CHAPTER 6

A sharp ray of sunlight pierced through the cracks of the cave walls, yanking Lyra out of her restless sleep. She sat up groggily, her body sore from the unforgiving ground beneath her. It hadn't been comfortable, but at least she was safe. Mostly.

Avon was already awake, seated cross-legged near the dying embers of the fire, his gaze locked on her. His voice was the first thing that greeted her—blunt and cold.

"You said you wanted to help me yesterday. You realize you lied to me."

No good morning. No small talk. Just that.

Lyra blinked at him, a little stunned. In the warm light of morning, she was finally able to take a closer look at him. He looked weathered—rugged and worn in a way that told a story without words. A shadow of stubble darkened his jawline, and his eyes—though tired—held a sharpness that hadn't dulled despite what he'd clearly endured. For someone who once belonged to the sea, being marooned in a desert would feel like the cruelest punishment from the gods.

"You don't think I can help you?" she asked as she stretched, her muscles tight and stiff. "I was chosen for a reason. Sent here for a reason. Maybe it wasn't to kill you. Maybe it's to help you."

"And pray tell," he said, eyes never leaving her, "how exactly are you supposed to help?"

Lyra tilted her head thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm supposed to help you get back to the sea."

He laughed once, humorless. "This desert is endless. Do you think I'd still be here if there was a way back?"

"Well, you've never had me helping you before," she said with a shrug.

He raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are you going to do? You keep tossing around that word—'help'—like it means something. But you're just as stranded as I am. That's the blind leading the blind."

"Let me figure it out," she said stubbornly. "But if I'm going to help, I need to understand this place. I need to survive here. You said it yourself, this place is unforgiving. So... do you know of any nearby cave maybe I could use? Somewhere I could stay that wouldn't be a burden on you?"

Avon's stare turned contemplative, unreadable. The silence stretched long enough that Lyra started to shift, suddenly self-conscious under his heavy gaze.

Finally, he spoke. "You'll stay here. It's safer." Then, after another beat, he added, "And since you're so hell-bent on helping, I'll tell you about this cursed place."

He stood up, brushing dust off his worn trousers. "First rule of the desert—this one, at least—is that nothing is what it seems. The land moves. Places shift. What's safe today might be quicksand tomorrow. This cave and the surroundings that's I have marked out are the only stable ground that is not in constant movement. The wind doesn't just blow sand, it hides things. Old bones. Old traps. And sometimes... things that are still alive."

Lyra swallowed hard, suddenly more alert.

"As for water," he continued, moving to a pack near the fire, "you don't find it. You hunt for it. The cacti around here are rare but drinkable if you cut them right. There's a tree called a silverspine—roots go deep enough to tap the underground moisture. But don't drink from still pools unless I say it's safe. Some are poisoned. Others..." He glanced at her, eyes serious. "They're bait."

"Bait for what?" she asked cautiously.

"For whatever made them," he said flatly. "There are creatures here that survive by luring the desperate. You won't see them until it's too late."

He continued, "Food's a luxury. Most days, you trap lizards or scavenge bugs. Once in a while, I manage to kill a sandbird or a horned hare, but they're fast, clever. And I'm running out of arrows."

Lyra nodded pensively. "So... nothing is easy out here."

Avon looked at her, his voice quiet but firm. "Nothing is ever easy in a place built to kill you."

"And because of the shifting sands it would be impossible to map out the place." She said chewing on her lip.

He nodded.

She blew out a small whistle. "Truly the tough spot we are in."

"I told you already—helping isn't easy. It never is." Avon stood, brushing dust from his worn trousers. "We need to focus on surviving with what we've got." He stretched, back cracking faintly, then glanced toward the stone-blocked entrance. "I'm heading out to check the landscape. If the sands haven't shifted overnight, we can go back to the cave you fell into. There was still meat in that carcass—assuming the scavengers haven't beaten us to it."

"You'll need me to get into that cave," Lyra said, rising to her feet as well. She glanced down at herself—dust-caked, sweat-stained, underprepared. Her clothes clung awkwardly, not built for survival in a place like this. "I'm coming with you."

He gave her a look. The kind that said you're stubborn, and I'm too tired to fight it. He exhaled sharply. "There it is again. That word—'help.'" He ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. But let me scout ahead. If the dunes are stable, I'll come back for you. If they've shifted, I'll have to find another route, and I don't need the extra worry of something leaping out of the dark while I'm trying to keep us both alive."

Lyra didn't argue. She just dropped back down with a soft, irritated sigh, hugging her knees. Avon tugged at the thick vine looped around the stone sealing the cave's entrance, and with a heavy groan, it rolled aside. He poked his head out, pulled a worn cloth up over his face, and disappeared into the dusty light.

Silence fell.

Her stomach growled, a hollow, angry sound. She rubbed it absently. This was the longest she'd gone without real food, and her body—once spoiled by routine comforts—was not shy about protesting.

Lyra reached into her pocket and pulled out the feather. "How did you do it?" she murmured, turning it over in her fingers. "You became a dagger yesterday. You saved me. What are you?"

No answer, of course.

Until suddenly, silver letters shimmered into existence in the air before her, glowing softly like moonlight on water. But they weren't in English. They curled and shifted in an ancient script she didn't recognize. Her fingers tingled—especially the ones touching the feather. The letters pulsed faintly, as if calling to her.

Before she could think it through, her body moved. Guided by something ancient and instinctual, she raised the feather and traced the letters one by one in the air. As the last stroke completed, the symbols twisted into themselves, folding reality like parchment.

Then—whoosh—a scroll snapped into existence, unfurling midair before dropping neatly into her hands.

Lyra stared. Had she… just done magic?

She opened the scroll. It was a map. But not just any map—it moved. As if alive. A glowing silver dot pulsed gently near its center. Then, alien letters shimmered, shifting fluidly into English right before her eyes: Shifting Sands Desert.

That's where they were. She was sure of it.

How do we get out of here? she thought.

The map responded. The terrain morphed in real-time. Dotted lines sketched a path through sun-bleached dunes, winding into jagged valleys, over mountains, through shadowy stretches of wilderness… until finally, it ended at the edge of the sea.

Her heart skipped. A way out.

The Veil—whatever it was—had shown her the route.

But gods, it looked far. Dangerous. Exhausting.

Still, it was hope. And she could help Avon. That was all that mattered.

Even if it meant walking through hell to get there.