The road felt kinder after the oasis. Even the youngest of Kue’er’s brood moved with renewed confidence, their gait less of a stagger and more of a stride. The older ones whispered advice to each other about the best ways to lace up their cloth wrappings or how to avoid sand blisters. After the first fourteen days of punishing terrain, a mere few days’ walk felt like a victory. Spirits were high.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the dunes, we gathered for the communal meal. Kue’er had taken charge with uncharacteristic joy, as he prepared a stew that was an aromatic medley: vegetables foraged from the oasis, roasted kank honey, and a handful of fat, white larvae discovered squirming under an overturned basalt slab. Vritrik, suspicious, sniffed the mixture his dad had prepared but said nothing.

However, the meal was delicious, in the way all food is after hard travel and good company. Even Soso slurped without commentary, fully savouring the food.

Finally, with his belly full, Soso stood and thumped his staff into the dirt. The group quieted, the crackling fire throwing dancing shadows on fur and rock.

“We go to the edge now,” he announced dramatically, pointing northwest. “The last breath of Raam’s noble lungs. The final exhale before the wilds swallow pride whole.” There was a pause.

Soso waved a hand. “The Last Estate of Raam. The northmost of the noble farms. Not a place for tail-bearing folk like us…no, no. The nobles prefer soft hands and softer lies. But! There is a crack in their stone.”

He tapped the side of his nose knowingly, then leaned in over the fire.

“Keypridok the dwarf,” he whispered. “A priest of the sky.”

A ripple of interest moved through the group. Air-touched dwarves were more than rare.

“An odd one, even by my standards,” Soso continued, looking pleased. “He was hired to bless their crops and whistle up fair skies. A wind-binder among wine-drinkers. He built a small shrine on the estate’s edge. No tari are allowed near the main lands, but this place… this shrine, it is for those who walk lightly with the wind.”

He paused to sip from his bowl, letting the silence stretch.

“There, we’ll find resupply. Water, food, hopefully a place to rest before the true dust begins. He’ll help us. Unless,” he added with a loud morbid laugh, “he’s been sacrificed for poor yields.”

A few of the tari laughed nervously. My eyes narrowed. “And if he’s dead?”

Soso shrugged. “Then we honor his bones and take his wine. The wind will forgive us.”

I glanced around the circle. Most of the tari nodded. Some were intrigued, others seemed skeptical. But none objected. As the fire burned low and the stew pot was scraped clean, Kue’er’s children curled beside their packmates, bellies full and limbs stretched. Perjaann remained by the fire, poking it absently with a stick. We had less than two days of travel before reaching Raam’s edge, as Soso called it.

Those two days passed in tense anticipation. The closer we came to the isolated estate and its farmland, the more nervous we became, until even Soso’s usual chatter with the wind became subdued.

We reached the outskirts of the estate under a pale, cloudless sky, the kind that makes everything feel still and watched. The erdlu grew uneasy long before we saw anything. They kept snorting, tossing their heads, and stomping the packed dust. The pack walked in a quiet silence, their hands clenched around their walking staffs or weapons.

The shrine was not hard to find. It sat, or rather had sat, atop a rocky rise overlooking the last of the irrigated fields, where wilted plants clung to a parched canal. The wind brought no scent of incense, no whisper of prayers.

The simple stone altar had been overturned, the offering basin shattered and scattered like discarded trash. Someone had stamped a boot into the spiral sigil etched on the shrine’s center stone, scarring the carving into something ugly and jagged. The message was clear: desecration of the wind spirits.

“Well, where’s the wine?” Kue’er joked nervously, then fell silent.

The pack stood in silence, their tails low, whiskers stiff. Even the younglings understood. A place meant to welcome strangers had been turned to ruin. Nakkya, Kue’er’s youngest, edged beside me and whispered, “Who would do this?”

Soso stepped forward slowly, brushing dust from a broken stone with surprising tenderness. “They silenced the wind.” he muttered.

I paced the edge of the wreckage, kicking dust. Old boot marks. Scuffs. Someone fought here. Someone had tried to defend this place. Kue’er crouched and ran a hand through the ash, uncovering shattered pottery and the edge of a cracked holy symbol, a jagged spiral etched into typical dwarven ceramic.

Perjaann picked up the remains of a travel sack, half-buried in the sand. She pulled it free, shook it once, and held it up for all to see. The younger tari stayed back, uneasy, sensing something was wrong even if they didn’t understand the history.

“Keypridok?” I asked.

“Taken away,” Soso confirmed, though his eyes were far away, reading messages the wind carried in fragments.

A murmur ran through the group. Nakkya stepped closer and whispered, “Why?”

“Fear,” I said. “Or convenience. Or both.”

A sudden gust roared violently across the rise, swirling dust and sand in a sharp whirlwind that stung our eyes and tugged fiercely at cloaks and whiskers. The tari recoiled instinctively, except for Soso, who stood firm, head cocked sharply as if listening intently to words carried only to him.

When the wind settled, an eerie stillness followed. Soso lowered his head slowly, eyes narrowed in anger and grief.

“Keypridok was blamed,” he said. “They accuse the wind of carrying disease from Raam. He was dragged away. Imprisoned.”

“The wind talks,” he continued after a moment of silence. “Some evil fool, who claims to represent the false god Badna, believes burning a priest of Air might cleanse the sky.”

A chill settled over the pack. Perjaann stirred uneasily, clutching her staff tightly. Soso knelt before the shattered altar, murmuring softly in perhaps Old Dwarvish, perhaps just wind-speak. Ashes stirred faintly again, answering his whispers.

Then he rose, voice clear and determined: “We make camp just beyond the hill. Tonight, we listen to the nobles’ whispers. Tomorrow, we remind them: the wind does not bow to a false god.”