The ancient dune trail stretched endlessly across the Diamond Ocean, its path marked only by the bleached bones of pack animals and the occasional cairn of stones left by travelers long dead. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, turning the sand into an ocean of liquid gold that shimmered and danced with heat mirages. In the distance, the horizon blurred into nothingness, sky and sand becoming indistinguishable in the brutal glare.
The caravan moved slowly, deliberately, conserving energy in the deadly heat. Fifteen wagons in total, their wooden wheels creaking protests with each rotation, their canvas coverings sun-bleached to the color of old bones. Thirty-seven souls in all—men, women, and children of the Scattered Families, nomadic clans who refused to settle in the Baron-controlled cities, who still followed the old ways of their ancestors.
Elder Takeshi walked beside the lead wagon, his weathered face hidden beneath a wrap of faded blue cloth. Only his eyes were visible—dark, alert, constantly scanning the dunes for danger. His hand rested on the hilt of a curved blade that had seen better days, but the way he carried it suggested a man who knew how to use it.
"How much longer to the Way Station?" asked Hiromi, a young mother walking beside him. She carried an infant swaddled against her chest, and her free hand held the reins of the pack lizard pulling her family's wagon. Her husband walked on the other side, his eyes constantly darting to the ridges of sand dunes that flanked their path.
"Two days if the winds stay calm," Takeshi replied, his voice muffled by the cloth. "Three if we hit a sandstorm. We should reach the old oasis by nightfall—we'll camp there."
Behind them, children's voices carried on the wind—too young to understand the tension that gripped the adults. They played simple games, tossing stones and guessing which hand held the pebble, their laughter a strange counterpoint to the oppressive silence of the desert.
Near the middle of the caravan, two men walked close together, their voices low and urgent.
"I'm telling you, something's wrong," said Daichi, a scarred man with a missing ear—lost to bandits years ago. "We passed three cairns this morning. Fresh ones. And not a single other caravan on the trail in four days."
His companion, Kenji, a younger man with nervous hands that constantly checked and rechecked the knots securing his wagon's cargo, nodded grimly. "Did you hear what happened to the Hayashi clan? Three weeks ago on the northern route?"
"I heard rumors. Nothing confirmed."
"My cousin trades in Soon's Haven. He said the entire family disappeared between the Stone Gardens and Red Rock Canyon. Twenty-two people, six wagons. They found the wagons burned, the cargo scattered... but no bodies. No blood. Just... gone." Kenji's voice dropped even lower. "And it wasn't the first time. The Mori family two months before that. The Tanaka clan before them."
"Bandits wouldn't leave cargo," Daichi said, but his hand moved unconsciously to the knife at his belt.
"No. They wouldn't." Kenji glanced back at his wagon where his wife sat with their two daughters—eight and eleven years old, both still blissfully unaware of the dangers their father feared. "I heard it's slavers. Working for the Barons. Specifically targeting families with... with women and children."
The words hung heavy between them, unspoken fears given terrible voice.
"We should have taken the southern route," Daichi muttered. "I said we should have—"
"The southern route passes through Baron territory now. Checkpoints every twenty miles, 'inspection fees,' mandatory registration. You want to hand your family over to them directly?"
"At least we'd see them coming."
From her position near the rear of the caravan, Old Grandmother Sachiko walked with a gnarled walking stick, her eyes milky with cataracts but somehow still seeing more than most. She had been walking the dune trails for seventy-three years, had survived sandstorms and bandits and drought and disease. When she spoke, people listened.
"The bones speak," she said to no one in particular, her voice carrying on the wind. "Three cairns passed, three warnings given. The desert remembers blood, children. It always remembers."
A young girl walking beside her—Yuki, barely sixteen—looked up with wide eyes. "What do the cairns mean, Grandmother?"
"They mean someone died here. Recently. They mean the trail is watched." Sachiko's clouded eyes turned toward the eastern dunes, where the shadows were beginning to grow long as the sun descended. "They mean we should pray to our ancestors for protection, because the living offer none anymore."
Elder Takeshi called for a brief rest, and the caravan came to a halt. Families gathered around their wagons, sharing water from precious stores, checking harnesses and wheels, keeping their children close. The mood was tense despite the routine nature of the stop.
"We move again in fifteen minutes," Takeshi announced, his eyes still scanning the horizon. "Stay alert. Stay together. And if anyone sees anything—smoke, mirrors, movement on the dunes—you call out immediately."
As the families rested, a young boy—Taro, maybe nine years old—tugged on his father's sleeve. "Papa, why are those birds circling?"
His father, Masato, looked up to where his son pointed. High above, barely visible against the harsh blue sky, dark shapes wheeled in lazy circles. Too large for desert falcons. Too deliberate in their pattern.
"Those aren't birds, son," Masato said quietly, his hand finding his son's shoulder and pulling him closer. "Those are vultures."
"But... there's nothing dead here."
"Not yet."
In the distance, beyond the third dune ridge to the east, something caught the light—a brief flash, there and gone, like sunlight reflecting off polished metal or glass. Then another, further north. And another, behind them on the trail.
Grandmother Sachiko's voice carried one last warning as families began loading back into their wagons: "The desert always takes its price, children. The only question is whether we pay in coin... or in blood."
The caravan began moving again, wheels creaking, pack lizards grunting with effort, children settling into the rhythm of travel. But now every shadow seemed deeper, every dune held potential threat, and every gust of wind carried whispers of families who had walked this trail before them.
Families who had never reached their destination.
Behind them, the vultures continued their patient circles, and on the dunes, figures that might have been rocks or mirages shifted slightly—watching, waiting, counting their prey.
The old dune trail stretched endlessly ahead, and the shadows grew longer as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon.
The caravan moved slowly, deliberately, conserving energy in the deadly heat. Fifteen wagons in total, their wooden wheels creaking protests with each rotation, their canvas coverings sun-bleached to the color of old bones. Thirty-seven souls in all—men, women, and children of the Scattered Families, nomadic clans who refused to settle in the Baron-controlled cities, who still followed the old ways of their ancestors.
Elder Takeshi walked beside the lead wagon, his weathered face hidden beneath a wrap of faded blue cloth. Only his eyes were visible—dark, alert, constantly scanning the dunes for danger. His hand rested on the hilt of a curved blade that had seen better days, but the way he carried it suggested a man who knew how to use it.
"How much longer to the Way Station?" asked Hiromi, a young mother walking beside him. She carried an infant swaddled against her chest, and her free hand held the reins of the pack lizard pulling her family's wagon. Her husband walked on the other side, his eyes constantly darting to the ridges of sand dunes that flanked their path.
"Two days if the winds stay calm," Takeshi replied, his voice muffled by the cloth. "Three if we hit a sandstorm. We should reach the old oasis by nightfall—we'll camp there."
Behind them, children's voices carried on the wind—too young to understand the tension that gripped the adults. They played simple games, tossing stones and guessing which hand held the pebble, their laughter a strange counterpoint to the oppressive silence of the desert.
Near the middle of the caravan, two men walked close together, their voices low and urgent.
"I'm telling you, something's wrong," said Daichi, a scarred man with a missing ear—lost to bandits years ago. "We passed three cairns this morning. Fresh ones. And not a single other caravan on the trail in four days."
His companion, Kenji, a younger man with nervous hands that constantly checked and rechecked the knots securing his wagon's cargo, nodded grimly. "Did you hear what happened to the Hayashi clan? Three weeks ago on the northern route?"
"I heard rumors. Nothing confirmed."
"My cousin trades in Soon's Haven. He said the entire family disappeared between the Stone Gardens and Red Rock Canyon. Twenty-two people, six wagons. They found the wagons burned, the cargo scattered... but no bodies. No blood. Just... gone." Kenji's voice dropped even lower. "And it wasn't the first time. The Mori family two months before that. The Tanaka clan before them."
"Bandits wouldn't leave cargo," Daichi said, but his hand moved unconsciously to the knife at his belt.
"No. They wouldn't." Kenji glanced back at his wagon where his wife sat with their two daughters—eight and eleven years old, both still blissfully unaware of the dangers their father feared. "I heard it's slavers. Working for the Barons. Specifically targeting families with... with women and children."
The words hung heavy between them, unspoken fears given terrible voice.
"We should have taken the southern route," Daichi muttered. "I said we should have—"
"The southern route passes through Baron territory now. Checkpoints every twenty miles, 'inspection fees,' mandatory registration. You want to hand your family over to them directly?"
"At least we'd see them coming."
From her position near the rear of the caravan, Old Grandmother Sachiko walked with a gnarled walking stick, her eyes milky with cataracts but somehow still seeing more than most. She had been walking the dune trails for seventy-three years, had survived sandstorms and bandits and drought and disease. When she spoke, people listened.
"The bones speak," she said to no one in particular, her voice carrying on the wind. "Three cairns passed, three warnings given. The desert remembers blood, children. It always remembers."
A young girl walking beside her—Yuki, barely sixteen—looked up with wide eyes. "What do the cairns mean, Grandmother?"
"They mean someone died here. Recently. They mean the trail is watched." Sachiko's clouded eyes turned toward the eastern dunes, where the shadows were beginning to grow long as the sun descended. "They mean we should pray to our ancestors for protection, because the living offer none anymore."
Elder Takeshi called for a brief rest, and the caravan came to a halt. Families gathered around their wagons, sharing water from precious stores, checking harnesses and wheels, keeping their children close. The mood was tense despite the routine nature of the stop.
"We move again in fifteen minutes," Takeshi announced, his eyes still scanning the horizon. "Stay alert. Stay together. And if anyone sees anything—smoke, mirrors, movement on the dunes—you call out immediately."
As the families rested, a young boy—Taro, maybe nine years old—tugged on his father's sleeve. "Papa, why are those birds circling?"
His father, Masato, looked up to where his son pointed. High above, barely visible against the harsh blue sky, dark shapes wheeled in lazy circles. Too large for desert falcons. Too deliberate in their pattern.
"Those aren't birds, son," Masato said quietly, his hand finding his son's shoulder and pulling him closer. "Those are vultures."
"But... there's nothing dead here."
"Not yet."
In the distance, beyond the third dune ridge to the east, something caught the light—a brief flash, there and gone, like sunlight reflecting off polished metal or glass. Then another, further north. And another, behind them on the trail.
Grandmother Sachiko's voice carried one last warning as families began loading back into their wagons: "The desert always takes its price, children. The only question is whether we pay in coin... or in blood."
The caravan began moving again, wheels creaking, pack lizards grunting with effort, children settling into the rhythm of travel. But now every shadow seemed deeper, every dune held potential threat, and every gust of wind carried whispers of families who had walked this trail before them.
Families who had never reached their destination.
Behind them, the vultures continued their patient circles, and on the dunes, figures that might have been rocks or mirages shifted slightly—watching, waiting, counting their prey.
The old dune trail stretched endlessly ahead, and the shadows grew longer as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon.
