Days passed, and I grew accustomed to Perjaann’s silent presence. She did her share of the work: tending to the erdlu, scouting ahead, helping to repair gear. But always in silence. She never joined the conversations of the others, never exchanged jokes or jabs as the other tari did.

And then, one night, I heard her.

It was late, long after the fires had burned down. The desert wind whispered over the dunes, and the erdlu huffed quietly in their sleep. I was lying on my back, staring at the stars, when the sound cut through the silence.

A scream.

A long, ragged, brutal sound, tearing out of her throat as if she were being wrenched apart from the inside. It was raw, terrible, and filled with something that made my skin crawl. This was her praying to the spirits of Magma, though any sane person hearing it for the first time would have thought it was the scream of someone in agony or a wail of mourning.

I sat up, heart hammering, and saw the others stirring as well. But none of them moved. None of them went to her. We just sat there, frozen. Like we were hearing something sacred, or maybe cursed.

The scream stretched on, growing deeper, resonating in the still night air. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

Silence.

Perjaann remained seated in the distance, unmoving, her face tilted toward the heavens. The others returned to their rest as if nothing had happened.

Soso, who sat nearby, met my gaze and gave a knowing smirk.

“Do not disturb her,” he said, his voice soft. “It is the only time she hopes to be heard.”

That night, my sleep was filled with nightmares of Raam’s streets cracking open and overflowing with spurting magma. When I woke, I could swear I smelled ash on my clothes.

———————————————–

Despite some troubled nights, the oasis granted us four days of blessed recovery. We mended gear, tended wounds, and let the erdlu graze on the sparse but precious grasses. Even Perjaann seemed in a good mood, though she still kept to herself. But no sanctuary lasts forever in the wastes, and we were stretching our welcome.

On the fourth day, it was time to move. We had mostly recovered from our injuries and refilled our rations. Despite our two-week trek, we were still only a few days’ journey from either Raam or Okarath. The numerous detours that Soso had us take had drastically slowed our progression.

Some of these detours made practical sense - a stop where a foul but drinkable water source was present or a small field where our weary erdlus could graze on sparse grasses. Others, however, appeared driven purely by Soso’s whims. Those stops usually offered breathtaking views, but we had always been too exhausted to truly appreciate them.

Only now, having spent these restful days in the oasis, did I reflect clearly enough to realize how stunning some of those earlier vistas had been. From rocky plateaus bathed in the gold and purple hues of sunset, to stark canyons carved deep into the earth, their layers revealing a thousand lifetimes of Athas’ history, each had held a quiet majesty we had overlooked in our fatigue.

As we packed our belongings and prepared the erdlu, I found myself studying Soso thoughtfully. He stood apart from us, head tilted as if listening carefully to a whispered secret carried on the desert breeze. Curiosity compelled me forward.

“Soso,” I began cautiously, drawing his attention from the wind’s whispers, “I’ve been thinking about our path. Why do we take these detours? Surely there’s more to it than just finding water or food.”

He gave me a knowing look. “Every path has purpose, Eitros, even when hidden. You see delays, I see preparations.”

“Preparations for what?” I pressed.

He gestured broadly at the horizon, the desert stretching endlessly before us. “Our people scatter like sand before a storm. Nikaram al-Soury gathered us once, taught us survival. Now we must scatter again, planting seeds of his wisdom in strange, new soil.”

I considered his words. “And these vistas? The beautiful views that we were too tired to see?”

“Ah,” he said softly, his voice growing almost reverent, “beauty is never idle, nor accidental. Those moments, glimpsed through weary eyes, settle deep in your hearts. One day, far from here, perhaps at your darkest hour, you will remember these sights. And in remembering, you will find hope.”

Then, he turned abruptly, waving the rest of the tari forward. “We move,” he called out sharply, his tone suddenly practical. “The wind grows restless again.”

As the pack began its slow, determined march away from our brief sanctuary, I lingered for a moment, my gaze sweeping one last time across the oasis. Soso was right; I knew I would carry these quiet images with me.

Three days of steady travel brought us to the northern edges of Raam’s influence as we finally began to witness traces of cultivation. Here, the endless dunes gave way to harder-packed earth, and some tari swore they could smell the distant promise of irrigated fields on the wind.