They say you can hear the ghost of the Dunes howling in the night. The cold shivering breeze billowing plumes of gingery sand into the wind, it is silent and breathless in the darkness under the hazy glow of the two moons crested in the sky. It is waiting, it is silent. A type of peace that belongs to the desert alone.
But then, when the sun peeks out from the endless horizon, the first rays spilling out molten gold, smearing the Cespua Desert with flame. The dry heat pouring into homes, licking at the windows covered in condensation. People rising with the sliver of sun in in their eyes, gently coaxing them to another day in Hamal. The crammed houses stacked roughly, one on top of the other with rickety wooden scaffolds and carved sandstone towers, making up the winding labyrinth brushed in copper and rust as it burns in the blaze of the light. The city was alive.
And nowhere was more alive than in the market on Sun Street.
It was a mix of color and noise. A melting pot of all types of people, from all over the world. The air is thick with spice, oil, and the acrid bite of fermented fruit. Vendors shouting, and the chatter of shoppers gossiping and haggling. People covered in sparkling jewelry glinting in the rays picking through piles of waxy dyed textiles and gems, from a birds point of view it must’ve looked like a sea of glitter. Rolls of silk fluttered through the wind, baskets overflowing with blistering peppers, spices, the type of stuff that could make your eyes water just thinking about. The scent of grilled scorpion and scratch sizzles in the air, skewers dripping with fat, smothered in sauces with one special ingredient.. Poison.
Poison was a specialty here. Cespuan tongues had long since learned to recognize its taste—to crave it. Dishes of spiced meats and charred vegetables dripped with black, glistening toxin, a game for some, but a death wish for tourists unaware of the tradtion. But spend enough time in Cespua, and the craving will sink its teeth into you too. The burn, the tingle, the slow numbness that spreads through the lips and fingers. Careful though–there’s a reason that senile Cespuans have blackened fingers and toes, rotting on the inside.
And among the bustle, the thieves move like shadows. They weave between bodies, light-fingered and quick-footed, lifting coin purses with the grace of dancers. Pockets turned inside out before their owners realize they've been emptied. Children with hands too small to be noticed slip through the gaps, feet bare and silent against the sun-warmed stone, swiping fruit, coins, trinkets. Here in Hamal, theft is not a crime, more like a language. A conversation between predator and prey. The merchants know better than to chase, they guard their wares with eyes sharp as falcon talons, but even the keenest gaze cannot watch all places at once. A single moment of distraction, a glance at a bickering customer, a blink against the stinging dust—and the deed is done. The market swallows the culprit whole, spitting them out in some distant alley, gripping proudly at their collection.
Beyond the city, the trucks rumble. Rusted, overburdened beasts piled with people of all ages, their faces wrapped in cloth against the rising heat. The shifters, poor folk, who leave before the city fully wakes, packed shoulder to shoulder in the open beds of the battered machines. They will spend their the day in the dunes, as they do every other day, fighting against the shifting sands, digging, collecting, moving the desert itself like ants to provide for the queen and her unending, thankless war. Their hands, calloused and split from years of labor, clutch onto the rusted edges of the truck, fingers curling over hot metal as the city shrinks behind them. Their eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, flicker between the rolling dunes ahead and the sprawling mess of Hamal in the distance, as if memorizing it. As if they won’t return
The ride is brutal. The trucks trip over sand-choked roads, bouncing and shaking so violently that the passengers are jostled against one another, heads knocking, limbs bracing against the hard steel of the truck bed, as the tank like wheels hummed, lined in Refekti crystal, repelling the gold lined sands of the desert, working like magnets keeping the trucks moving like ships above the sand
The truck lurched over a dune, sending up a spray of fine sand as it coughed its way deeper into the wasteland. Tesserae barely felt it. She was used to the finky “magic” of the ride perched on the very edge of the truck bed, leaning over the boiling railing, legs swung over the side, mouth and nose covered by a think woven bandana. Her hands idly braiding her puffy curls already crusted over with sand. It was muscle memory by now. Braid, unbraid, repeat. pointless, but something to do. Something to keep her hands busy while her mind wandered. The sun wasn’t fully up yet, but it was coming, clawing its way over the horizon, smearing the sky in bruised purples and diluted gold. She could already feel the heat creeping in, slithering under her poncho and settling in her knees through the stretches of her long linen trousers, the sweat already dripping in the curve of her spine. Soon, it would be unbearable, turning the truck bed into a searing-hot cage. For now, it was just discomfort.
The others were packed tight in the truck, most of them half-asleep, heads bobbing with every jolt. Some clutched the rails, fingers curled white against rust. Others leaned against each other, bodies swaying with the movement of the truck like reeds in a slow-moving current. No one spoke. What was there to say?
Tesserae’s gaze flickered past them, past the blur of dunes rolling by, back toward Hamal. It was a mess of copper and dust now, shrinking behind them, its towers and crumbling scaffolds melting into the horizon. It always looked different from far away.. less like a city, more like a gross mirage.
She let her fingers pause in their work, half her braid undone, and exhaled dryly through her nose. How many times had she sat like this. Her eyes heavy as she watched her city roll into the horizon, knowing she’d return only to leave again the next day? The same cycle. The same dunes. The same aching exhaustion waiting at the end of it all. And even more so, how she thought the same exact thought every day, just to end it with the reminder that she does it for her grandfather.
She let her fingers pause in their work, half her braid undone, resting her cheek against the hot rails of the truck. She felt woozy with the small jingle of jewelry, the hum of the truck, the gentle weight of a woman’s calf steady on her back. The desert wind pulled at her hair, unweaving what little progress she’d made. She let it, fingers hovering uselessly over the loose strands.
The same ride. The same sounds. The same aching exhaustion waiting at the end of it all.
Her grandfather would be waking up soon. Slowly, with stiff joints and a quiet groan as he pushed himself from his cot. He’d light the stove first, then sit at the window, waiting for her to come home. He’d never say it, but she knew. Knew how he always left a cup out for her, steam curling in the morning air.
She swallowed against the dry air, then slowly drifted to sleep.
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