The sand was silent.
The campfires had nearly burned out. Only glowing embers remained, smoldering in the heat, casting no light. All around—bodies. The blood no longer shone; it had dried, soaked into the dust. Death no longer smelled of fear—only heat and ash.
Cain stood in the center like a forgotten monument. He stared at the ground with empty eyes. His sword was still in his hand. Blood still dripped from the blade.
It was over.
He just stood there, wordless. In his mind—thirty death-screams, echoing like curses. Every soul he'd slain had left something behind. Their last moments. Their terror. Their memories. Their pain.
Cain had lived them all.
Now he was hollow.
And in that graveyard silence, where even the wind feared to move, came a sound.
A dull thud. A shuffle. The creak of wood.
Cain lifted his head. The wagon. That wagon. The guarded one. He'd felt its weight since the start.
Now, something stirred inside.
He walked toward it. Slowly. Like a beast approaching a trap. He stabbed the sword into the ground. Ripped the latch free. The door opened with a wheeze.
Movement.
A body tumbled out—light, clumsy. Hit the sand. Gagged breathing through a cloth in its mouth. Hands bound, face buried in dust.
A girl. Seventeen, maybe. Thin. Hair—red, tangled, wild. Face smeared with filth. And eyes—green, vivid, furious.
Cain crouched. Reached out. Pulled the gag free.
She bit him.
Fast. Hard. Like a cornered animal.
Instinct. He shoved her back.
She hit the wagon wheel with a thud. Coughing. Sat up.
Watching.
Not with fear.
With focus.
With tension.
Like she was waiting for the blow to come.
Cain didn't move.
She turned, finally noticing the camp. The bodies. Dozens of them. Their faces frozen in twisted horror. Death, captured in flesh.
She didn't scream.
"You kill them?" she asked.
Cain looked away.
A pause.
"Right," she muttered.
He stepped closer. She flinched—but he didn't reach for her.
"Your hand," he said calmly.
She didn't reply.
He stood over her, silent. The sun at his back threw a long shadow across the sand—making him look less like a man, and more like a black pillar of judgment.
The girl sighed and held out her hands.
He cut the ropes.
On her left wrist—burned into the skin—was a mark.
Three rings. A single dot in the center.
He saw it. Didn't ask.
Suddenly, she bolted toward the fire pit. Found a charred scrap of pork and devoured it, chewing like a starving beast.
Cain watched in silence.
The sword was back on his back. He walked to the edge of the camp, picked up his bag, and started walking.
"Oh, so that's it?" her voice called out behind him, muffled between bites. "No 'thank you,' no 'what's your name,' no *'try not to die out there'? Fantastic savior you are."
He didn't turn.
"Hey! You do talk, right? I've heard humans can do this thing where they say stuff like 'follow me' so others don't die alone in the desert!"
Footsteps.
She ran, caught up, then matched his pace. Barefoot on burning sand.
"So we're doing the silent act, huh? Great. I love silence. Especially after cages. And starvation. Wonderful. You don't wanna talk? Fine. I'll talk for both of us. I'm great at that."
Cain kept walking.
"So, is this always your thing? Brooding stare, zero expression? Or is this just a phase?"
No answer.
"Alright then. I'm Kooni," she said.
A beat.
"Get used to it."
Cain turned his head just a little. Barely slowing, he muttered:
"Guess the gag was for a reason."
She paused for a moment. Then snorted.
"Ha! He talks! I was starting to think you were mute. Or cursed."
He didn't respond.
They kept walking.
Two silhouettes, swallowed by the sands.