Kara pointed ahead, where a faint light glimmered under the moonlight, her voice full of excitement. After seven long days alone in the desert, time had stretched unbearably. Every day had been torment for her.
Packing up, both Kara and Casia moved with unprecedented speed. Kara's haste was fueled by excitement; Casia's by a quiet satisfaction. His suppressors prevented him from activating his cross-shaped pupils at will, so he couldn't see the light Kara referred to.
They still had some distance to cover. After running for over half an hour under the high-rising moon, they finally saw the bright white beams of a large high-pressure mercury lamp. It was suspended high on a massive iron pole, silently casting its glow over the desert.
From the top of a dune fifty or sixty meters away, Casia and Kara could now take in the full view of the supply station.
The station was large—far bigger than the tiny iron hut they had first arrived at. On the surface, five sizable buildings formed a straight line. In front lay an open area where three gray off-road vehicles were parked.
Steel wedge-shaped sand barriers surrounded the station. Built in accordance with the desert's prevailing winds, these low barriers had over the years accumulated sand into crescent-shaped walls, encasing the station. Nestled behind a wind-sheltering dune, the station could resist the scorching sun during certain times of day.
Sliding down the dune, their long trails of sand stirred by residual wind curled behind them. The stone-cement ground beneath their feet was cracked with deep fissures, filled with sparkling sand. The station stood silent; only the high-mounted mercury lamp and a single lighted building hinted at life.
"Desolate… or just quiet," Casia observed. The wind's sound was blocked by the tall dunes. Some low, yellowed shrubs held faint green tips—soon to wither completely.
"It shouldn't be. Supply stations are built over underground water sources. Hikers like us can't access them, but stations must have water pumps. So there shouldn't be a shortage of water," Kara said, touching the dusty leaves.
"Maybe the staff is just lazy?" Casia suggested with a smile. Maintaining these shrubs in this harsh climate would require effort.
"Perhaps." Kara seemed indifferent. Encountering a functioning station was already fortunate; its internal condition didn't concern them. Food could easily be bought with the twenty thousand Saint Coins she carried; water was free, a rule set during the Empire's desert expansion.
The single light shone dimly—perhaps only one lamp was on. The buildings were made of steel and cement, with walls insulated against temperature extremes, keeping the interior cool by day and warm by night.
Casia examined the frosted glass windows curiously and knocked. The sound echoed emptily.
No one responded, yet the door opened with minimal effort.
Light spilled into the desert as Casia removed his mask. Inside, the room resembled the old station—a tavern-like layout. Worn tables and chairs filled the space. One side had a counter lined with cabinets, glassware polished clean, bottles of wine and colorful juices arranged neatly.
Behind the counter sat an elderly man with white hair, engrossed in a book under the bright light. Beside him, a half-empty glass and a potted plant with vivid green leaves added a splash of life to the room. The scent of strong wine permeated the air.
The old man looked up, half surprised, half startled. Seeing travelers here seemed almost inconceivable, especially two young faces like theirs.
This station was almost two thousand kilometers into the desert; another fifteen hundred kilometers lay before the central region—the Grün Oasis. Beyond this point, risks and dangers increased, and large stations were rare. Smaller outposts likely no longer existed. In recent years, with desert resources largely exhausted, the Empire had ceased building new stations, leaving only the central oasis active.
"Hello, old sir," Casia greeted, carrying his gear. Kara had already set down her heavy equipment on the tables. Warm air from the room enveloped Casia—moisture and comfortable humidity returning after days of arid travel.
"Greetings, brave young travelers," the elderly man replied, removing his round-framed glasses. Golden eyes gleamed with wisdom. "Seeing other travelers here is a stroke of luck for me… or perhaps it is your courage that brings fortune."
The man smiled, putting away his book. "Call me Old Don," he said, fetching two empty glasses. "Would you like a drink? The first three are free. In this desert, besides the coldest month in winter when a few tourists come by, you rely on luck to meet anyone else."
"I'll have grape juice," Kara said without hesitation.
"Wine, perhaps, fair lady?" Old Don offered, filling a deep purple glass, which Casia handed to Kara.
"I'll have the same," Casia said, setting down his pack near a potted plant in the corner. Its leaves were slightly curled, untrimmed, in a soil that retained moisture. The scent of damp earth—something Casia hadn't smelled in a long time—rose from the pot.
Mixed with the faint scent of wine, there was a subtle metallic tang. Casia remained calm, bending closer to inspect. A half-moon-shaped fragment of glass lay in the shadow of the plant—thick, clean, and seemingly untouched by dust.
Standing upright, Casia sipped the juice. Kara was already asking for a second glass. The sweet grape flavor was a rare pleasure after days of dehydration.
Old Don refilled the glasses and spoke kindly. "By the way, I don't know your name, young man. And you, fair lady—may this old man be so fortunate?"
"Kara," she said. Old Don nodded.
"Call me Gulika," Casia replied, turning back to his seat. Kara's lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile.