10. WHISPERS AMONG THE DUNES

The black sun loomed above Vikram, an oppressive shadow against the crimson-streaked sky. His breath caught in his throat as he realized the horrifying truth. It wasn't a celestial body. It wasn't some ominous omen of the desert. It was alive.

A writhing mass of younglings—offspring of the colossal worm—detached from the black sun, spilling forth like a plague upon the land.

Vikram was already running. Instinct had screamed at him to move the moment the air shifted, long before his mind could grasp what was happening. And now, as the grotesque creatures rained down behind him, he knew that if he had hesitated for even a second, he would have been buried beneath them.

The creatures hit the ground with sickening splats, their pale, squirming bodies immediately burrowing into the sand. The very desert itself seemed to ripple with their presence, the dunes shifting unnaturally, as if something massive moved beneath.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could hear them. The wet, fleshy sounds of their wriggling. The panicked cries of the trio of warriors and the old man struggling to keep up.

Ahead, the desert stretched endlessly, an unforgiving wasteland under the dying light. Then, in the distance, salvation—

A cave.

Vikram's muscles screamed, but he pushed forward, forcing himself to cover the remaining ground. His chest heaved as he staggered to a stop just outside the cave entrance, nearly collapsing onto a rock.

The silence that followed was deafening. The immediate danger had passed, but his mind reeled from what he had just witnessed. The desert… it was far worse than he had imagined.

A rustling sound drew his attention. The girl from the warrior trio was tending to the old man, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. Vikram's gaze lingered for a moment before he spoke, his voice breaking the fragile quiet.

"Old man." His throat was dry. "Do you know them?" He gestured toward the warriors.

The night descended upon the desert like a frozen curtain. The warmth of the day had long since vanished, replaced by an all-consuming cold that bit deep into Vikram's skin. He had faced brutal temperatures before—South India had its extremes—but this was different. This wasn't just cold. It was something else entirely.

It clawed at his very consciousness, making him feel… foreign in his own body.

Vikram clenched his fists. He had a body that was near perfection, but against nature's cruelty, even that was meaningless.

A shuffle of movement caught his eye.

Four figures emerged from the darkness.

The warrior trio moved with an air of silent confidence, their predatory grace unshaken despite the day's horrors. But there was a fourth among them—the hunched-back steward.

And the moment Vikram's eyes landed on him, he felt a quiet anger stir within.

The old man was being mistreated, shoved forward like livestock, barely keeping his footing. The smaller two warriors snickered, pushing him roughly between them, while the largest of the trio remained eerily motionless—a mountain of muscle that seemed completely indifferent to everything around him.

Vikram had seen power before. But this… this was different. The hulk-like warrior was a force of nature waiting to be unleashed. And that made him the most dangerous of them all.

For a moment, the air grew thick with unspoken tension.

Vikram stared at the warrior duo. The warrior duo stared back. Their expressions were far too brazen, filled with something he didn't like.

The silent battle of wills was broken only when the old man hesitantly stepped forward, carrying something in his trembling hands.

A wooden bowl.

The aroma rising from it was thick, pungent. Vikram accepted the offering with a forced smile, but the moment he peered inside, his stomach lurched.

He recognized the contents immediately.

The younglings.

The same squirming creatures that had rained from the sky. They had been cooked, prepared using the broad leaves of some desert plant.

Vikram fought back the nausea. He had seen the old man collecting them earlier, carefully using leaves to avoid direct contact. He had even asked about it—why the precautions?

"Catch them bare-handed," the old man had warned, "and they'll burrow into your flesh within seconds."

Vikram exhaled slowly. The world he had entered was a place of survival, and survival meant eating things that, in any other life, he would have never considered.

Still, his hands remained steady as he took the bowl.

Then, unexpectedly, the old man pressed something else into his palm—a small, leather-wrapped package.

He lingered for a moment, his voice low, cautious. "Master, ar—"

Vikram's glare was instant.

The old man shivered, immediately bowing his head. He tried again, this time carefully choosing his words. "If you're going through this journey… you'll need this."

Vikram unwrapped the package. Inside—cigarettes.

He blinked, momentarily speechless.

The old man, sensing his confusion, elaborated. "These aren't ordinary, my lord. They're made from mahogany leaves, mixed with special herbs. The smoke will burn—it will hurt—but it has… properties. Healing properties."

The weight of the old man's gaze was heavy. "Use them wisely."

Vikram studied the package, then the old man's calloused hands, then the complex emotions behind his tired eyes.

Instead of responding, he simply handed the bowl back.

"Prepare four more."

The old man hesitated, his expression momentarily falling into something unreadable. With a small, weary nod, he turned back to his work. But as he moved away, Vikram caught a quiet murmur beneath his breath.

"Damn Natherite."

Vikram narrowed his eyes.

Natherite.

The word sat in his mind, heavy with implications. A place? A people? He didn't know. But given the warrior trio's presence, it was a reasonable guess.

Everything was a guessing game now. A puzzle where the pieces were scattered, and the picture had yet to form.

He sighed, shaking his head before turning back to the bowl.

His stomach rebelled again, his body instinctively rejecting the thought of consuming what lay inside. But logic told him otherwise.

The desert was unforgiving. It did not care for his preferences.

Slowly, methodically, Vikram forced himself to take a bite.

The world moved on.

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