Her shawl whipped in the wind, snapping like a torn sail. She leaned close, her voice rasping in his ear.
"Don't stop, Will. If you stop, the desert will take you."
He nodded, though his legs already felt like stone. The storm pressed against them from every side, a living wall of knives. Around them, the other refugees stumbled in silence, their faces hollow, their eyes glazed with exhaustion. No one spoke of hope anymore — only of survival, and even that word felt thin.
Will's grandmother coughed, a harsh sound swallowed by the gale. She pressed a hand to her chest, then forced herself upright again. He wanted to carry her, but he was barely standing himself. The thought of losing her — the only family he had left — made his throat tighten until he could hardly breathe.
Ahead, a cluster of refugees huddled around a broken cart, their bodies bent together like shadows. Will's grandmother squeezed his hand once, then let go.
"I'll ask them," she said. "Maybe they've saved something. Stay here."
He reached for her, but she was already moving, her small frame swallowed by the storm and the crowd. W stood frozen, sand biting his skin, watching her disappear into the knot of figures.
At first, he thought he saw kindness in their faces — the way they leaned toward her, listening. But then the whispers began. Low, rhythmic, strange. Not words he knew. The circle around her tightened.
"Grandma?" His voice cracked, lost in the wind. He pushed forward, shoving through bodies, but the storm drowned him out. The chanting grew louder, feverish, until it was all he could hear.
And then — silence.
The circle broke apart. His grandmother was gone. Not walking, not fleeing — gone. The people's eyes glowed with something wild, something worshipful. Their hands were lifted, not toward her, but toward the storm itself, as if they had given her to it.
W's stomach lurched. His knees buckled. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. The storm wasn't the only thing that wanted to devour them.
The crowd turned toward him. Faces streaked with sand, lips cracked and bleeding, eyes burning with hunger and devotion. They looked at him the way they had looked at her.
His hand found the kusarigama hidden beneath his cloak. The chain rattled in the wind, heavy and cold. He had wanted to stay invisible, just another refugee. But now his grandmother was gone, and the people around him were no longer just desperate — they were worshippers of something darker, something that demanded sacrifice.
Grief pressed against his ribs, sharp and unbearable. Rage clawed at his throat. His vision blurred with tears and sand. He could feel it all building inside him — sorrow, fury, terror — a flood waiting to break.
The chain coiled around his wrist. His breath came ragged, his eyes burned, and for a heartbeat he thought he might scream, or cry, or tear the world apart.
And then the storm roared louder, as if answering him.