Open Roads no one remembers

Where the sun shines like a white ball during the day, the night was like a healing balm and darkness brought relief from the ruthless heat. But… when Anira opened her eyes, the heat was almost unbearable right away, and the night was far away. She lay on her side, her cheek against the rough sand.

The world was immersed in a blue light, but slowly other colors crept into her vision. After a few blinks, she saw the yellow-brown sea of sand in front of her as it was. The cloudless sky lay like a blue lid above. She sat up, straining to get up to a sitting position. She pushed her upper body up with her arms away from the scalding earth. Every nerve in her body ached, but was it because of the hangover or because she had been lying unprotected under the sun? How long she had been lying there under the zenit sun she did not know… Her head ached, throbbed, and screamed for water and shade.

In a way, she wished herself back to the bliss of unconsciousness, to sleep and breathe and know nothing… Being awake hurt so much that she clenched her fists tightly and screamed. But her throat was so dry that all that left her lips was a hoarse hiss. Anira did not like the taste of death. With eyes that were bluer than robin eggs, she looked around. Dunes everywhere, all the way to the horizon. No cliffs, no sea, no cities, nothing would break the horizon.

The pain dominates all her thoughts, somehow she gets to her feet and starts walking. Humans were like that. Holding on to hope, the only thing she had left. When she tried to remember what had happened, why she was here and above all where she was, she was met with an engulfing, terrifying darkness. A blackness in her mind where memories should live… The desert breeze that swept in didn't help, it was like the hot breath of the sun. The heat hit her like a violent, merciless kiss. Her fair skin was scorched, bright red.

Sand, scorpions, sand, sand, sand everywhere…

The sound of water, of birdsong, and wind in palm leaves struck her body like the vibrations of a drum. There lay a fertile oasis in the valley between two enormous sand dunes, high as mountains.

"Oh… thank the moons!"

As she walked into the oasis, the sand gave way to a floor of soft, lush moss. She knelt by the spring at the heart of the oasis and drank. The water was so cold that it cut like a sword as it ran down her hot, dry throat. The world began to spin again, stars danced before her eyes. Anira leaned forward on her hands, the long braid of golden blonde hair spilled down over one of her shoulders, and the end of it landed in the clear water.

How had she ended up here? One moment, she had been lounging in a tavern, sipping cold wine, stretching out on cool silks and listening to tales of a lost city; the next… sand, sun, and endless emptiness. She blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Then, something in her pocket caught her attention. A folded scrap of parchment, edges curled and stained. The letter! Quickly she unfolded it and quickly she realised she had made a very terrible and rash decision, drunk on fig wine.

"Fuck!"

---

“If you were to consult a map of Kaikias Desert, you would expect to travel across open, empty land as you travel between coasts. But just as you reach the part of the journey where you are about to leave the desert behind and enter the deadlands, just a few days ago, a mighty city stood in my way, right on the river. With walls that extend further than a few days’ work could create, walls made to keep out the most ferocious of forces and creatures.

I was convinced that thirst had driven me to an mirage, but soon enough the reality was confirmed for me when the large market outside the city gates filled my senses with impressions I lack the imagination to retell. As I stepped into the tents, I was greeted by wonderful smells of food I had never seen before. As I listened in hopes of understanding how any this was possible, I was met with a foreign dialect.

That's when it all went black, and I felt the ground against my cheek just before I couldn't feel anything at all. I woke up in the dark, and at first I thought it was simply evening. When I looked around, but walls of stone surrounded me. However, I had no time to do more than look around before the wooden door was thrown open and the city guards dragged me out into a square.

I was led to a black slab of stone on the ground with strange markings where I was forced to kneel, and all around me people of all kinds stared at me as if I were something terrifying. When what can only be described as a priest stepped up in front of me and began to speak in their language, I quickly realized that my life was going to be offered to something, without negotiation. So I ran. I stood up, pushed the priest away, and I ran.

During my travels I have encountered monsters, human as well as beasts, I have negotiated with madmen and traded with rogues, but never have I been so afraid as when I to escape the city that almost enchanted me with its beauty. How I escaped I have no answer, maybe they let me, maybe I was lucky, or maybe someone was watching over me, but I survived and I will never return there again.

I write this as a warning. Do not look for the city."

The letter was signed with the name Himma el-Mizra.

---

The letter had been discovered a week past, left beside a lone horse near a tent and a dead campfire. No sign of the writer, only the letter itself. In taverns and marketplaces, it had been read aloud with laughter, scoffed at as the ramblings of a mad person, or the clever ploy of someone chasing fame. Anira could still hear it in her memory, the booming voice of the barkeep, reading the lines between gulps.

Yet, despite the jest, the letter had a strange pull; its promises of a lost city, untouched and unknown, had lured some into the desert, chasing the flicker of a hope that the story might, against all reason, be true...

"Of course its true!" The scholar, Netahn Til' Harcor, put forward. "The descriptions penned in Himma el-Mizra's script matched the ancient records of the old Devahni Empire!"

Garrod's eye narrowed beneath the shade of his linen shroud. Bouncing to the steady cadance of the buckskin mare he rode. "So long as we get paid per the agreement, Professor Harcor," which was not contingent upon any measure of success beyond keeping the jittery man alive. Easy enough.

"Of course, Cazadore! Of course! You and your..." his warm brown eyes fell to the young lady that rode just some lengths behind the ghost haired brute. Same streak of deathly white dashed across her bangs. "Ilk will be well compensated," smiled, all straight toothed and pearly.

"One would hope, Professor," Omari, bright eyed and draped in oasis blue robes said with his gap toothed smile. "Else, you'll have three malditos looking to collect," he winked.

The professor laughed nervously. "No no, my accounts are squared away, gentleman," he said between the easy pad pad of his camel's stride. "You received the advance, I take it? Enjoyed plenty of," remembered the young lady. Cleared his throat. "Moral boosters before we set out?"

"Malditos?" the youngest cazadore asked atop her black gelding. Looking to Garrod beneath the airy wraps that shielded her from the sun.

He huffed, something like a laugh. "Cazadores with a grudge," leaned his weight to bring the mare to halt. Squint. "Something up by the Oasis,"

Omari smiled. "Such is the nature of the Oasis, Garrod,"

The dramatic flailing looked too familiar. "Gods damn it," Garrod grumbled.

"Is that!"

---

Over the bray of horses and the shouts of the Cazadore racing behind her. A small voice called out over the sands.

"LADY LARK!" dust kicking up in a storm behind the race of her black gelding. Grinning, near standing in her stirrups, and waving the shortened arm of her right.

Garrod on the buckskin fast behind her.

Omari and the Professor Harcor not far behind him, albeit flustered and confused.

Paper lanterns hung like tired sentinels over the street, their dim glow pooling into soft amber circles along the dirt road. Closed shopfronts and shuttered restaurants stood in still rows, their silhouettes warmed only faintly by the lantern-light. The night air carried a gentle chill, quiet and unbroken save for the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the occasional shuffle of a late traveler’s footsteps. Where the lanterns failed, moonlight took over—cool, silver, and serene—offering a small grace against the deepening veil of darkness that claimed the town in the twilight hours.

A lone woman moved beneath that patchwork of lantern glow and moonshine. Her face was painted a stark white, serene yet weary. Her robe was a work of art, patterned with peacock feathers in shifting hues of blue, purple, and white; the silk caught the light with the subtlest shimmer as she walked. She lifted the trailing ends of the garment just enough to spare them from the dirt, her steps careful, controlled, practiced.

Then she stopped—abruptly—her gaze snagging on something at the edge of her vision. She turned toward the alleyway, heart tightening, but saw nothing. Her breath hitched. Seeing something would have been preferable to that empty darkness. Maybe exhaustion was twisting her senses; it had been far too long since she’d rested. Truly rested. She shut her eyes, inhaled deeply, forced her shoulders to lower. A long, calming sigh left her, and with renewed resolve she opened her eyes.

And found it right there, inches from her face.

Her body seized. Every instinct begged her to scream, to run, to do something—but she was rooted to the spot. Her gaze locked with its obsidian eyes. Her limbs refused to obey. Fear wrapped tight around her slight frame.

The cursed spirit crouched low to meet her at eye level. Stood at full height, it would have easily reached eight feet. Ash-white skin stretched over a muscular, four-armed body, mostly humanoid in shape. Its monk’s attire hung strangely over its form, and in one hand it gripped a ceremonial staff capped with six ringing loops. Its bald head held no nose, only six glossy black eyes and an unnaturally wide mouth—its grin a terrifying display of jagged, shark-like teeth. It tilted its head in an almost curious gesture as it stared at her.

BOOM!

The monk spirit was hurled aside, slammed out of her immediate view. The impact’s force pushed the woman back, sending her once-pristine silk robes fluttering, dust and mud speckling their bright pattern. When the dust finally drifted away, she lifted her gaze—and found herself staring into a pair of red eyes. But these were soft. Warm. A gentle smile followed.

“It’s going to be okay.”

The white-haired foxkin crouched beside her, offering a steadying hand. His fox ears perked, alert, while his tail flicked back and forth in controlled anticipation. Out in the street, the cursed monk spirit regained its balance and rose. Between it and the foxkin, another spirit took form—a massive centipede, its carapace an inky black segmented with sinuous red markings. It reared up, towering, ready to strike.

The woman took in this impossible tableau—and promptly fainted. Momo caught her before she hit the ground, lifted her with practiced ease, and moved her to safety before returning to the fray.

The monk spirit had plagued the town for some time now, one of the reasons why so many feared stepping outside after dusk. Momoshiro had been hired to exorcise it, and though he had finally tracked it down, doing so required patience... and a healthy dose of luck.

Now, while the monk spirit and the centipede clashed, Momo remained poised, ready to release another of his spirits at a moment’s notice. The monk’s ability to create portals—both as shields and as weapons—made it not only powerful, but dangerously clever. Still, Momo had been handling spirits longer than most and was relying on experience to carry him through.

Using his lesser thralls to distract the creature, he closed in from behind. His grip tightened on his katana as he soared forward, blade raised to strike—

A portal opened before him.

He barely had time to shout before he plunged straight through.

He hit sand. Hard. Rolled, skidded, and sprang back to his feet in one motion. The sudden blaze of sunlight stabbed at his eyes and he winced, blinking rapidly as his vision adjusted. Behind him, the portal snapped shut.

“No no no no!!!”

He launched himself toward the fading shimmer, catching nothing but empty air.

“Aww crumbs.”

With a weary sigh, he took in his surroundings. A desert. Fantastic. Just what he needed. But then—movement. He narrowed his eyes. People on horseback, not far off.

Well. At least he wasn’t alone in the middle of nowhere.

The oasis itself seemed impossibly vivid against the endless dunes, it gleamed like a lie. Palms bending under the sun, water so still it mirrored the azure sky. The air smelled of wet moss and scorched earth, of life somehow against the cruelty of the desert. Anira blinked up from the letter, still kneeling by the spring, when the desert’s hush shattered. Hooves, shouting, the kind of chaos that did not belong in an oasis.

She turned her head as a familiar voice cut through the heat. “Lady Lark!”

Brinda burst into view first, her black gelding thundering toward the water’s edge, dust blooming behind her like a small sandstorm. The girl was grinning wildly, waving her shortened right arm like a banner of victory. Anira’s hand clutched the letter, its edges torn and curling, the ink smudged but still legible.

Anira let out a breath in both relief and disbelief. Blinking against the glittering mirage of sun and sand.
“Brinda? Oh, by the stars, I’m not hallucinating, am I?”

The minstrel pushed herself to her feet, still swaying a little, brushing moss from her knees. Anira’s relief collided with sharp self-consciousness. She was a wreck. She looked like a sun-baked corpse. Her once-tidy attire was streaked with sand and blood, sleeves torn, and the linnen of the shirt clinging to her sweat-streaked neck. Her flaxen hair matted, dust and blood crusting her skin, a braid hanging limp across her sunburned cheek. Knees and palms scraped from bracing herself on the sand.

“…Brinda? Garrod? You’re real… you’re really here?” Her voice cracked, hoarse and tight.

Far up on the sun-baked dunes, the sand itself seemed to quiver. A pulse ran over it, faint at first, like the subtle vibration of distant drums, then swelling, thrumming with an unreal cadence. The heat shimmer of the Kaikias Desert warped around it, bending light into impossible shapes. The grains of sand rose and fell, stirred by a wind that didn’t exist, a ripple of raw magic over the dunes.

Colors bloomed where they should not exist, amber streaks curling into turquoise, shadows shifting unnaturally. And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it shuddered and coalesced, a portal a jagged cut into the air itself. A figure tumbled from the air itself, screaming, rolling, skidding across the sand in a cloud of gold-yellow dust.

"D-d-did any of you see that?" The minstrel lifted her finger and pointed to one of the dunes.

A shift of the legs, and a pull on the reins saw Brinda veer her horse to a hard stop. Dust and sand all kicked up as the beast groaned beneath her. The ripples and shifts still in the air as her eyes blown wide as they stared at the dustcloud, and the... man who had fallen out of the air itself.

Garrod already had his steel drawn, riding down on whatever had fallen out of the very fabric of the world. Mad grin split across his face.

He only knew of one thing that could rip through the shroud with such disregard. And he could smell it on the wyrd wind.

Shroudfiend.

And he could feel the one in his mind laughing. Would make for a tasty meal. It whispered between the pounding beat of horse hooves on the charge. Buckskin mare blew past Brinda and the stunned Lark.

He would swipe at the strange thing wearing a man's skin. Only cursed himself for being so terrible on horseback.

Having only one eye, didn't help things much either.

On the dune theyh had ridden down from Omari readied his bow, and Scholar Til' Harcor looked on with paradoxical excitement. Made himself as small as he could on the saddle atop his camel's back. While being too clung to the leather. Eyes huge and whole body worked forward.

"My, what horrendous fortune we have," he said with a horrible grin on his face. "The very firmament has torn itself asunder, and we were here," his eyes wider. "To witness it," whisper to himself. As if to hoard the sounds, too precious off his tongue.

At first, the sudden brightness was the worst part of being spat into this new place. The desert sun hit him like a hammer, so sharp and blinding that he winced and threw up an arm to shield his eyes. But the light was only the beginning.

Within seconds, the heat wrapped around him like a suffocating cloak. Sweat gathered at his brow and trickled down his temples. The sheer intensity of it pressed against him from all sides, a physical weight on his body. Momo immediately regretted choosing the heavy cotton haori instead of the silk one he’d admired earlier.

He blinked hard, ruby eyes adjusting as he peered across the waves of distorted heat rising off the sand. A small group of riders moved in the distance—horses, he thought… and maybe a camel? Hard to say with the shimmering air and his vision still recovering.

His white fox ears twitched. His tail bristled. One of the riders suddenly broke from the group, urging his mount into a direct charge toward him. And—was that a sword raised in the man’s hand? The blade caught the sunlight, flashing dangerously as it bounced with the horse’s stride.

Momo narrowed his eyes, taking a reflexive step back as his sandal sank awkwardly into the hot sand. He was not used to this terrain. This was—unfortunately—his first time in a desert.

Still, he forced optimism into his voice. He lifted his other hand to wave, hoping desperately this was some kind of misunderstanding and not a man galloping at full speed to kill him.

“Hellooo there! I think I mi—ahh!”

Before he could finish, the sand shifted beneath him again. He slipped backward just as the rider swept past, the blade hissing through the air where his head had been. A few strands of his long white hair sheared clean off, shimmering as they drifted down to the sand.

Momoshiro tumbled down the dune in a chaotic mess of robes, limbs, and white fluff, coming to a graceless stop at the bottom. He scrambled upright with surprising speed, katana drawn, tail fluffed to twice its size in alarm.

He searched for the horseman, breath quick, heart pounding—yet even then, he held one hand out defensively but non-aggressively.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he called out, voice strained but earnest, “but I mean you no harm! I don’t even know where I am!”

Garrod rounded atop the buckskin mare, its long dark legs short stepping to better cut the angle as the swirl of sand swept across him.


Grit stung the hunter's eye. Sword came up to guard likely angle of attack as tears flooded clean his lone eye. Blinked them away quick. World a watery distortion amidst the burning glow of so much sun bounced off the dune walls. Distance would keep him alive for seconds, but what was distance to a demon fall from the sky?

Click of teeth. Chuff of breath. No words meant to be-

"Hail, stranger!" Came Brinda's voice over the stream of bloodborne thoughts that roiled up in Garrod's head. Stirred by the hurried trot-gallop pound of Brinda's beast. A flap of breath from the black gelding's mouth as she willed it to stop. Small sounds to comfort it. Her eyes cut up to the man with the ears. "You, you fell out of the sky!" she said it like it explained everything. "You'll have to excuse my master, he's, well, very mistrusting of things he can't make sense of!" she grinned to the stranger.

Sword still clutched in hand, buckskin mare's breath high, blood hot. Garrod grumbled. "You smell like a fucking demon!" he called out to the stranger with the Aetochin lilt to his bright and overly friendly candor.

"Might be!" Omari called out from beneath his bundles of airy cloth. "He's a Djinn!" he laughed, cool as the midnight. Bow and arrow lowered. "Still, not one I would trifle with!"

Something greedy, and far too interested passed over Scholar Til' Harcor's eyes.

Garrod huffed. Naked right arm trembling. Fingers twitching. Hungry. Could swear he heard the chains of seashells rattle against the ashwood box. An ache behind his missing eye.

He lowered his sword, but still kept it naked to the air.

Brinda glared at him. The one armed girl looked back down to the stranger with animal ears and a big bushy tail that looked all too soft. Cleared her throat. "Well, do you have a name, stranger?" she said with a big smile that crinkled up all the jagged little scars about her eyes, bolts of pink-silver lightning each about her hazel eyes.

A pause followed, along with a few quick blinks.

Momo stood planted in a wide stance, one arm still extended, fox ears pricked high and his tail puffed out to an almost comical size. His katana remained drawn, held ready but restrained. He hoped—very much so—that he wouldn’t need to use it. He had no desire to hurt anyone, and even less confidence in his swordsmanship. Fighting people wasn’t what he’d been trained for, and it certainly wasn’t what he preferred.

When the man with the eye patch finally lowered his blade, Momo felt the tension ease out of his shoulders. The others appeared relaxed as well, none of them reaching for weapons. That was enough to convince him he wasn’t about to be attacked.

With a bit of habitual Aetochin flair, he gave his katana a quick twirl before sliding it back into its sheath. Then he bowed politely. A small cascade of sand slipped from his hair and shoulders. He noticed mid-bow and straightened, brushing at himself with an awkward smile as he dusted off. As he did, his eyes flicked between the three of them, gauging their reactions.

“Heh… I’m just glad you can understand me,” he said. “Common isn’t my first language, and between the two I know, I figured this one had the better odds out here.”

He chuckled softly, brushing what he hoped was the last of the sand from his hair. He’d heard enough stories to know it probably wasn’t.

“My name is Momoshiro Komori,” he continued. “And I’m not a demon. Well—at least, not that I’m aware of.”

He grinned, eyes narrowing into slits as a hint of fang showed.

“I don’t know what a djinn is either, but I don’t think I’m one of those. Though… I suppose from your point of view, I did sort of appear out of nowhere.”

His ears slowly relaxed, and his tail shrank back down to its usual size, swaying calmly behind him.

“I’m something of an exorcist,” he went on. “I deal with unruly spirits. I was in the middle of doing exactly that when I ended up here, actually. The spirit I was fighting could open portals.”

His expression shifted briefly as something tugged at his senses. Something in the air felt… familiar. Not quite the same as his spirits, but close enough to raise his hackles. He frowned, then shook it off and looked back to the group.

“Sorry. Still a little out of sorts.”

He scratched the back of his head and glanced around at the unfamiliar terrain, finally voicing the question that had been nagging him since he arrived.

“So… where exactly is here?”

Anira stayed exactly where she was. The oasis was a little miracle. Beyond that thin green ring, the sun hammered down with a violent white-gold glare. Out there, people shouted. Whatever they were saying, the desert swallowed it whole. The heat ate the words. Steel flashed. Something with fox ears had fallen out of the sky. She squinted at Garrod doing what Garrod did best which appeared to involve swords and total exclusion of courtesy.

Absolutely not.

“Ah...no,” she said, to absolutely no one who could hear her. She cleared her throat anyway. She leaned back against the palm, letting its shade drape over her. Her clothes were stiff with dried blood, dirt and sweat. Anira became acutely aware of how she must look, and her jaw tightened. She glanced down at herself, tried brushing dirt from her sleeve, failed miserably, and sighed. Sweat slicked her spine, salt stinging the cuts along her ribs and arms.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. Rescued, witnessed, possibly remembered forever as the bard who crawled out of a shrub like a feral desert cottontail.

Her eyes flicked back to the stranger with the ears, who was gesturing wildly now, clearly explaining something to people who seemed determined to interpret it as a threat. She lifted a hand, waved weakly from the shade. Out there, the dunes shimmered like a fever dream. Heat rippled so thick it distorted any shapes into waves.

But why would anyone look toward the only patch of green for leagues when you could stand under the sun pressing down like a giant’s hand, heavy and cruel?

Of course it was djinns. It was always djinns when people panicked in deserts. “Djinn don’t fall out of the sky like dropped laundry!” she pointed out, like she was the only one who didn't had a sunstroke.

From his perch atop the dune, Momo glanced down toward the oasis, trying to make out the voice drifting up from below. He couldn’t quite catch the words. Was that a woman? He narrowed his ruby eyes, squinting against the distance and the wavering heat shimmer that distorted everything beyond arm’s reach.

He looked skyward next, then back to the small group gathered around him. Their clothing immediately stood out—loose, layered, sensible. Far better suited to the climate than his own. There wasn’t much he could do about how he’d arrived, having been quite literally dumped here, but the sun was another matter. With a quiet sigh, he untied his obi and shrugged off his mustard-yellow haori.

As he did, Brinda complimented his name. The remark caught him slightly off guard, a faint warmth touching his cheeks. He returned her introduction with a polite nod and shallow bow, then did the same for Omari.

“Well met,” he said, smiling with his eyes closed.

The other man—white hair like his own—remained silent. He was also the one who had charged him on sight. Momo filed that away, resolving to keep a respectful distance for now. Hopefully the man simply needed time to warm up. Momo made a mental note to test that theory eventually.

The thought earned him a small, private grin.

With his folded haori tucked neatly under one arm, Momo summoned one of his Raakgui. Black and purple wisps gathered from the air itself, spiraling together until the spirit took shape. Possibly, it would go unnoticed by most—spirits like these often did. He wondered, briefly, if any of his new companions could see it.

The creature was squat and caterpillar-like, its muted violet body matched by a face whose lined, drooping proportions evoked a sleepy old man, rendered entirely in the same dusky purple hue. It crawled lazily onto Momo’s shoulder, blinking slow with its big drooping eyes. When Momo brought his hand toward its mouth, it opened impossibly wide. He reached inside and withdrew a suitcase far too large to have fit within it.

Kneeling, Momoshiro unlatched the case. The hinges clicked softly as it opened, releasing a faint scent of cedar. Inside, nestled among other travel-worn belongings, lay a silk haori. He exchanged it for the cotton one and added an airy white shawl to the pile. Satisfied, he closed the case and returned it to the spirit. Its task complete, the Raakgui dissolved back into drifting wisps and vanished.

He lifted the silk haori with care. The fabric caught the light, shifting in warm hues—amber melting into rose, rose deepening toward violet. It was light as breath compared to the heavy cotton, smooth beneath his fingers. Falling leaves patterned its length, the design subtle but alive in the glow of the day.

He slipped it on, retied his obi, and—just as before—only threaded one arm through the sleeve, letting the other half drape loosely at his side. The shawl he wrapped around his head, leaving it loose enough to breathe while still shielding him from the sun.

Once finished, he followed the others down toward the oasis, grateful for the sight of green after so much sand. As he drew closer, he lifted a hand to wave in greeting toward the woman. (A woman after all.) Near enough now, he offered her a polite nod and shallow bow.

“Momoshiro. A pleasure to meet you,” he said, then gestured to the rest. “All of you. I consider myself very lucky to have landed here with fine company—rather than alone out there.” He motioned toward the vast desert stretching beyond the oasis.

Only then did he realize no one had answered his earlier question.

“So,” he added, glancing between them, “where exactly are we?”

Anira’s eyes flicked to Garrod, sharp as a rapier. She took the waterskin from him.

“As do you.” she said lightly, almost kindly. She held it the waterskin, sniffed it, just to make sure it was water. Then she made a scene of wiping a hand along the nozzle. Slow. Thorough. As if whatever Garrod carried with him might be catching, before tilted it to her lips.

When her belly was full of water and her temper only marginally empty she leaned back, handed the skin back and watched the others drop in. Her gaze drifted, unhurried, to the fox-eared stranger just in time to watch him shed heat, fabric, and then summon an entire wardrobe out of thin air.

Ah.

Of course he could.

She watched the colors settle on him, amber and rose behaving beautifully in the sun, and felt irritation spark. Vanity noticed everything. Especially unfair advantages. Her mouth curved, sharp and sweet all at once. Somewhere between admiration and the urge to stab him. The desert had taken her horse, her map, her dignity, and apparently decided to dress him instead.

When he finally approached, bowing politely, she inclined her head. “Anira,” she said.

“Seems like your djinn is lost.” She flicked Omari a glance sharp enough to cut, before turning her gaze back to Momoshiro.

“You’ve arrived in the Kaikias Desert. Congratulations.”

His smirk only deepened as Anira put on her mummery. Poor princess was thirsty though, and he wouldn't get in the way of that being slaked. Sharptoothed as his want to poke and prod was.

Just chuffed, and took back the waterskin. Nearly empty. Wiped down the mouth of it, and took a drink before he corked it and stowed it. Hopped off his horse.

Brinda's eyes were huge on the stranger. Momoshiro, the name echoed in her mind. Liked how it sounded round and fuzzy, like a peach. Sharp at the end, like the slice of a knife.

She blinked, as she watched the air seem to bend and twist with shadow.

Could almost see something there. Like a worm. Large and round, like a row of melons.

Garrod eyed it. Suspicion clear in the green of his single eye's gaze. Lips pressed to thin line.


Omari just laughed. "A djinn is never lost," he said as he slid off his saddle. Sandals crunching in the sandy soil where shrubs and stubborn wildflowers sprawled about the oasis-fed earth. "They are wherever the winds of the world wish them to be," the bright eyed hunter gleamed. "Though they may pretend to be... out of place" he said with a bit of song in his voice. Blue robes flowing with his sand soft steps.

Professor Harcor fell off from atop his parasoled camel. The beast, rolled out its low and trumpetous grunt. A plume of dust and sand shot up in its wake. Professor Harcor, wheezed and coughed as little pained mutters fell from his mouth.

None of the Cazadores rushed to the salt and peppered man's aid.

Garrod smirked.

Omari busied himself getting his tent ready.

Brinda hopped off her horse, and led a quick step stroll right up to Anira. "Been awhile, Lady Lark," she said with some nerves tensing her throat. Fixed her robes. Then the fit of her head wrap. Cleared her voice.

"We are on the hunt" the scholar managed through a wheeze.

Garrod groaned as he pulled his horse toward the watering hole. Hopped off the saddle, and moved along.

Professor Harcor adjusted his gold rimmed spectacles as Garrod wrangled the camel. Parasol still teeter tottering its frills and silk. "For the lost city of Himma el-Mizra,"

“You’ve arrived in the Kaikias Desert. Congratulations.”

At that, Momo paused and lifted a brow, trying to place the name somewhere on the globe in his mind’s eye. He silently cursed himself for never paying proper attention to his father’s long-winded stories about distant lands and wandering travels. Had it been far to the south? East, perhaps? He couldn’t remember.

The foxkin groaned under his breath, frustration bubbling up at the realization that he still had no idea where he was.

That frustration curdled quickly into something colder.

How was he supposed to get home?

His eyes widened slightly, pupils flicking left and right as panic began to coil inside his chest like a tightening serpent. His breathing grew shallow. His skin prickled. Heat and cold clashed beneath his skin as sweat gathered at his temples. The air suddenly felt too thin.

He might never see them again.

His brothers and sisters. His mother. His father. His entire clan.

The thought hollowed him out.

His knees threatened to buckle as a familiar shadow seeped into his thoughts, slithering into the cracks of his doubts and fears. It had been stalking him for some time now—this creeping darkness that fed on uncertainty. When it took hold, it felt like drowning beneath a blackened sky, no stars, no horizon—only weight.

He felt himself slipping.

And then—

A single image cut through.

His little sister.

Bright as sunlight. Unshakably certain. He could almost hear her laugh.

The memory sharpened: the day they had gotten lost in the woods. He had tried so hard not to show how worried he was. But she had sensed it anyway. She tugged on his hand until he looked down, and when he did, she simply smiled up at him.

“You’ll get us home. I just know it!”

The darkness recoiled.

Momo drew in a slow, steady breath, anchoring himself to that moment. The serpent loosened. The black sky thinned. Air returned to his lungs.

I’ll get back to you all.

He blinked and glanced around, hoping no one had noticed his brief unraveling. If they had, hopefully they were polite enough not to comment. He forced an easy smile into place, smoothing his expression as though nothing had happened.

His attention shifted back to the group just in time to see the Professor tumble rather unceremoniously from his mount. Momo nearly laughed before catching himself. He noticed the others were slow to intervene and instinctively started forward, but the other white-haired man stepped in first, calming the camel with practiced efficiency.

It was Momo’s first time seeing a camel in person.

Then came the mention of their destination.

“…for the lost city of Himma el-Mizra.”

His fox ears perked instantly.

Now that sounded promising.

He ran a hand through his hair and scratched lightly at one ear before speaking.

“Would you mind terribly if I joined you on this adventure?” he asked, tone hopeful but composed. “At least until I can find my way back to Aetochi…”

His tail gave a small, anticipatory sway behind him.

After all, if he was stranded in a foreign land, he might as well make the most of it.

"Been awhile, Lady Lark."

Anira straightened where she sat. Not because she felt well. The world still burred at the edges, her ribs protested every breath, and the desert had baked her temper to a brittle glaze. But Brinda stood before her, nervous and earnest and trying very hard to look composed, and that demanded something better than exhaustion.

"Brinda the Bold." the minstrel breathed, and this time there was no sharpness in her voice at all. She took the girl’s hand, squeezing it warmly. “Look at you.” Her eyes swept over Brinda with the same open admiration as a proud big sister would have. “You grow stronger by the day. And braver. It’s positively alarming... but at this rate you’ll be rescuing the rest of us before we know it.” Her mouth curved, though fatigue tugged at the edges.

“I am very glad to see you,” she added. “Truly.” Only then did she release Brinda and turned her attention to the scholar wheezing beside them, parasol wobbling.

"We are on the hunt... For the lost city of Himma el-Mizra,"

Then she reached into the inner fold of her torn clothes and withdrew the letter. She weighed it between her fingers as if considering whether it still deserved importance. “You are not the only ones chasing the lost city” she said. With a small flick of her wrist, she tossed the letter toward the professor. It swirled lazily through the air, like a huge snowflake, and landed on the sand without a sound.

"I left Cindersend with a group lead by the Vaggan tripplets. Some of the best treasure hunters and tomb raiders there are." Her mouth twitched faintly. “Little did I think they would decide they didn’t want to share the treasure.” A brittle sort of amusement tried to rise and failed. A breath slipped out of her, thinner than she intended.

“I’m not even interested in the treasure,” she added, almost defensively. “I wanted the legend. The song of it. The moment when you stand somewhere no one has stood in a thousand years and say, ah, there you are." She went quiet after that. Because somewhere between sand and betrayal, something had shifted. She had always assumed danger would arrive with fanfare. A monster’s roar. A curse in ancient script. A dramatic last stand. Not a conversation held in low voices while she slept.

It settled in her chest now, heavy and humiliating. They had meant to kill her. Not frighten. Not abandon. Kill. Not as collateral, not by accident. Deliberately. The bardess had been many things in her life. Irritating. Dramatic. But never before worth murdering. For the first time in her charmed life, someone had weighed her breathing against their profit and found it inconvenient. Her gaze wandered out across the dunes, sunlight turning them into a glittering lie. Somewhere out there lay the rest of the people foolish enough to trust the triplets.

Her voice, when it returned, had lost its sparkle.

“We left at the same time as a handful of brutes from the Wawik Company, ” she continued. She swallowed. Throat dry again. “And a group eunuchs of Temhalir. I also recall two vaultbreakers from Den Alacrán." Garrod would perhaps know of Den Alacán. Of course he would know it. Den Alacrán did not produce heroes. It produced professionals. Hunters who preferred poison to steel. Who smiled while they dipped their blades in invisible death. They did not need to kill quickly, only thoroughly.

“We did not join forces. We merely shared the road for a day or two. Long enough to measure each other.” The forgotten roads to Himma el-Mizra's lost city was now crowded with individuals who know exactly how to survive. And many of them had decided that survival did not required any mercy.

"That is a great many competent, well-armed individuals marching toward the same mirage,” she warned. She drew her arms around herself. Simply cold, despite the heat. Sunfever made her body shiver.

“Would you mind terribly if I joined you on this adventure?” She turned her blue eyes back to the foxkin.

“Join us?” she repeated “Into a sun-blasted death march?! If you are trying to find your way back to Aetochi, you would walking in precisely the wrong direction.” She gestured vaguely westward, toward memory rather than sight. “I would advise against volunteering.” She shifted slightly, wincing, then continued.

“Cindersend has ships leaving its harbor every few weeks. Trade vessels, pilgrim carriers, the occasional smuggler. Aetochi is not unreachable, it has a port." She brushed sand from her palm.

“Turn back with me. We will find you a ship."