The caravan rolled out at dawn, the first slivers of light stretching over the horizon, turning the wasteland into a sea of deep orange and gold. A beautiful sight that most had grown somewhat bored of.
The air was cool—the kind that only lasted in the early morning before the heat came down, making everyone wish they could skin themselves alive to feel a little less hot.
And somehow, against all odds, Malik could be seen on steedback.
Not just sitting there, either. Riding. Like he’d been doing it for years.
Said he learned last night. No one questioned it. Either they didn’t care, or they had bigger things to worry about.
Ali Baba placed him near the center of the formation—where the more important wagons were, tightly packed, guards sticking close.
Layla, surprisingly, wasn’t pestering him yet, probably still embarrassed from last night.
Not that he minded. He had other things to focus on.
Malik’s eyes scanned the caravan, watching how it moved, how it functioned, in which formation, and so on.
He needed to know all the variables if his first job was to ever be a success.
What he first learned was that the caravan moved in a loose diamond shape, with scouts ahead, guards flanking the sides, and a rear group watching their backs.
The wagons stuck to the center, carrying supplies, trade goods, the traders themselves, their families, and the occasional tired guard too lazy or tired to walk.
Every so often, the scouts rode back, giving updates on the terrain to Ali Baba, who’d adjust their course based on that information. Sometimes he’d relax in the carriage, but mostly he hung out with the guards, on his steed, the only one with a name in the caravan.
Sparrow.
He seemed to have a history with the big fella. Malik was curious, so he asked, and apparently, it wasn’t anything unusual. Just the average lifelong companion schtick. Yeah. Nothing unique.
Eventually, when it was midday, the scouts returned with wonderful news.
“Tall rock formations up ahead. Could be some proper shade there.”
Ali Baba nodded.
“Good. We’ll stop there for tea.”
Tea. Always tea.
That was the second thing he learned, or rather, was forced to learn.
Malik didn’t know if it was some cultural thing or just Ali Baba’s personal obsession, but the man treated tea like it was more important than water.
Their massive star was at its highest and they were in a wasteland, nearing the desert with each second. But even then, even when the heat could kill an unprepared man, even with food and supplies being rationed, there was always time for some piping hot tea.
No one appeared to complain, so it seemed that he was the only one out of the loop.
In any case, no matter how much they wanted to, they never stopped for long.
Doing so meant death.
The third he learned was a bit obvious.
Hunting wasn’t just a pastime; it was a necessity.
No one wanted to burn through supplies too fast, so any… small game was a Godsend. Discover hidden content at My Virtual Library Empire
Desert hares half as big as the average man? Perfect. Lizards that needed to be killed twice because the bastards didn’t know how to stay dead? Annoying, but still food. And if they got lucky?
A sand fox. Fast as Hell, needed three men to bring down, but worth every drop of sweat.
The hunters stuck close to the scouts, bows and slings always ready, eyes sharp for fresh tracks in the sand.
After watching them long enough, Malik decided that he might as well join in.
He wasn’t exactly the best hunter, but he knew how to move quiet, how to track—skills beaten into him back when he was just another street rat scraping by.
And most importantly, he knew how to kill when it came down to it. That was a skill he picked up more recently. But that didn’t mean he was any worse at it.
If anything, he was better.
His steel had tasted blood more times than he cared to count, and today was no different.
A hare shot out from the ground a little distance away from him, and Malik reacted before thinking, a flick of his wrist sending a borrowed knife forward.
It struck true, sinking into its side. By the time he retrieved it, wiping the blood on a cloth, the others had already bagged two more.
They returned with their kills, adding them to the growing pile of food for the night’s meal.
Not much, but enough to stretch their rations.
The evening was easier. When the Shams dipped low, the temperature dropped fast, making it bearable again.
That was when everyone washed up, shaking off the day’s dust and sweat.
They didn’t have much water to spare, but they made do—small basins, damp cloths, anything to scrape off the grime and feel somewhat clean.
Layla, of course, used this as the perfect chance to poke at Malik again.
“Y-You smell awful~.”
She wrinkled her nose dramatically, handing him a damp rag.
“Do something about it.”
Malik didn’t argue and certainly didn’t bother thinking about what she wanted to see.
He took it without a word and shooed her off, much to her barely hidden dismay.
Some of the… wilder folks didn’t mind the stink, wearing it like a badge of honor. A sign they had endured the road, fought beasts, and lived rough. But Malik? He actually liked this part.
Back in Zawaya, keeping clean wasn’t just for comfort—it was survival.
When you lived on the streets, filth clung to you like a second skin, marking you as lesser.
People saw the dirt before they saw the person. A beggar covered in dust and sweat? Easily ignored. But a young man who looked presentable, even in worn clothes? That was someone who might be worth a bronze coin. Someone who might matter.
He had learned the trick early—wash whenever you could, even if it was just a damp rag and a handful of water. A clean face, a straight back, and the right words could open doors.
Even if, right now, those doors were just Layla shoving a cloth in his face while hoping she could sneak a peak.
Tea came after. Ali Baba brewed it himself, some special blend he swore by, and passed it around in small cups.
The guards sat in loose circles, sipping, chatting, and sometimes laughing.
It was the only time the caravan felt at peace, like they weren’t constantly on the verge of something going wrong.
Malik didn’t drink much tea, but he took his cup anyway.
It was warm, bitter… but sweet. He needed that.
It was three days of this.
Moving at dawn, pressing on at midday, resting in the evening.
Hills, mountains, endless rock formations—it was all the same, stretching out forever.
They had been lucky so far. No bandits, no storms, no monster attacks at night.
But luck didn’t last forever. Malik knew that firsthand.
He felt it before he heard it.
Just when they resumed from a short break at midday, a faint tremor underfoot.
Then the sound came—a low, distant roar, like a hundred feet pounding against the earth.
Malik turned, squinting against the Shams, and saw it.
A wall of dust. Moving towards them. Fast. Too fast.
“A HORDE IS INCOMING!”