Levi watched her for a long moment, her breathing shallow but steady, her skin still flushed beneath the grime. Sera, the girl who once snarled at the world, now curled in the dust like a wounded animal. The desert had stolen the fire from her limbs, but not her spirit—not yet.
He dipped the cloth again, using the precious condensation forming on the inner walls of the cave. It wasn't much, but it was all they had. He pressed it gently to her brow, then to her lips, letting her drink what little he could offer.
The cave around them was shallow, carved out by wind and time, more a crack in the stone than a shelter. But it was cooler here, shaded from the brutal sun, and that mattered now more than anything. Levi adjusted the canvas scrap to shield Sera's body better, then sat back against the stone wall, knees drawn to his chest, eyes never leaving her.
Time bled. The desert grew quiet.
He could hear the shift of sand dunes outside, the wind brushing across the rocks with a hiss. No cries. No screams. No fire. Just silence.
And in that stillness, the fear began to grow.
What if his mother didn't find them? What if she couldn't? "She's going to make it," he said aloud—if only to chase the quiet away. "She has to."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. It was damp now from sweat, and her face had gone too pale beneath the redness of her sunburn. Her breathing hitched once, and he leaned in again, whispering soft nonsense—comforting things, stupid things. He told her about the stars, about the constellations his mother used to trace in the sky.
He told her she wasn't going to die.
Eventually, her fingers moved again. Not twitching this time—curling. Reaching for his.
Levi blinked, then reached down and took her hand.
"Sera," he said.
She didn't open her eyes, but her fingers gripped his tight. Weakly. Still there.
"I've got you," he said, tightening his grip.
Outside, the desert darkened. The first stars pricked the sky, cold and distant. He looked at them, searching for the north line like his mother had taught him.
She'll come back before the stars rise, she'd said.
But already the sky was filling with them.
Levi held Sera's hand tighter.
"Come back," he whispered to the dark. "Please come back."
And above the desert, the stars blinked—silent and cruel—as the boy kept watch beside the fading fire of the girl who refused to die.The hours passed slowly. The wind shifted again, colder now, whistling past the cave's narrow entrance like a distant warning. Levi sat curled beside Sera, his back pressed to stone, her hand still wrapped weakly in his own.
He didn't sleep.
Every sound from outside made him stiffen—every rustle of sand or gust of air. The desert was never truly still, even in darkness. Sometimes he thought he saw movement far off in the dunes—a shimmer, a flicker, shapes that might have been people, or animals, or just tricks of his tired mind. But no one came.
Not yet.
Sera stirred again, her brow twitching, a soft groan catching in her throat. Levi reached for the cloth and pressed it gently to her forehead. It was warmer now, not from the sun, but from the fever setting in. Her lips moved faintly.
"…water…"
His throat clenched. He had none.
"Just a little longer," he murmured, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. "She'll come back. She promised."
Sera turned her face slightly toward his touch. Her breathing was still shallow, but not as ragged. Her skin had stopped blistering, at least for now. Levi could only hope the cave's shade and the little moisture they'd gathered had done enough to hold her over.
He looked out toward the desert again, scanning the distant horizon.
Then, something moved.
Far away—too far to be certain—he saw a flicker of fabric, the silhouette of a figure cresting one of the dunes. His heart slammed against his ribs. He scrambled up, careful not to jostle Sera, and crawled to the edge of the cave.
The figure was coming fast, unevenly, half-stumbling down the dune's slope. The long scarf trailing behind her caught the starlight. His chest clenched.
"Mama?" he whispered, hope rising.
The figure reached the foot of the dune and came into clearer view. A woman. Lean. Worn. But her steps were urgent.
He stood and waved both arms.
"Here!" he called, his voice rough from dryness. "We're here!"
She broke into a run.
A few moments later, she was at the mouth of the cave, panting, her eyes wide and frantic until they landed on him—and then on Sera. She dropped to her knees beside the girl without a word, pulling open the satchel at her side.
A new waterskin. Herbs. Cloth. Something wrapped tightly in linen.
"I found them," she breathed. "The Sandwalkers. They weren't far. A scout showed me the spring—blessed gods, Levi, the water's cold. Real water."
He nearly collapsed with relief.
His mother poured some of it into a shallow stone cup and tipped it to Sera's lips, urging her to sip. The girl flinched at first, but then her throat worked—one swallow, then another.
Levi sat back and watched, exhaustion creeping into his bones now that the danger had passed. They weren't safe yet—not truly—but this moment felt like a miracle.
When Sera had drunk all she could, Levi's mother wrapped her in a damp cloth and placed something bitter-smelling under her tongue.
"It'll help with the fever," she said softly. Then she looked at Levi, pride and pain warping her face. "You did good."
He shook his head. "She did most of it. She stayed alive."
A faint grunt came from Sera's direction. "Still here," she rasped.
His mother laughed softly—tired, but genuine.
"They'll come for us at first light," she told him. "With camels and better shelter. They want to meet you both."she hummed as She pressed a damp cloth against Sera's neck. "They don't turn away runaways. Especially not fighters."
Sera gave a quiet scoff. "Not much of a fighter right now."
"You lived," Levi said. "That's more than most."
A long silence settled between them, broken only by the wind outside. His mother passed him the water and started preparing something else—a mash of herbs from her pouch, crushed between two flat stones. The smell was sharp, medicinal.
Levi held the cup of water for Sera again.
"You're staying awake this time," he told her gently.
She opened her eyes—dull but aware—and met his with a faint smile.
"You never give up, do you?"
"No," he said. The fire his mother had built was low now, its glow flickering softly against the cave walls. Sera was asleep beside him, her breathing finally steady, the fever tamed by water, herbs, and sheer will. She looked almost peaceful, though Levi knew better than to trust peace in a place like this.
He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, staring out at the dark sand beyond the cave's mouth. The stars were scattered thick above the dunes—sharp, cold points of light in the ink-black sky. The kind of sky you only saw far from cities, far from firelight, far from cages.
He had seen this sky a hundred times, but it had never meant anything until now.
No shouting guards.
No shackles around his wrists.
No waiting to be chosen or punished or sold.
He swallowed hard and lowered his forehead to his knees, the tightness in his chest refusing to ease. The silence wasn't comforting. It was loud—deafening even. Because for the first time in his life, there was space to think. To feel.
No more chains.
The thought struck him like a punch, harder than any slap he'd taken in the camps. He'd never really believed in freedom. Not really. It had always felt like a story someone else told—something for other people, distant and unreachable. A word whispered between desperate kids at night, a lie that kept you warm when you had nothing else.
But now?
Now there were camels coming. People who weren't slavers. People who might help.
He didn't know what life looked like outside of cages. He didn't know who he'd be without fear holding him up like bones.
Levi looked at his hands—still scratched, still dirty, but free.
"I don't know what to do," he whispered.
Sera stirred beside him, but didn't wake. He wasn't even sure who he was speaking to. Maybe to the desert. Maybe to the stars. Maybe to the pieces of himself he hadn't known were missing until this moment. He wasn't sure he believed it yet.
But it was the first time he dared to try.
No one had shouted at him to wake up. No one had thrown scraps at his feet or ordered him to move or fight or work. No iron ring weighed down his ankle. The only thing pressing on him was the air, dry and still.
He looked at his wrists. The skin there had been rubbed raw more times than he could count—he could still see faint scars, tiny ghosts of every time he'd pulled too hard at the cuffs. They would surely last for the rest of his life as a reminder but nonetheless he's free?
He curled his fingers into fists, then let them go again. Slowly. Carefully. Like it was a test.
No pain. No leather. No chains.
It didn't feel real.
His mother caught his eye. She didn't say anything, just watched him.
He didn't need her to speak. He could see it in her face—the same disbelief, the same flicker of awe that they'd made it out. That they were free. That they had a chance now, however fragile.
Levi looked back at Sera, still asleep but no longer clinging to the edge. She was strong. She would wake. And when she did, he wanted her to see him like this—not a caged boy desperate to survive, but someone real. Someone who made it through with her.
He shifted closer. Outside, the wind whispered against the cave mouth.
Free.
They were really free.
————
Levi hadn't meant to sleep.
One moment, he was watching the fire's dying glow, listening to the steady rhythm of Sera's breath. The next, the cave had shifted—quieter, but not empty.
He blinked awake slowly, the heaviness in his body resisting. The warmth of the sand still clung to him, but there was something else in the air now—something different.
Movement.
Voices—low, murmuring in a language he didn't recognize.
His body tensed. Not fully awake, not fully calm.
He pushed up slowly, fingers curling toward the nearby sword—his mother's, not far from where she had sat.
She was still there, but no longer alone.
Figures stood around her, wrapped in pale linen and cloth that shimmered like windblown sand. They didn't look like bandits. They didn't speak loudly or threaten. But they were armed, and they watched everything with eyes that caught the firelight and didn't blink.
Levi's throat tightened.
The Sandwalkers.
He hadn't heard them come. Not even a whisper of their approach.
His mother sat calmly, one leg bent, arms resting on her knee as if she'd been waiting. But she didn't look relaxed—she looked… alert. Measured. As if she, too, was ready to spring at the first sign of danger.
One of the strangers turned.
A woman, or at least Levi thought so. It was hard to tell beneath the veil and layers of cloth. Her eyes met his—sharp, unblinking.
"You are the boy?" Her voice was clear. Accented. Like heat off stone.
Levi nodded slowly, not rising, not speaking.
"I am told you bled for another. That you crossed the sands with nothing but fire behind you." She stepped closer, her shadow passing over the cave floor. "That is not a small thing."
Levi didn't answer. His hand remained near the hilt of the blade, but he didn't draw it. Not yet.
She crouched then, not too close, but near enough that he could see the lines around her eyes. Dust clung to her lashes, her skin darker than the desert stone.
"We are not your slavers, boy," she said quietly. "But we are not your saviors either. We are watchers. And sometimes, if the wind favors you, you let it."
He frowned, voice dry and hoarse. "Then why are you here?"
The woman tilted her head. "Because your mother asked. Because she remembered the old paths. Because the sand said to listen."
Levi looked past her to Sera, still asleep, still pale but steady. Then to his mother, who hadn't said a word.
The stranger followed his gaze. "The girl will live. If you trust us."
"And if I don't?"
That made the woman smile, just slightly.
"Then she dies, and your feet wear down to bone long before you cross the next dune."
A long silence stretched between them.
Levi swallowed, chest tight. He didn't trust them—not fully. Maybe he never would.
But he didn't have to.
He just had to decide what mattered more—his fear, or Sera waking up whole.
He lowered his hand from the sword.
"I'll trust you," he said quietly. "For now."
The woman nodded once, like she'd expected that answer all along.
And the Sandwalkers began their work