The desert wind howled like a warning, sharp with the scent of blood.
Xylon ran.
His feet stumbled through cracked sandstone streets, the fine grains of the desert kicking up around his ankles, sticking to his wounds.
His robes—once ivory white and flowing, cut in the old desert style with wide sleeves and a long, draped hem—were torn to ribbons.
He bled from his ribs. From his back. From his mouth.
And still, he ran.
Behind him, the thornes slithered—black, thorned vines twisting with unnatural hunger, clawing through the alleyways like living curses.
His sandveil, once wrapped tightly around his head, had unraveled. It fluttered behind him like a ghost's hand.
The desert was hot, but his skin was cold—clammy with sweat, slick with fear.
His sandals slapped the ground awkwardly, one foot dragging. The bones in his leg were wrong.
