The low hum of the chronowatch shattered the stillness of the desert cavern. Dust rains had ended a week ago, but the air was still thick with the earthy scent of petrichor and sun-baked stone. Oran Valis knelt beside the skeletal remains of a bridled camel, its brittle bones tangled in the kind of rug-weaving harnesses that the nomads of the Sulai Empire had all but abandoned some seven centuries ago. He adjusted the copper clasp on his sahari—a traditional linen tunic with a storm-grey hue and black ornamental etching along the hem. It clung to his lithe frame, tailored more for agility than comfort, but in this deadly heat, even dead weight had its purpose.
Oran didn’t notice the figure behind him until he already had his hand on the buried relic—a smooth, onyx cube that glimmered faintly against the cavern’s modest light.
“Touch that, and the sands will take your voice, then your name, and before you know it, you’ll be part of the terrain,” came a voice, quiet as conspiracy but pulsing with threat.
Oran turned his head sharply without rising, his emerald eyes catching a flash of steel held loosely in the stranger’s grip. Tall and wrapped in indigo-dyed rajmat linens, the man’s exposed face was a canvas of lined wisdom and feral disdain. His knife hand didn’t shake—not once.
“And yet, the sands spared you?” Oran dared, his fingers still grazing the relic.
The man tilted his head, a raven fluttering noisily in from the shadows to perch on his shoulder. The bird cawed. Playful. Almost thoughtful.
“You’re scavenging what you don’t understand,” the man finally said. “But then, that’s what you Iryshsons do best, isn’t it? Snatching dead stories to claim as your own.”
The barb almost landed, but Oran parted his lips in a thin, humorless smile. “I was told old sea-haunters offered better warnings,” Oran quipped and then did something reckless.
He pocketed the cube and stood, brushing his knees down. The eyelather boots (black and double-buckled) whispered against the cavern’s dust with his movement. The stranger’s steel didn’t edge closer; it lifted higher, a muted acknowledgement.
Six Minutes Earlier
The compact skyship Oran had borrowed—technically purchased after a somewhat lawful poker duel over the dunes—was held hostage outside the very cavern they were standing in now. By the kind of pulse-pummeler drones that even paved Ecliptic Basin nomads prayed not to tangle with once past 22% dayfade.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Ever feel like your gut health is trying to tell you something?
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
Post Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.