The tent was warm and dim, the air inside thick with the scent of herbal poultices and old sweat. Pale morning light filtered through the seams in the cloth walls, drawing lines across the floor mats and casting long shadows over the mage's cot.
Tavor was sitting upright now, propped against a stack of worn cushions. The bruises at his temple had dulled, but his posture was alert. Watchful. His eyes—dark, steady, too sharp for someone still healing—tracked Levi and Kaan the moment they stepped inside.
Sesi was already stepping away from Levi, small feet padding quietly over the woven floor. She climbed up beside her uncle without a word, curling against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand settled gently on her back, but his gaze didn't leave the boys.
Levi gave a small nod—quiet, almost reflexive. "She wanted to see you."
Tavor didn't answer at first.
He just watched Levi for a long moment. Like he was trying to understand something that didn't quite fit.
Then his eyes flicked—just briefly—to the wrap on Levi's left forearm.
A second. No more.
But Levi felt it like a touch.
The faint pulse beneath the cloth stirred.
Not painful.
Just… aware.
Kaan shifted slightly beside him. Not protective—just alert.
Tavor looked away just as quickly.
He didn't speak. Didn't ask questions.
Didn't need to.
Levi said nothing either. He just stepped back, letting the silence settle, letting Sesi stay curled where she was—quiet and safe.
The tent was warm but quiet, the fabric walls catching the sun and softening it into a golden haze. Dust hung in the air like old breath, still and weightless.
Tavor sat upright now, propped against the cot's side with a folded blanket tucked behind his back. His color was better than it had been, but the bruising along his temple still painted a long, sickly arc near his hairline. One hand rested gently on Sesi's shoulder as she sat close, her legs tucked under her, head tilted slightly toward her uncle as if she was still trying to protect him in her own small way.
The mage's sharp gaze drifted from her to the boys. And then, with no ceremony but a heavy calm, he spoke:
"You're the ones who found us."
Levi nodded once. "I'm Levi."
"Kaan," said the other boy, voice rough from morning silence.
Tavor's eyes lingered on them. Not hostile. But assessing. The way someone weighed the edge of a blade before naming it useful or dangerous.
"My name is Tavor Emel," he said. "Mage. Royal Academy, southern division. Instructor of astral theory, ancient sigils, and sealed mana."
Levi didn't flinch—but something in the air shifted.
Kaan folded his arms across his chest. "You're with the Academy?"
Tavor nodded. "And you're with the Sandwalkers, I was told."
"For now," Kaan said. "We help when we can."
Tavor's gaze narrowed slightly. "That's not a name I hear often anymore."
Levi shrugged, quiet. "Most people forget about them until they're dying in the desert."
Sesi stirred but said nothing. She leaned against her uncle, still watching Levi with wide, expectant eyes.
Tavor didn't look away. "You're not natives to this region."
"No," Levi said. "Born here. But not from here."
That answer seemed to hang longer than it should have.
Tavor finally exhaled and shifted slightly, his voice lower now. "How long have you known this stretch of land? These dunes. These dead routes?"
"Long enough to stop getting lost," Kaan replied.
Tavor tilted his head, curious. "Strange how little power clings to these parts now. The land used to hum with it. Before the mines dried. Before the old wells fell quiet."
Levi's shoulders tensed—not visibly. Just enough for the skin beneath the wrap on his forearm to suddenly feel tight. Warmer.
He didn't react.
Tavor went on, more to himself now than them. "The old lines were marked in energy. Faint but steady. You could track magic by the lay of the earth here. But now it's… hushed. Like something devoured the core of it."
Kaan shifted uneasily. "We haven't seen anything strange. Just broken roads and bleached bones."
But Levi?
Levi was biting down on the inside of his cheek.
Because the pain was back.
Not sharp. Not yet.
But building.
Like heat rising beneath skin. Like something stirring under bandages and blood. It pulsed low and heavy, in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Tavor's eyes moved to him again. He didn't speak this time.
He just looked.
And Levi had the strange, unsettling sense that the man could feel the air shifting too.
A flicker of something unseen.
A pressure. A presence.
Sesi finally broke the silence. She reached out, her small hand brushing Levi's sleeve, tugging it once.
His breath hitched.
Tavor noticed.
He didn't say anything.
But his gaze dipped—just briefly—to the wrap on Levi's arm.
Then back to his face.
And though the mage didn't speak, Levi could feel it.
That something had just changed.
That whatever quiet suspicion had been coiled inside Tavor since they walked in…
It had started to unravel.
And Levi's arm?
It was burning.
Levi kept his face still, but his breathing had changed—deeper, slower, like he was trying to rein something in. The pain wasn't sharp yet, but it was rising like a tide behind his ribs, pooling in the hollow of his arm where the old mark lived beneath the wrap.
He shifted slightly on his feet, trying to ease the weight off his right side. It didn't help.
Tavor didn't speak.
But he saw it.
He didn't miss the way Levi's jaw flexed, or the tremor in his fingers when Sesi's hand brushed against his wrist. And again—just for the briefest moment—his eyes flicked to the linen wrap tied carefully around Levi's forearm.
"Have either of you trained in mana manipulation?" the mage asked suddenly.
Kaan blinked. "No."
Tavor's eyes moved to Levi. "And you?"
Levi shook his head once. "No."
It wasn't a lie. Not really. He'd never been trained. Never been taught the words or the symbols or the rules of power. But something in him still pulsed—still pulled.
Tavor's gaze narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in calculation. Like he was puzzling through a problem that didn't make sense.
"No visible aura," he murmured. "No control. But…"
Levi's hand clenched at his side.
The pain had climbed to his elbow now. Throbbing in slow waves that made the room feel closer, hotter.
Kaan noticed his posture shift. "You good?"
"Fine," Levi said quickly.
Tavor tilted his head. "When did you last feel pain in that arm?"
Levi looked up sharply.
The mage's tone hadn't changed. Calm. Almost indifferent.
But his eyes were too focused. Too aware.
Levi didn't answer.
Instead, he moved to help Sesi down from the cot, deflecting, gently scooping her up like he had a hundred times already that week.
"We should let you rest," he said. "Come on, Sesi."
But she clung to him again, quiet and sure, as if she felt the change too.
Kaan gave a small nod. "We'll be nearby if you need anything."
Tavor didn't respond.
He just watched.
Silent. Calculating. Thoughtful.
And as they stepped out into the sunlight, Levi caught—just before the curtain fell—a final flicker of the mage's gaze dropping once more to the bandage around his arm.
It wasn't curiosity anymore.
It was recognition.
The light outside was sharper than Levi expected, like the air itself had teeth. He blinked once, adjusting, then tightened his arms around Sesi and started walking—not fast, but steady, as if moving forward might outrun whatever had just stirred in that tent.
Kaan followed close behind, silent as ever, but Levi could feel the way his presence shifted—more watchful now. More aware.
They didn't speak until they reached the edge of camp, where the midday sun was baking the sand flat and hard between the tents. Levi adjusted his grip on the girl. She hadn't moved. Her fingers were knotted in the front of his shirt, her face hidden in the crook of his neck like she was trying to disappear into him.
"You're burning up," Kaan said softly.
Levi didn't answer. He wasn't sure if Kaan meant the mark on his arm or the heat in the air or the way his chest ached like he couldn't take a full breath.
Maybe all of it.
"She's with your mother again, right?" Kaan asked, nodding toward the tent they were headed for.
"Yeah."
They reached it a minute later, the familiar shade of the flap casting soft relief over them. Levi ducked inside, still holding Sesi.
What he didn't expect was the sight waiting for him.
Mireya was there again, kneeling beside Saina's cot with a damp cloth in her hands. Saina sat upright, one hand pressed lightly to her lower belly, her face pinched with fatigue. The remnants of lunch were scattered between them—half-eaten bread, a chipped bowl of lentils.
Both women looked up at once.
Sesi stirred.
"Mama," she whispered, reaching for Mireya without urgency, more in habit than fear.
Levi set her down carefully, watching her shuffle forward and settle at her mother's side.
Mireya gave Levi a grateful look but didn't speak.
Saina's eyes were harder to read. Her gaze flicked to his arm—just for a second—but she didn't comment. Instead, she nodded toward the door.
"You're just in time," she said. "I was going to ask Kaan to bring water."
Levi didn't answer. He gave a short nod and backed away.
Kaan stepped aside to let him pass, his mouth a firm line.
But the pulse in his arm—slow, heavy, ancient—wasn't quiet anymore.
It wasn't screaming, not yet.
But it was awake.
The light outside the tent had shifted from harsh to hazy, casting everything in a soft, dull gold. Levi stepped out without a word, his feet dragging slightly in the sand. Kaan followed, catching up beside him as they moved past the cooking fires and faded blankets strung between poles. The smell of boiled grains hung in the air, but Levi barely noticed it.
"You okay?" Kaan asked, low.
Levi didn't answer at first. He adjusted the strap over his shoulder and kept walking. His body felt heavier than usual. Not sore—he was used to sore. This was something else. Like his limbs were caught somewhere just behind him, slower to move, slower to catch up.
"I'm fine," he muttered eventually.
Kaan didn't push. He just walked beside him, quiet, steps matching Levi's like he always did when something wasn't right.
They reached the water point without speaking again. The main barrels were set in the shade of a wind-worn canopy, each one half-sunken into the sand to keep them cool. A few other Sandwalkers were there already—refilling flasks, exchanging nods and clipped words. Kaan moved toward one of the spouts. Levi followed, slower than usual.
He grabbed one of the emptier skins and began to fill it, the water trickling in with a quiet gurgle. His hands weren't steady. He gripped the skin tighter, jaw flexing.
"You don't look good," Kaan said finally, keeping his voice low. "Did it flare up again?"
Levi didn't answer. Not directly.
He finished the skin, sealed it, and passed it off. "Let's just get it back."
Kaan watched him for a beat longer, then nodded.
They walked back slower than before. The path between the tents felt longer. The air denser. Levi could feel the tension winding deeper in his spine, like something beneath his skin was trying to pull him in different directions.
But when they stepped into the tent again, Levi smoothed his face.
Saina looked up first. She was still reclined on the cot, one arm bracing the curve of her belly, the other resting at her side. She didn't say anything, just gave him a nod—half-grateful, half wary, like she was still trying to figure out what version of her son would walk through the flap each time.
Mireya didn't look away from Sesi, who was curled against her side on a thin mattress, half-asleep, her fingers tangled in the edge of her mother's tunic.
Levi crossed the space quietly and set the full skin down near the crate beside the cot.
Saina blinked, then nodded again. Her voice, when it came, was soft. "Thank you."
Kaan lingered at the edge of the room for a second, then dropped down onto one of the folded mats beside the tent pole. Levi didn't follow immediately.
His eyes moved across the space—across the bowl of drying herbs, the faint lantern glow, the way the dust danced in the air like it was waiting for something to settle.
Then, finally, he sat. Not next to anyone. Just nearby. Cross-legged onthe mat nearest the back wall, where the light was lowest and the breeze didn't quite reach. He folded himself down slowly, trying not to let the tightness in his joints show. His forearm still throbbed beneath the wrap, not in waves but in a slow, steady rhythm—like something ancient had opened its eyes and was watching him from inside his skin.
He rested his hands in his lap and stared at the floor.
Across the tent, Saina shifted slightly. She looked tired—truly tired this time, not just worn, but hollow around the edges, the way people got when they'd been holding on too long without breathing. Her eyes stayed on him a second longer than usual, but she didn't speak again.
No one did.
Kaan leaned his head back against the pole, eyes half-closed. Mireya began brushing her fingers through Sesi's tangled curls, slow and careful, more for comfort than for grooming. The little girl sighed and didn't wake.
Outside, the camp was quieting. Sand rustled against canvas. A pan clanged faintly in the distance. The low sound of someone humming drifted from a neighboring tent—one of the older Sandwalker women, her voice thin and soft like the desert wind before dusk.
Levi exhaled.
He wasn't sure why it was so hard to sit still. He'd done harder things. He'd stood guard with fever in his bones. Fought with cracked ribs. Dug graves with his bare hands and no water in his throat.
But this—this quiet, this soft space, this feeling of not being needed for anything urgent—felt like it was pressing on him more than anything else.
He could feel it in his skin. In the way his arm wouldn't stop pulsing, even though it wasn't being used. In the weight behind his eyes. In the ache between his ribs that no wound had ever left behind.
He glanced once at Sesi.
Still asleep.
Then at his mother.
She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was watching the way Mireya moved—how her hands didn't shake, how her breath didn't falter.
And Levi?
Levi lowered his gaze again.
He didn't belong to this softness. Not really. But he wanted to.
So he sat there and stayed quiet.
Not because he was calm.
But because he didn't know how to speak without breaking something.The tent breathed with silence.
Warm, close, humming gently with the sound of dust shifting against cloth walls and Sesi's soft sleeping breaths. Levi sat motionless in the shade of the back corner, the edge of his boot brushing faintly against a roll of unused blankets. His eyes didn't wander much. They were fixed somewhere low, on the worn seams of the mat beneath him.
But inside?
He wasn't still at all.
He could feel the fire in his arm again—not rage, not heat, just that low, constant pulse that never fully faded. Like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him. Not sharp, not unbearable… just there. Always there.
His fingers twitched once, resting lightly atop his thigh. No one noticed. Kaan was leaning back now, arms folded behind his head, half-dozing like a cat waiting for dusk to pass. Saina was murmuring something to Mireya—too quiet to catch—and Mireya gave her a small nod in return, her hand never leaving Sesi's back.
They were all here.
Alive.
Breathing.
Safe.
Levi should've felt peace in that.
He didn't.
He was trying. Gods, he was trying. He'd brought the water. He'd kept quiet. He hadn't argued. He'd smiled when Sesi tugged at his sleeve this morning, even though the skin on his face felt cracked and dry from pretending.
But still, he felt like a guest in his own mother's life.
A scout horn sounded faintly from the north ridge. One long note—just routine. Levi tensed anyway, eyes flicking instinctively toward the flap.
Nothing urgent.
No alarm.
Still, he didn't ease.
He watched Saina then, just for a second. Her hand was curled protectively over her belly. She was nodding to something Mireya was saying now, more alert than she had been earlier, her face softening in the golden light.
She looked… at peace.
And for a wild second, Levi wanted to ask her something.
Do you remember the first night we slept under canvas?
The one after they escaped, after the heat broke her and Sera's skin blistered and Levi's back bled through his tunic?
Do you remember how I stayed awake that night just to make sure sera was still breathing?
But the words never made it to his mouth.
They didn't belong in this tent.
Not now.
Instead, he closed his eyes briefly and breathed in the scent of herbs and hot fabric and faint candle soot.
It smelled like safety in here.
And somehow, that only made the ache worse.
Outside, footsteps passed by the entrance—light ones, running. A child laughing. Someone calling after them in a language Levi didn't recognize. The world went on, slow and sun-split and ordinary.
Kaan stretched and looked over. "Ten more minutes before our shift."
But his voice didn't sound right.
It was rough around the edges—lower than usual, a little hoarse. Levi turned his head and really looked at him then.
Kaan's eyes were heavy-lidded, his brow damp with sweat despite the cooling air. His arms had gone slack, no longer folded behind his head but resting limply at his sides. His breathing was too steady. Too slow.
"You good?" Levi asked quietly.
Kaan didn't open his eyes. "Yeah. Just tired."
Levi shifted. "You've been tired all day."
A shrug. "Didn't sleep."
But Levi didn't buy it. He'd seen Kaan go days without sleep before and still move like a shadow, sharp and aware. This? This was different.
"You're sweating," Levi said, more pointed now. "And it's not hot."
Saina looked over then, her face tensing as she leaned forward slightly, studying Kaan's posture. Mireya followed her gaze and frowned.
"Kaan," Saina said gently. "How long have you been feeling like this?"
Kaan opened his eyes, but they were dull—slow to focus. "Just a headache. It's nothing."
But when he moved to sit up straighter, his balance tipped. He caught himself on one arm, wincing sharply.
Levi was already on his knees beside him. "You didn't say anything."
"Didn't want to cause a scene."
Mireya leaned closer, placing the back of her hand to Kaan's forehead. Her eyes widened. "You're burning."
Kaan tried to wave her off, but his arm fell short, dropping weakly to his lap. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Levi said flatly. He turned his head. "We need the medic."
"I'll go," Saina said, already moving toward the flap.
Kaan muttered something under his breath, barely audible.
Levi leaned in. "What?"
Kaan's jaw tensed. "Don't make a big deal out of it."
But Levi didn't answer. He just stayed close, his hand hovering near Kaan's shoulder in case he slumped again.
A minute passed. Then two.
Sesi stirred but didn't wake. Mireya fetched a damp cloth and gently pressed it to Kaan's neck. He didn't flinch—didn't move at all, really. Just sat there, too still, breathing shallowly like each inhale cost more than it should've.
When the flap finally rustled again, the old Sandwalker healer stepped through, basket in hand, her braid twisted tightly over one shoulder.
She took one look at Kaan and sighed through her nose. "I was wondering when one of you would keel over."
Levi stood aside as she knelt beside Kaan, already pulling a salve and small folded cloths from her basket.
"Fever's climbing," she muttered after touching his neck. "He's dehydrated. Worn too thin. What's he been doing?"
"Everything," Levi said.
The healer glanced up. "Then he's going to do nothing for a while."
Kaan didn't argue this time.
His eyes were closed again. And this time… they stayed that way.