and she didn't say it either. They both knew: if they stopped now, if they stopped short of shelter, they'd be gambling on the desert's cruelty—and the chance, however slim, that their pursuers had somehow regained their trail.
So they stayed silent.
