Everything was calm, silent. Nahumi stretched and began to walk; her bare feet stepped on the sand. It wasn’t hot yet—it was just there. Little by little, small carmine-colored plants and stones appeared; this time the silence was not as intense. By midday Nahumi was exhausted. The immense dunes and the endless desert had become agonizing. Three suns blazed; the sand burned. Nahumi could not take another step barefoot, but in the distance she saw a rocky outcrop. It was far away, yet the unbearable pain of the tiny grains of sand burying themselves in the soles of her feet pushed her on. She was nearing the dune—each step closer, but more painful. When she finally arrived, she sat in the shade behind the rock.

  “Ahh, I’m almost there.”

  Nahumi whispered as she closed her eyes and stretched. From her small bag she took out a bottle of water, drank a little, and wiped what had spilled. She breathed deeply as a gust of wind struck her face. Thirty minutes later, a caravan passed by—several people chanting hymns to Zhiary All. The women wore brightly colored veils with embedded shakiras; the men, by contrast, bore markings on their hands and cheeks. Several people carried crafts made of pure rutanium. Nahumi watched everything, shrinking back a little to let them pass. When the women saw her, they adjusted their veils and averted their gaze. When the last people passed, Nahumi stood up and followed them from behind. An elderly grand mother saw her with eyes completely black, bowed her head, and continued walking. Nahumi returned the gesture.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  After a while, the chants grew louder. Suddenly they stopped in the middle of the nocturnal desert. Several people at the very front moved toward the far end of the caravan. Others signaled Nahumi and those in the back to move forward and gave them instructions: hold hands. The leader stood at the center of the bonfire; his eyes were completely gray. He began to move his hands and speak in a low voice.

  “Nikhi na khul kamok. (May the Lord of Lords guide us to the light),” the leader murmured, speaking an ancient language of the northern tribes. The people let go; some fell. Nahumi stood motionless, unsure how to react. She stayed still until—

  She felt a gaze—cold and calculating. A man with markings of pure rutanium covering his head stared at her fixedly. Nahumi reacted quickly: she bowed her head and moved her lips, pretending to sing hymns. Then the leader moved again, this time turning toward the center of the bonfire. With his hands he grasped the flames, held them, raised them, and shouted to the great night—silent and dark—of the desert.

  “Nemkhu shisi manghu. (The Chosen One gave me this ability for honoring and praising him).” With a swift motion the leader extinguished the fire and addressed the crowd again. “Sa mukhin kehl khon shey khug mol. (If he illuminated me, you too, my brothers, can).”

  Everyone began to raise their hands. Some women started to pray. Nahumi frowned, hoping no one would see her. But among the many people with closed eyes, there she was—the grand mother—staring straight at her. Nahumi thought fast. With a sharp movement she made a gesture of obedience toward Zhiary, a gesture the Ushias had taught her—very old, buried in the past, yet remembered across generations. The old woman noticed. Her eyes widened; she couldn’t believe someone like Nahumi knew that. The old woman stepped back.