House of the Sun, pt. 2
Under noonday sun, the M’aktun set foot upon Yidarro’s red sands. The desert stretched before them like an endless sea, waves of heat rippling over dunes as far as the eye could see. The wind was dry, carrying the scent of salt, the last remnants of their journey across the Beholden Sea clinging to their skin.
Their camels balked at the strange ground, shifting uneasily as their handlers murmured soft reassurances. Barefoot children, too young to understand exile, raced from the ships to press their hands into the sunbaked earth, giggling at the way the heat stung their palms. Elders stood motionless, eyes closed, their lips moving in soundless prayers. Some scooped up handfuls of sand, letting it sift through their fingers, as if testing the weight of fate itself.
“Dead land,” one murmured. “No water, no shade.”
“No,” Samat corrected, kneeling down. “Not dead. Sleeping.”
The first scouts had already gone ahead, vanishing into the dunes like ghosts. Their orders were simple: find water, find shelter, find signs of life - or warnings of death. Shidun barr talur, the elders always said. The sand takes the lonely. The wind had a way of swallowing men whole, leaving only their footprints behind to mark their passing.
Elder Samat watched them go, standing at the edge of the gathered M’aktun with a heavy expression. His hands, though worn by age, were steady as he traced a symbol over his heart. A blessing for safe passage. A ward against the unseen.
"They are young," Yasira muttered beside him, her sharp eyes following the fading figures as they crested a dune. "Too young to know what to fear."
Samat exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering. "Then they will learn."
Around them, the M’aktun settled into the waiting. The caravans were being unloaded, camels relieved of their burdens and given what little feed they had left. Children tugged at their mothers’ robes, asking if this place would be home. The old women, ever practical, ignored the question and busied themselves with unpacking, passing waterskins between them, counting supplies with quiet concern.
"We have perhaps two days of water left," Murad, a stout man with a deep scar cutting through his brow, announced to the gathered elders. "If the scouts find nothing, we turn back."
A scoff came from one of the younger men. "Turn back? To what?" He gestured behind them, toward the vast and endless sea. "The Qurassi have burned our homes, sent their hounds after us. The Tamrissi Passage is behind us, and ahead lies only Yidarro. If we turn back, we drown."
"Better drowning than dying of thirst," Murad countered, his tone heavy with warning.
"Hasna bas tal-shay?" Yasira asked, her voice low. "Would you have us kneel at their feet once more?"
"Enough." Samat raised a hand, and silence followed. He let his gaze sweep over them all. "We wait. No one speaks of turning back." His voice was calm, yet firm, the voice of a man who had outlived two wars and carried the weight of generations on his shoulders. "The scouts will return before nightfall."
And if they do not? Yasira did not ask the question, but the thought lingered between them.
As the day stretched on, the M’aktun busied themselves with quiet tasks. The women laid out what food remained, portioning dates and dried meat with careful hands. Some of the younger men stretched their legs, kicking up dust as they argued over whether the desert could be hunted, whether the creatures here could be eaten. The children played in the sand, drawing shapes with their fingers, laughing when the wind erased their work in an instant.
But the elders sat still. They watched the dunes, waiting.
When the scouts returned, the sun was beginning its slow descent, washing the desert in gold and amber. They came running back, their faces streaked with sweat.
"Minara fi'jibal," one finally said, still short of breath. "The land. It is not empty,” he sputtered through heaving breaths. “Great bones. In the cliffs."
A murmur rippled through the gathered M’aktun. Some made the warding sign, pressing fingers to their foreheads and hearts. Others turned their gazes to the horizon, where the cliffs rose like jagged teeth against the bleeding sky.
It was not bones the scouts had found, not bodies long buried beneath the shifting sands. It was something older, something carved into the living rock itself.
The great stone structures loomed in the distance, worn by time yet defiant against the slow march of ruin. The M’aktun gathered at the edge of the dunes, staring across the stretch of open land. The sun had begun its descent, and as it dipped lower, the carvings upon the stone seemed to smolder, their symbols glowing as if lit from within.
"The Nakhir led us here," Samat murmured, and this time, none dared to argue.