The desert announces itself before Eric ever steps onto it.

  The air changes first, thinner somehow, sharper, stripped of the faint dampness that clings even to dry forests. The ground hardens beneath his boots, dirt giving way to pale sand that reflects the sun instead of absorbing it. Heat rises in wavering curtains, making the horizon shimmer like water that isn’t there.

  Eric stops at the edge and squints east.

  It looks endless.

  He camps that night just short of the sand, tucked against a low rise where scrub still clings to life. He eats sparingly, sips water, and studies the stars. The outcropping he noticed earlier stands like a broken tooth on the horizon, dark against the sky.

  “I’ll cross by day,” he decides quietly. “See it clearly. Move faster.”

  The desert listens and says nothing.

  At dawn, he sets out.

  The first hour feels manageable. The sand is cool beneath his boots, packed firm from the night chill. Eric keeps a steady pace, breath controlled, water untouched.

  By the second hour, the sun climbs.

  Heat presses down from above and reflects up from below. The sand loosens, sliding underfoot, turning every step into work. His boots fill with grit. His clothes trap heat. Sweat slicks his skin and evaporates before it can cool him.

  By the third hour, the world narrows.

  The sun is a weight. The outcropping looks no closer. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and when he finally allows himself a sip of water, it feels like a betrayal of future need.

  Eric stops.

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  The realization lands with frightening clarity.

  This will kill me.

  He turns back.

  The return is worse. The sun is higher now, merciless. The wind scours his face with sand. His shadow shrinks beneath him, offering no relief.

  He stumbles into his camp well after noon, collapses into what little shade remains, and lies there shaking.

  “Stupid,” he whispers. Not in anger. In acknowledgment.

  The desert does not forgive optimism.

  He rests through the worst of the heat, rationing water, forcing himself to eat even when his body protests. When evening comes, he moves deliberately. Packs lighter. Clothes adjusted. Boots wrapped tighter to keep sand out.

  This time, he waits for night.

  When the stars come out, the desert changes again. The heat bleeds away, leaving cold in its wake. The sand firms, though it still shifts treacherously beneath him. Eric fixes his eyes on the outcropping and begins to walk.

  Every step tries to turn his feet sideways. Sand slides, pours, creeps into seams and folds. His calves burn from constant correction. His breathing stays slow, even, practiced.

  He does not rush.

  Hours pass measured by stars and pain.

  The outcropping grows.

  By the time dawn begins to gray the horizon, he reaches it, more than just stone now. Walls rise from the sand, half-buried, broken by time. He presses a hand to cool stone and exhales.

  Two hours into daylight, he shelters inside.

  The structure might have been a monastery. Or a fort. Or a temple. Its purpose is lost, but its bones remain, courtyards choked with sand, corridors collapsed, walls etched with writing worn nearly smooth.

  Eric explores carefully.

  At the center stands a low stone surrounded by a circular wall, head high. The stone is shattered, split down the middle, its surface marred by deep fractures. Strange writing covers both the stone and the wall around it, symbols similar to those he has seen before, older than the capital’s records.

  Older than the KINGSTONE.

  His breath catches.

  Eric reaches out.

  The moment his fingers touch the stone, the world flickers.

  A message, broken, jagged, flashes across his vision.

  N…lon…er…conne…to…so…rce.

  He staggers back, heart hammering.

  “No longer connected to source,” he whispers, piecing it together.

  The message fades as if it were never there.

  Eric memorizes every fragment, every symbol he can recall. His hands tremble, not from fear, but from something close to awe.

  This place exists.

  No one speaks of it.

  He sits against the wall, water in hand, and breathes.

  The desert has stripped him to essentials. Water. Shelter. Choice.

  And now, proof.

  Eric leaves the ruin when the sun lowers again, carrying the silence of forgotten stones with him.

  The desert watches him go, unchanged.