The tarp flapped quietly in the night wind, stretched between two stone columns—the remnants of what might once have been a temple, now reduced to ruins. The slaves lay huddled beneath it like animals—dirty, exhausted, too tired to dream, too afraid to truly sleep.
Alex didn't sleep.
His eyes wandered across the sharp contours of the camp until they settled on the wall. A colossal structure of rough, grey stones rose above them like a silent witness to everything that had ever happened in the shadows of this land. The stone was old. Older than the city, older than what had come before it. Dust from centuries filled its cracks, and the torchlight barely touched its surface, casting a tangle of shadows and glimmers.
There were markings on the wall.
They looked like letters or symbols—drawings and carvings. Alex didn't recognize them. He couldn't even tell if it was writing or something much older, deeper. Something etched not to be read—but to endure.
Even the guards, armed and self-assured, avoided looking at that part of the wall.
Alex turned his gaze away.
The camp was simple. There were no campfires. Only four torches, stuck into the ground at the edges. Their flames cast flickering, uncertain light, but it didn't push back the darkness. Just beyond their reach, night began—true night, thick as tar. And something else: silence. The desert made no sound. Even the wind that had once howled had retreated.
Alex sat near the wall, curled up, his arms wrapped around his knees. His body ached—every muscle burned, every joint pulsed. But it wasn't the pain that held him tense. It was fear. Something more primal than fatigue. He felt it in the back of his neck, in the trembling of his hands, in each breath.
He rose slowly. Carefully. Quietly. He stepped a few paces beyond the tarp, toward the wall. He didn't know why he did it. Maybe he wanted to feel something other than pain. Maybe he hoped the stone—old and silent—would answer him when no one else had.
He took only two steps.
"Get back, idiot," growled a guard who appeared from the darkness like a ghost. He grabbed Alex's arm with such force it knocked the breath out of him. "One more step and you're dead. And no one will care."
Alex was about to say something when another voice spoke—low and coarse as desert stone.
"Never step beyond the wall at night."
It was an old slave. He lay near one of the columns, wrapped in rags. His hand... was no longer a hand. Burnt, scarred, blackened as if something had eaten it from the inside. His eyes were dull, but not blind. They looked at Alex as though they had always seen him.
"They're out there," he said. "Beyond the wall. Waiting."
Alex shivered.
"They creep. They howl. They scream. And if you see them… it means it's already too late."
"What are... they?" Alex asked quietly, almost unconsciously.
The old man shook his head.
"They're not beasts. They're hunger that walks. Evil that needs no form. You can't kill them. No weapon stops them. No wall holds them."
"But this wall…"
"...only if the runes are untouched," the old man cut in. "And stone always crumbles. It always does. Every wall breaks eventually. And then—they come."
At that moment, one of the torches went out.
No one knew if it was the wind—or something else. But the flame died—and one corner of the camp fell into darkness.
Alex turned and saw a boy. Young, maybe fifteen. His face was tense. Eyes wide open. He crawled toward the shadow, toward the wall, as if believing something else waited beyond. Maybe freedom. Maybe just death under different conditions.
"What's he…?" someone whispered, but no one moved.
The boy vanished beyond the torchlight.
And then the shadow moved.
It wasn't a shadow cast by fire. This one was alive. It twisted. It had legs. Arms.
CRACK.Like wood snapping under pressure.
A scream—piercing and long.
Blood splattered onto the sand, spraying one of the nearby slaves. Alex stared in numb horror as something snatched the boy and dragged him into the darkness. Only a bloody, wet stain remained. And something else—a piece of entrail, left near the edge of the wall, as if it couldn't keep up with the rest of the body.
The guards ran too late. They stopped where the light ended. There was nothing there. No boy. No monster.
Only silence.
Alex froze.
His heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know what to think. What to feel.
Elf women wasn't asleep.
She sat, staring at the same place. She shook her head in disbelief.
"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, then lay back down to sleep.
"That was one of them," the old man whispered. "One of many. They always wait in the dark. Even when you can't see them, they're still there. Just watching. Waiting for the right moment. For your carelessness. Your opportunity."
He fell silent. As if even the sound of his voice was dangerous.
A breeze passed through the camp and vanished. So suddenly, it was as if someone had switched it off.
Alex hugged his arms around himself.
He wasn't cold. But chills ran down his spine, then seeped into his heart.
///
Dawn found them in silence.
The sky had turned the color of violet pearl. The torches were fading. The caravan was preparing to march again, as if nothing had happened.
A crack of a whip. A sharp whistle.
And they moved on.
Alex walked in a trance, eyes locked on the sand.