Wall Of Dust

The caravan rolled out at dawn, the first slivers of light stretching over the horizon, turning the wasteland into a sea of deep orange and gold. A beautiful sight that most had grown somewhat bored of.

The air was cool—the kind that only lasted in the early morning before the heat came down, making everyone wish they could skin themselves alive to feel a little less hot.

And somehow, against all odds, Malik could be seen on steedback.

Not just sitting there, either. Riding. Like he'd been doing it for years.

Said he learned last night. No one questioned it. Either they didn't care, or they had bigger things to worry about.

Ali Baba placed him near the center of the formation—where the more important wagons were, tightly packed, guards sticking close.

Layla, surprisingly, wasn't pestering him yet, probably still embarrassed from last night.

Not that he minded. He had other things to focus on.