A desert sandstorm sliced through the air like a knife, attacking the refugees.
Will clung to his grandmother's hand as the wind tore at them. Her grip was frail but unyielding, the only anchor he had left in a world that wanted to scatter him like dust. Sand burned his eyes, filled his mouth, scraped his throat raw. Every step forward was agony, but he kept moving because she did.
"Keep your head down," she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the winds. She pulled her shawl tighter, shielding him with her body though she was the one who needed shielding. W hated how small she looked against the storm, how fragile — and yet she was the only reason he hadn't collapsed already.
The crowd pressed closer together, whispering about food, about water, about how much longer they could last. His grandmother finally let go of his hand.
"I'll ask them," she said softly. "Stay here, Will. Don't move."
He wanted to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He watched her shuffle toward a knot of refugees huddled around a broken cart. Their faces were hollow, their eyes fever-bright. They leaned in as she spoke, and for a moment he thought he saw relief — maybe they would share, maybe they would help.
But then the whispers changed. They rose into a chant, low and rhythmic, words he didn't recognize. The circle tightened around her. W pushed forward, calling her name, but the storm swallowed his voice.
By the time he reached them, she was gone. Not gone in the way of someone who had walked away — gone in the way of something taken. The people's eyes glowed with a strange devotion, their hands lifted as if offering her absence to something unseen.
Will froze. His chest heaved, his throat burned, but no sound came out. He didn't need to see more. He understood. The storm wasn't the only thing that wanted to devour them.
The crowd turned their heads toward him. Their faces were streaked with sand and hunger, but their eyes were fixed on him with the same feverish light. He stumbled back, bile rising in his throat.
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.
The storm clawed at him, daring him to stay small, to stay afraid. His chest ached with grief, his vision blurred with rage. He could feel it all pressing against the walls 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.