Over time He shifted slightly in the saddle, trying to find some angle, some posture that didn't tear at the wounds. But there was no mercy in the desert. No soft place to rest.
The fabric of his tunic had already fused to the dried blood earlier. Now, with every movement, it pulled. Tore. Fresh warmth began to soak through the back, slow at first—then steadily more.
His breath caught. The sting was sharp enough to pull a quiet sound from his throat. He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes ahead. No one said anything.
But someone noticed.
The boy from before, riding behind him now, seemed to lean a little closer, his eyes narrowed beneath his scarf. He didn't speak. Just watched, occasionally glancing toward the elder Sandwalkers ahead—as if weighing whether to say something, he had noticed it early but now he could tell it was getting worse.
Levi didn't want him to.
He hunched forward, elbows tight, hands clenched on the rough saddle rope. His vision swam for a moment. Just the heat, he told himself. Just the sun and the ache.
But his knuckles were white. His jaw locked.
He could hear the low hum of conversation between the Sandwalkers and his mother, riding ahead. She hadn't looked back in a while—her shoulders were square, tense with exhaustion and purpose. She was guiding them, helping them navigate through the subtle dips in the dunes and the hidden trails Levi could barely see. He wouldn't ask her to stop.
Sera hadn't stirred, still slumped in front of his mom who kept her wrapped. Her pale skin looked raw, lips cracked and colorless.
They both looked broken. But Levi knew better. They were bruised. Battered. not broken.
He swallowed against the metallic taste in his mouth. His body was soaked in sweat, but his skin felt cold beneath the heat. The blood on his back had soaked through completely now. It stuck to the saddle. Every rock of the camel rubbed it rawer.
Just keep going.
One of the older Sandwalkers said something in a dialect Levi couldn't understand. A signal, maybe. A direction. And then he pointed toward a jagged ridge in the distance—barely visible, shimmering like a mirage against the horizon.
The outpost.
It wasn't a castle, or a city, or even a real building—just the suggestion of shelter built into the earth. But it was there. Real.
Levi squinted. His head was pounding. The sky rippled. He blinked sand from his lashes and tightened his grip on the reins again, even as his fingers started to tremble.
They were close.
He just had to hold on a little longer.The boy who had been watching Levi—still silent—urged his camel closer, enough that their knees nearly brushed. He didn't speak, just glanced once at Levi's back, then away, as if pretending he hadn't seen the blood soaking through. But he handed him a flask. Water.
Levi stared at it, his throat aching with dryness, a hollow ache that screamed for relief. The heat of the desert had sucked everything out of him, leaving him a shell. His fingers twitched, a silent protest forming in his mind. Could he trust this boy? Could he trust the Sandwalkers?
His parched lips parted, and for a moment, it felt like everything was caught in a quiet, endless breath. Then the boy didn't wait for a thank you. He just turned away, continuing his ride, his camel's steady pace a sharp contrast to Levi's own strained efforts. The boy didn't look back—he didn't need to. It was clear Levi's survival didn't matter to him beyond this moment.
A woman appeared from the line of riders, her presence commanding despite the loose veil covering her face. Her silver-streaked hair and dark eyes examined them without shock. She raised a hand, and the caravan halted. The desert sun stretched overhead, and every passing second felt like it was pushing Levi closer to collapse.
A quick exchange of words, sharp and clipped, passed between the woman and the Sandwalker leader. Levi could catch none of it, the language foreign and unrecognizable, but the way their bodies spoke—the way they moved—told him all he needed to know. This wasn't an impromptu halt. They were expected. Unloaded.
The woman came toward them, her gaze immediately honing in on Sera. She assessed the unconscious girl with practiced hands—checking her pulse, lifting her eyelids, and then giving a sharp command. Two younger Sandwalkers stepped forward, their movements swift, and they carefully lifted Sera from her camel. She was still limp in their arms, but the cold sweat on her skin glistened, and Levi could see the faint rise and fall of her chest.
Without waiting, they carried her inside a shelter—a narrow, shadowed doorway tucked away from the sun's gaze.
Levi, half a breath away from following, made a move, but his camel shifted beneath him. He nearly lost his balance, vision tilting to one side. The weight of his body, the stress of the day, and the exhaustion that was closing in on him all collided in that moment.
But then hands were there, steadying him. A firm, yet gentle grip that caught him before he fell. Levi flinched, startled, but it was the boy again—his face unreadable as ever.
The woman's sharp gaze flicked to Levi, her eyes narrowing at the blood-streaked mess on his back. She didn't speak right away, but when she did, her voice was calm but firm, as if she had seen it all before.
"She'll live," she said in accented Common, her words clipped but clear. "And you will too. But not if you fall off that beast."
Levi tried to speak, but his throat was too dry, his body too weak. "I—I can walk."
"Not with that back," she replied, already reaching up, her hands moving with quick precision. "Off."
Levi hesitated, every movement seeming to take ten times more effort than it should have. But before he could gather his bearings, she was pulling him down, and as his feet hit the ground, a flare of pain shot through him. A sound, muffled and raw, escaped him, but he bit it back quickly, gritting his teeth to stay silent.
His legs buckled. The weight of everything was too much. But the woman didn't wait for him to recover. She clicked her tongue in disapproval.
"You were lucky infection didn't kill you," she said, eyes flicking back to the blood soaking his shirt, the stains starting to spread and darken in the heat. "But you'll die if you push yourself any further."
Levi's mouth felt like sandpaper, his body aching from the whips, the heat, and everything he had endured up to this point. His breath was shallow. "I'm fine," he rasped, but the words sounded weak, even to him.
The healer's eyes softened just slightly, but her voice remained steady and unwavering. "Fine?" she asked, eyebrow raised. "If you were fine, you wouldn't be swaying like a broken reed in the wind."
She waved to the younger boy, who, without question, stepped forward. He took Levi's arm, his touch firm but not unkind, guiding him carefully away from the camels. Levi's body screamed with protest, the wounds on his back making every step feel like fire beneath his skin, but he had no choice but to lean on the boy for support.
The healer led them into the shelter where Sera had been taken, the air inside cooler but still oppressive, the scent of dried herbs and the salt of the desert hanging thick in the air. The boy helped Levi to a cushion on the floor, the ground soft beneath him, but not enough to ease the aching in his bones.
Levi sank into the cushion, exhausted, his head spinning with the noise of his own blood rushing in his ears. He could feel the weight of his body pulling him deeper into the cushion, but it was a temporary relief. Nothing more.
The healer was already moving toward him, and before he could react, her hands were on his back. The touch was cold, the cloths soaked with something medicinal. The healer worked quickly, pressing against the raw, open wounds. Levi hissed, unable to stop the noise from escaping his lips, but he gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay silent.
The boy who had helped him stood quietly in the corner, his eyes fixed on Levi. But he didn't speak. He didn't need to. It was as if he understood without words. All of them were just trying to survive.
The healer's voice brought him back to the present. "Tell me, boy," she said, her voice soft but insistent, "what is your name?"
Levi blinked, surprised by the question. It had been a while since anyone had asked. He swallowed, his dry throat making the sound harsh. "Levi," he rasped. "Levi Zahir."
The healer nodded, almost like she was tasting his name, but said nothing more about it. She focused on her work instead, the sharp precision in her movements not leaving any room for further questions.
She paused for a moment, glancing back at him, the weight of her gaze assessing. "Zahir," she murmured, as though weighing something in her mind. "You've been through much. But this is a new place, and you'll learn to adapt. We all must."
Levi didn't respond to that. He didn't have the energy to. Instead, his gaze turned toward the one of the doors inside the shelter, where the boy had disappeared with Sera. He could feel the weight of the silence pressing in on him, the tension between him and the Sandwalkers. They were helping—but how much help could they offer? How long would they tolerate his presence before they grew tired of him?
But he couldn't think of that now.
The pain was constant now, pulsing with every heartbeat. The small shelter—carved into the stone with wind-worn edges and walls that held the scent of smoke and herbs—felt both close and endless, like a place between worlds. The healer clicked her tongue again, tsking under her breath as she examined the soaked shirt glued to his skin, moving her hands to the fabric.
"It's going to hurt," she said flatly. "This is the part where you breathe, boy."
Levi didn't respond, just clenched his jaw.
The cloth tore away with a sickening rip. He hissed, fingers clawing into the cushion beneath him, but he didn't cry out.The healer, now fully seeing the damage, drew back slightly. Her eyes skimmed Levi's back—not just the fresh lashes, which had broken wide open during the ride, but the others. The older scars. The ones that never healed right. White, jagged lines crossing over each other like a map of violence. Dozens of them. Some narrow and clean, others twisted and raw, healed without salve or stitching.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Then, softer: "How old are you?"
Levi hesitated. "Six ," he said, though it felt wrong. He felt older. Or maybe he felt like nothing at all.
Her brows pulled together in disbelief. "And how many times have they done this to you?"
He didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the cave wall.
"I see maybe twenty lashes fresh," she murmured. "But these others… These were from years ago. Some nearly healed. Some not."
Still, he said nothing.
Kaan sat quietly on the other side of the shelter, eyes downcast now, the earlier fire in him dimmed.
A voice cut through the air—soft, younger. "He was bleeding before we even reached the rocks."
Levi's head snapped up. The boy from before had entered, quiet as dust, standing just inside the threshold. He met Levi's gaze once, then looked to the healer.
The woman frowned. "And you didn't say anything?"
"I gave him water," the boy said simply. "And I told Tarek. He said to bring him straight to you."
The healer let out a slow breath, then nodded. "Good. Sit, Kaan."
Kaan. So that was his name.
Levi swallowed. "You knew I was hurt?"
Kaan only nodded once.
The healer, meanwhile, moved with deft precision, cleaning the open wounds with a mixture that stung like fire. Levi gasped, whole body tensing.
"When did they lash you?" she asked. "Days ago?"
"Three," Levi said between breaths.
"Too long. You're lucky the infection didn't rot deeper." She glanced at Kaan again. "Get the blue thread."
The boy obeyed, silent again as he passed her a small jar. Inside were strips of sinew and thread dyed with desert pigment.
blue as river stones. It smelled faintly of smoke and crushed bark.The healer threaded her needle without ceremony.
"Wait—my mother," Levi said, voice rough. "Where is she?"
"Safe," the healer said, too quickly.
"That's not an answer."
"She's in the women's quarters, tending to your friend."
Levi sat up straighter despite the pain, ignoring the way the motion pulled at his raw back. "Then I should be there too."
The woman looked at him, her dark eyes tired but firm. "You are not a woman."
Levi blinked. "What does that matter?"
"It matters to us."
Kaan shifted beside the wall but didn't speak.
"They're not prisoners," the healer added, perhaps sensing the tension in his voice. "They're resting. Your friend was severely dehydrated, and your mother has not slept in nearly a day."
Levi's chest tightened. He pictured his mother, worn and hollow-eyed, caring for someone else while bearing the same exhaustion and fear he carried.
"Please," he said, quieter now. "Just tell her I'm okay. That I asked for her."
The healer softened slightly. "I will."
Then she set the first stitch.
The needle pierced skin, and Levi clenched his fists again. Fire raced along his spine, but he didn't move. Didn't flinch. He remembered the times he'd get punished worse if he flinched, or cried out. Kaan, sitting cross-legged now by the entrance, watched in silence.
"How far did you ride with it reopened?" the healer asked him again, this time more focused.
"After the first ridge, I saw it bleed through his shirt," Kaan answered. "The longer we rode, the more soaked it got."
"And no one stopped?"
"Tarek said we needed to reach the cliff before sunbreak," the boy said evenly. "There wasn't time."
Levi wanted to hate the answer, but deep down he knew—there wasn't time. The sun had already risen high by the time they'd reached the cliffs. Sera could have died.
The healer worked another stitch through torn skin. "You'll scar," she said.
"Already do," Levi muttered.
She glanced up at him then, not unkindly. "Some scars you carry. Others carry you."
He didn't know what to say to that.
She continued her work in silence, and the cave filled with the slow rhythm of breath and thread. The pain dulled gradually as the salve seeped in and the worst of the heat faded.