The march had not slowed. Since dawn, the fleet had pressed forward, their boots and paws sinking into the sand, their breaths turning ragged under the dry air. The wasteland stretched endlessly, a flat canvas painted in pale beige and blistering gold, and with every step, the horizon seemed to retreat just a little farther away.
But as the sun climbed, the world shifted. The morning breeze that had offered them a small mercy fell still, swallowed by the cruel rise of the noon. The air turned thick and punishing, shimmering with heat. Every face lifted toward the blazing sky found no forgiveness there. Even the beasts—tigers bred for strength, wolves trained for endurance—lowered their heads and panted, their paws dragging through the sand.
Luke had warned them. He and Ilyrana had learned this truth firsthand in their own desperate crossing—the noon hours were no time for marching. Not unless one wanted to collapse under the sun's hammer. So it was agreed: they would halt.
