The laughter between them faded as they ambled back toward the fire, brushing sand from their clothes. Levi's ribs ached in the good way—like he'd laughed too hard, breathed too deep. Kaan was still muttering about how Levi "cheated" during their last scuffle when the sound hit him.
A retch. Sharp and unmistakable.
Levi stopped cold.
It came again. Wet. Muffled. Coming from the healer's tent.
His stomach dropped.
Kaan noticed the shift in his posture. "What is it?"
But Levi was already moving—no answer, no hesitation. He cut through the quiet camp like a shadow, slipping past sleeping figures, skirts of tents, until he reached the low canopy lined with herbs and bundled cloth. The flap hung open just enough to catch the flicker of lamplight inside.
He ducked in.
His mother was on her knees, leaning over a basin, her fingers white-knuckled on its rim. Her hair clung to her temples, damp. A low sound scraped from her throat as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Rafiq stood nearby, bowl of water in hand, lips pressed in a hard line.
Levi stood frozen just inside the entrance.
She looked up and stilled when she saw him.
"I'm fine," she said too quickly. Too practiced.
He didn't answer at first. Just took a slow step forward. "You've been sick for weeks."
"I told you," she said, gently this time. "It's the heat. It messes with people."
"That's not just heat sickness."
Rafiq shifted, but didn't speak. He was giving her space to explain—or avoiding it himself.
Levi's voice came quieter now. "Why won't you just tell me what it is?"
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again.
He watched her hesitate, and something twisted hard in his chest. Not anger—just the hurt of being shut out. Of being a boy again, too young to be trusted with hard truths.
"You don't have to protect me," he said.
Her eyes softened at that. She reached for a cloth and dabbed her lips, and then she finally spoke—not to defend, but to confess.
"I'm pregnant."
The words landed like a pebble dropped in a still well.
Levi didn't react—not at first. He blinked. His gaze dropped, then rose again.
"How far along?"
"Not long," she said. "A month, maybe less. It's early."
"And you weren't going to say anything?"
"I didn't know how. I didn't want you to worry."
"I already was."
Silence bloomed again between them—unsteady, tender.
Rafiq glanced between them, his presence suddenly too large for the tent. "I'll give you two a moment."
He stepped out.
Levi stood there for a beat, the pulse under the wrap on his forearm flaring—sharp, then fading again like a warning he didn't yet understand. But he ignored it. Stepped forward. Dropped to one knee beside her.
"Is it… is it Rafiq's?"
She gave the smallest nod.
Levi looked down. His throat was tight. Not from anger, not exactly—but from the ache of change. Of time slipping in strange directions. Of realizing his mother had a whole part of her life he didn't see.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm scared," she admitted, softly. "But I'm glad."
Levi's fingers curled slightly on his knee. "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," she said, brushing her hand against his. "But you're not that little boy anymore, Levi. I see that. I know you want to protect me. But you don't have to carry everything alone."
He didn't speak. But he stayed there with her, until the lamplight dimmed low and the desert night pressed cool against the canvas walls.
His mother looked so small then—tired in a way he hadn't seen before, but nothing like when they were slaves. like something deep inside her had begun to unravel no matter how tightly she held it together.
"I didn't want to tell you like this," she said finally, her voice hushed. "Half-sick, looking like death. But you always notice everything."
"You shouldn't have had to say anything at all," Levi muttered. "I should've asked."
She shook her head. "No. You shouldn't have had to worry about me at all."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. He just sat there, watching the way her fingers curled lightly into the blanket draped across her legs.
The silence stretched. The lamp crackled softly in its corner.
And then—his arm burned.
Not a sting. Not an itch. It was like heat had pooled under his skin, concentrated in the mark beneath the wrappings. The pain sharpened in a breath—then pulsed, rhythmic, like a slow, pounding drum.
Levi stiffened.
His hand drifted instinctively to his forearm, pressing down through the linen. The burn pulsed again—hotter, deeper.
He gritted his teeth.
"Levi?" his mother said softly, catching the change in his posture. "You alright?"
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just tired."
He forced his hand away, tried to sit straighter, like nothing was wrong. Like the fire in his veins wasn't climbing higher by the second. The mark had flared before—small things. A prick, a throb. But this? This was new. And worse.
She didn't push.
She just leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes, her voice softer now. "It's strange," she murmured. "Thinking about doing it all over again. Raising a child here. Safely. Maybe for the first time."
"You'll do fine," Levi said, even as the heat flared again—harder this time, sharp enough to make his breath catch.
She didn't notice. She was too lost in her thoughts, her smile touched with something wistful.
"Maybe," she said. "But I won't lie to you. I'm scared. Not of the child—of losing what we've finally started to build."
Levi nodded, but his mind was drifting.Levi couldn't speak.
Not at first.
The words "I'm pregnant" were still echoing in his head, soft and quiet but louder than any scream. The desert around them had gone still. Even the wind held its breath.
He stared at his mother, jaw clenched tight.
A baby.
He was going to have a sibling.
She hadn't meant to tell him like that—he could tell. She'd been hiding the sickness, the quiet winces, the sudden absences. He'd been too distracted, too caught up in patrols and that burning in his arm and watching the horizon for danger that never quite stayed gone.
But now the truth sat between them.
Alive. Fragile. Heavy.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly so tired.
"I've fought," he said quietly. "Every day. Every moment since I could stand."
His mother looked at him. Said nothing. Let him speak.
"I've fought for scraps. For air. For space. I've fought to keep my head down. To keep you alive. And now…"
He laughed once, bitter and low.
"I used to dream, you know? Of trees. Of water that wasn't carried in skins and cursed like gold. Of land that moved with color—not just sand and sun. Green, endless green. And cities. Huge ones. With glowing towers and voices that sing in the streets. Food I've never tasted. Spices I don't know the names of."
He stared at the fire like it might take him there if he looked hard enough.
"I wanted to see it all. I wanted to explore. To live something that didn't feel like a cage."
Silence.
Then, softer: "But now I can't."
His mother flinched. "Levi—"
He shook his head, not in anger. Just truth.
"I have to protect you. And now the baby. They'll be raised different. Better. But it means I stay here. I fight here. I bury the part of me that still wants more because they need me."
The words sat there, naked and real.
And when he looked at her again, his eyes were damp but steady.
"I'm not angry," he said. "Just… tired of dreaming about things I'll never see."
She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"You still can," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
But deep inside, the mark on his arm pulsed again—soft, not burning this time. Not warning.
Just reminding him it was still there.
And that something inside him hadn't stopped dreaming. Not completely.
The pain was spreading now—up toward his elbow, laced through the tendons like hot wire. It wasn't unbearable, but it was distracting. Constant. And he didn't understand why.
His mother sighed, drawing the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Go on. You've got patrol. Don't keep Kaan waiting."
Levi hesitated.
The pain didn't stop. This time it was more in his heart instead of his arm.
But he forced himself to stand. "I'll come check on you after."
She smiled at that, eyes already closing. "Of course you will. You always do."
He lingered a moment longer, just watching her—memorizing the rise and fall of her breath. Then he slipped outside into the night.
The cold air bit at his face, but it didn't cool the burn beneath his skin.
Kaan was waiting near the fire, sharpening the edge of his blade on a flat stone.
"You good?" he asked, not looking up.
Levi didn't answer right away. His fingers twitched at his side, the linen wrapping feeling suddenly too tight.
"Yeah," he lied. "Let's go."
And the Desert Dogs disappeared into the dunes once more—Levi with fire in his blood, and no idea why it was beginning to rise.The desert stretched out before them, wide and silent, cast in silver under a rising half-moon. Levi's boots crunched softly over the sand as he walked beside Kaan, the wind lifting occasional wisps of grit that clung to the edges of their cloaks.
They didn't speak much on patrol. They never had to.
But tonight, something felt off.
The burn in Levi's arm hadn't faded. If anything, it had worsened—no longer sharp, but deep now, like something inside his skin was shifting, settling, preparing. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the patterns of the dunes, the distant glint of lanterns marking the edge of camp behind them. But every time he moved, the pain answered. Not screaming—but watching. Like a predator waiting to strike.
"You're walking weird," Kaan said suddenly, quiet but blunt.
Levi huffed. "Thanks."
"You're hiding something," Kaan added. He didn't press, but his tone was different—not teasing. Calculating.
Levi adjusted his pack, feigning a shrug. "My back's still tight from last week. The healer said it might take longer to heal right."
Kaan didn't respond.
They walked a while longer, passing over a small ridge marked with desert stones stacked in deliberate shapes—trail markers laid by other Sandwalkers. A signal they were heading into quieter territory.
But the silence didn't comfort Levi tonight.
"Do you ever feel like…" he started, hesitating, eyes on the horizon, "…like there's something watching? Even when there's nothing there?"
Kaan gave him a slow, sideways glance. "Tonight?"
"No. Just… lately. Before we even came out here."
Kaan's fingers rested casually on the hilt of his short blade. "I've felt that way since I was five," he said. "But yeah. Lately? Maybe more than usual."
Levi didn't answer. He reached up, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow, but really pressing again against the wrap on his forearm. The heat pulsed in response, sharper now. Almost angry.
They crested another dune and came to a halt.
Below, nestled between two jagged outcroppings of rock, sat the remnants of a shattered cart—wood splintered, fabric shredded, one wheel half-buried in the sand. A faint trail of blood darkened the ground leading away from it, vanishing into the rocks.
Kaan crouched low immediately. "That's fresh."
Levi's heart thudded. "How fresh?"
"Few hours. Maybe less." He studied the marks again. "Single drag trail. Someone got pulled from the wreck."
"Could be bandits?"
Kaan shook his head. "No footprints heading in. Nothing stolen. No campfires. This wasn't a raid. It was targeted."
Levi's hand hovered near the dagger strapped to his side. "Then what the hell was it?"
Before Kaan could answer, Levi's mark flared.
Not hot.
Scalding.
He hissed and stumbled back, gripping his forearm. His vision swam for a moment—flashes of dark shapes in the sand, of something just beneath the surface, reaching.
"Levi?" Kaan snapped.
"I—I'm fine," Levi gasped, breath ragged. "It's just—"
"I—I'm fine," Levi muttered, breath shallow, his hand still clamped over the wrap on his forearm.
Kaan glanced over, eyes narrowing. "That the same kind of 'fine' you say everytime your hurt?"
Levi didn't answer. He focused on the dull throb radiating beneath the cloth—hotter than before, but not sharp. It was less a pain now, and more a pressure. Like something inside the mark was paying attention.
Kaan didn't push. Not yet. He turned his gaze back to the trail.
They followed it cautiously—two boys silent in the desert dark, boots barely crunching on the packed sand. The cart wreck ahead came into full view now, splintered boards cracked across the stones, its canvas half-torn and flapping lightly in the wind.
One wheel was snapped clean off.
The blood trail led away from it, toward a narrow outcropping of shale.
Kaan crouched low beside it, fingers brushing the sand. "Not fresh. But not old either."
Levi hovered a step behind him. "What do you think happened?"
Kaan tilted his head, examining the sand, then motioned to a second mark beside the blood. A bootprint. And another. Heavy. Dragging.
"Whip marks in the sand," he muttered. "Someone was punished. Then dragged."
Levi's stomach turned.
"Bandits?" he asked.
"No," Kaan said. "Cart's still full. Nothing stolen. This isn't a raid." He looked up at the broken wheel, then toward the east, where a path cut through the rocks—one Levi didn't recognize.
"They're not from here," Kaan added. "They took a route nobody uses anymore. Not since the mines dried up out east."
Levi's breath hitched. "Slave route?"
Kaan nodded once, his voice low. "Looks like someone's running a new path. Or reopening an old one."
A chill settled over Levi, even in the desert heat.
Suddenly, voices drifted on the wind.
Two men—close.
"…told you the damn wheel was rotting. Should've fixed it before we left the last camp."
"Yeah, well, you weren't the one who had to lash the brat half to death for biting again."
Kaan and Levi dropped instantly behind the rocks, silent.
Bootsteps crunched across the sand.
Another voice, closer—calm, older. "We rest here an hour. Horses need water. After that, we move fast until the ridge."
Levi's fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak.
Slave traders. Passing right through Sandwalker territory.
And not even realizing it.
Kaan shot him a look—sharp, calculated. Don't move.
The traders were close now, moving through the camp debris, laughing lightly like they hadn't left a bloody trail behind them.
"They won't see us," Kaan whispered. "They think no one lives out here."
Levi nodded once, trying to calm his breathing.
The burning in his mark was still there—hotter, but different now. Like it was reacting to the cruelty in the air, to the presence of chains and commands and blood on sand.
Not a warning.
A memory.
The traders passed eventually, their boots fading into the rocks beyond, leaving the wreck and the trail of suffering behind.
Levi let out a breath. His hands trembled slightly.
Kaan stood slowly. "That was close."
Levi nodded, still staring after them.
"Why take that path?" he asked.
"They're moving new stock. Maybe testing a route no one patrols anymore."
Kaan's voice was low, steady—but his eyes were dark.
"We should tell the outpost," Levi said.
Kaan hesitated, then nodded. "And the matriarch. If slave lines are moving again, the Sandwalkers will want to know."
They turned back toward the dunes, retracing their steps beneath the half-moon.
Levi didn't speak for a long time.
But as they walked, he loosened the wrap on his arm just slightly. Enough to feel the night air against the scarred skin beneath.
The mark was quiet now.
But not forgotten.