Page 43 of Shadowvein

“Their hospitality is a sacred tradition,” Sacha explains quietlywhile we eat. “Even enemies will break bread together at an oasis. Violence here is forbidden by customs older than the Authority.”

I glance around the quiet camp. “How do they survive out here?”

“They’re herders and traders. The goats provide milk, meat, and leather. They gather desert plants with medicinal properties. And they guide travelers through the more dangerous parts of Sunfire Dunes.” He nods toward a group of older men seated near the central fire. “For a price, of course.”

“Have you spent time with them before?”

“Once. A long time ago. Before my imprisonment.”

When darkness falls, the community gathers around the fire, shadows dancing across faces now relaxed. One of the younger men brings out a string instrument I don’t recognize, closer to a sitar than a guitar, but not quite either. The strings catch the firelight as his fingers pluck them. The melody is haunting, the notes bending in ways I’ve never heard before. Others join in, some singing in low voices, others clapping complex rhythms that seem to speak directly to something older than memory.

“It’s a night blessing,” Sacha explains, his voice softer than usual. In the firelight, the harsh angles of his face seem gentler. “They’re asking the darkness for protection, rather than fearing it. A custom the Authority hasn’t quite managed to stamp out.”

For the first time, I notice how he watches the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, the way the shadows touch him differently than they do the others, almost caressing his outline.

We sit slightly apart from the main gathering, but close enough to feel the community’s warmth. As I watch these people celebrate, apeculiar feeling washes over me. For a disorienting moment, Chicago feels like a fantasy—its gleaming skyscrapers and Christmas lights more impossible than the scene before me now.

The celebration continues late into the night, until people begin retiring to their tents, the energy winding down like a music box. The headman approaches us, his face solemn as he speaks to Sacha, who nods in response.

“They’ve offered us a tent for the night.” He rises to his feet, indicating I should follow him. “A courtesy to strangers.”

The generosity of these people, offering shelter to complete unknowns strikes me hard. In Chicago, I’d barely make eye contact with neighbors I’d lived next to for years. Here, survival seems to depend as much on community as it does on wariness.

The tent is small, woven mats covering the sand, and just enough space for the two simple roll-out pallets that remind me of yoga mats. Oil lamps cast a warm glow over the walls.

“We leave before dawn.”

I nod, too tired to argue, and stretch out on the pallet. As sleep pulls me under, I hear Sacha’s voice outside the tent, low and steady, speaking in that flowing, unfamiliar language.

I dream of Chicago.

Snow falls in soft spirals over Michigan Avenue, Christmas lights blinking in windows that shimmer like glass stars. It should feel familiar,safeeven, but something is wrong. Every street I take leads back to the same intersection. A cycle I can’t break. People pass without seeing me. Their faces blur, pulled into shapes that don’t make sense. I try to call out, but nothing comes. The snow thickens,no longer soft but smothering. And through it all, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

A hand shakes me awake. I blink, my mind still caught between two worlds.

Which one is real? The snowy streets or this tent that smells of woven grass and spiced oil?

“Is it dawn already?” The words come out thick and sleepy.

“No, but we need to go.” Sacha’s voice is an urgent whisper. “Now.”

“What? What’s wrong?” I sit up fast, fighting to shake off the dream. The sensation of being trapped, of being invisible, clings to me.

“Authority patrol. Nearby.” His voice is tight, clipped. “A nomad sentry overheard them, and went to investigate. The headman has offered us mounts to move faster.”

The nightmare dissolves under this new, more immediate threat. Chicago seems far away again, a fading photograph compared to the knife-edged reality of danger in this world. The disorientation leaves me off-balance.

Which fear should take precedence? The loss of my world, or the threats of this one?

I follow him out of the tent and across the camp. A young man is waiting with two of the same scaled creatures the patrol rode yesterday. Their hides seem to shimmer with a faint phosphorescence.

“These are called sandstriders,” Sacha explains as he helps me mount. “They’re bred for desert travel. Follow my lead.”

The nomad speaks quickly, pointing east and tracing a route inthe air. Sacha listens without interrupting, nodding once or twice. When the man stops speaking, he presses something into Sacha’s hand—a small leather pouch. Then he steps back, touches his forehead, and bows. To Sacha first, then to me. I copy Sacha’s nod in return.

The sandstrider’s movement is oddly smooth, a gliding motion that isn’t quite the same as a horse’s gait. Its scaled hide is cool beneath my hands, and it responds to the slightest pressure of my knees. The last time I rode a horse, I could barely steer it. This animal moves like it already knows where I want it to go.

We travel in silence, the sandstriders moving swift and silent beneath us. The oasis disappears behind us, swallowed by the dark. In the gray haze before sunrise, the dunes and rocks become ghostly shapes rising out of shadows.

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