Dust and Distant Drums

The air grew thick with dust as we rode, each gust carrying the scent of dry earth and something else… something acrid and unsettling. Leif, perched on my shoulder, twitched his leafy ears. “The wind carries whispers, Kad,” he murmured, his voice like rustling leaves. “Whispers of fire and iron.”

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the shimmering horizon. The sun beat down relentlessly, turning the landscape into a canvas of muted browns and yellows. We’d been following the faintest of trails, fragments of broken branches, a discarded piece of leather, all pointing us further inland, away from the familiar sting of salt spray. The hope that had burned so brightly in my chest after leaving the ravaged coast had begun to flicker, replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every rustle in the dry grass felt like a hidden threat.

“Did you hear anything specific?” I asked, my voice raspy from disuse and the dry air.