The road east was never quiet.
Even when the wind died and the dust settled enough for the horizon to reappear, there was always movement—wagon wheels creaking, pack animals snorting, guards muttering half-prayers under their breath.
Nana sat atop the rear wagon with her legs dangling over the side, spear resting across her lap, eyes half-lidded against the glare.
She hated sand.
Not feared it.
Not disrespected it.
Hated it.
It crept everywhere, no matter how carefully she wrapped herself.
In her boots.
In her sleeves.
Between teeth.
It ground against skin and steel alike, a constant reminder that this land did not care who you were or why you traveled.
Antiochia was like that.
Harsh.
Indifferent.
Dangerous.
Perfect cover.
The caravan master—a balding man with a voice perpetually hoarse from shouting over camels—had hired twelve guards in total.
Half were locals, lean men with curved blades and sun-darkened skin.
