Riche found the bike tracks etched into the sand and followed them carefully, each step measured.
The trail cut a thin scar through the dunes, faint but persistent.
They traveled in silence at first.
Mihel moved with restraint, every motion deliberate as his body slowly recovered.
Strips of cloth bound his wounds, darkened where blood had seeped through.
Riche walked beside him, outwardly steady, inwardly tangled in thoughts he hadn't yet given shape to.
The desert offered its own cruelty.
Flies circled endlessly. Sand crept into their boots, clung to their ankles, swallowed each step just enough to drain strength.
The heat had finally loosened its grip with the setting sun, leaving behind a biting cold and a restless breeze that whispered across the dunes.
From the route of the tracks and the Engine's last heading, Mihel had already calculated their course.
Southwest. Nearly straight.
They had rations for three days if they were careful. Weapons, water, and little else.
Riche had tried the riders' bikes earlier, but the machines were too damaged, and even intact, he wouldn't have known how to wake them.
After a long stretch of quiet, Mihel spoke.
"Riche… how are you holding up?"
Riche blinked in surprise. "You're the one bleeding. How are you?"
Mihel shook his head slightly. "Not that." He hesitated. "You killed someone today. How does it feel?"
Riche slowed, then stopped for a moment.
He searched himself, expecting something sharp. Something crushing.
"I don't think it's hit me yet," he said finally. "I was thinking about Midia. About you." His gaze dropped to his hands. "But yeah… these hands ended a life."
Mihel nodded, eyes still fixed ahead.
"We'll have to learn to live with it," he said quietly. "Hesitation against people like them gets you killed."
A pause. Then a breath, heavy and controlled.
"If we stop to mourn every enemy, we won't survive long enough to save anyone."
The wind passed between them, cold and indifferent.
They kept walking.
After nearly an hour, they crested a dune.
Tracks scarred its slope, and as they stepped over the ridge, a violent gust slammed into them.
Mihel's dark hair whipped across his face as he looked down.
Metal glinted in the sand below.
Shards. Twisted fragments. Broken pieces half-buried by drifting dunes.
"That's from the bikes," Riche said, jogging down the slope. "They must've broken down here. But why stop—"
The thought struck Mihel like a blade.
'Four riders. One took the hostage.'
'Two attacked from the flanks.'
His mind snapped back to the chaos. The sand thrown into his eyes. The horn's call. The sudden retreat.
'The rider who scattered sand… had he retreated at the horn?'
If he hadn't gone with the other. If he stayed behind.
Mihel's blood ran cold.
'Idiot,' he cursed himself. 'How did I miss this?'
'If the stripped bodies were seen, then revenge would be inevitable.'
Riche turned, catching Mihel's expression. "You have a look on your face. What's on your mind?"
"Riche," Mihel said tightly, "how many Rajhu did you see during the attack?"
"Four," Riche replied without hesitation. Then paused. "Why?"
"Did we confirm all four were dealt with?"
Silence.
Riche's face drained of color. "You're saying one's still back there." His jaw tightened.
"Damn it. Vinelyn's injured. Halise can't hold a fight alone."
Mihel ran a hand through his hair, thoughts spiraling.
'They had walked away from the Engine too soon.'
And whatever was left behind might not be finished yet.
"Let's hope the horn pulled him away too,"
Mihel said quietly. "Our priority is Midia. We can't afford distractions."
They pressed on through the endless sea of sand, each step heavy with unspoken worry for what they had left behind at the Engine.
After a long stretch of tracking, the dunes ahead rose unnaturally high.
A wall.
At first glance it looked like nothing more than wind-shaped sand, but its curve was too deliberate, too precise.
They climbed carefully, fingers digging into the grain, and peered over.
Below lay a circular enclosure of compacted sand, encasing a settlement.
At its heart stood a cluster of cube-shaped buildings, arranged with unsettling symmetry.
One large structure dominated the centre, while four smaller ones sat at its corners, evenly spaced, as if measured and placed by design rather than chance.
Mihel's stomach tightened.
'This is no nomad camp,' he thought. 'This is built.'
The structures gleamed faintly under the starlight. Polished metal. Panelled surfaces.
Nothing like the crude shelters he had imagined a desert tribe would use.
'Too advanced,' he realized. 'Far too advanced.'
Riche swept his gaze across the compound. No riders. No movement. Only silence.
"Tracks end here," he murmured, then glanced at Mihel. "So this is it?"
His tone sharpened. "Doesn't feel right. A desert tribe doesn't build like this."
Mihel nodded. "Which means they might not be just a tribe."
They were facing a wall between two of the smaller buildings on which they could see the number 2 etched into it.
Riche drew his twin blades, their edges catching the dim light. "Time?"
Mihel checked his dial. "3:40 astra. If nothing had gone wrong, we would have reached the Exousia branch by six."
Riche exhaled slowly. "Alright, let's make this quick."
Together, they slid down the inner slope of the sand wall, vanishing into the shadows of the Rajhu hideout.
The moment their boots left sand and touched pavement, a sound reached them.
A low, ragged groan.
Both froze.
They tilted their heads, straining, letting the silence breathe. After a few heartbeats, the source became clear.
Left side.
The building to the left of Wall Two.
They moved at once, quick and quiet, circling the structure to find an entrance.
Mihel's unease deepened with every step.
No guards.
No sentries.
No watchfires.
Too clean. Too empty.
'A complex this large doesn't sleep unguarded,' he thought. 'Unless it wants to be found.'
The door stood wide open.
Thick wood reinforced with thin veins of gold, swung back as if in invitation.
Mihel slowed to a stop.
Riche, already a few steps ahead, turned back. "What's wrong?" he whispered. "I can hear them. Someone's definitely inside."
Mihel scanned the darkness beyond the doorway. He couldn't sense a trap. Not directly. Yet the feeling persisted, a pressure at the back of his skull.
"This place is wrong," he murmured.
"Everything's too open. Like they're leading us—"
"GAAAARGHHH!"
The scream tore through the building.
Mihel froze.
'Midia.'
They both recognized it instantly.
Every hesitation shattered. They sprinted down the corridor, boots hammering against stone, until they reached the final room.
Above its entrance hung an animal skull, hollowed out, a small flame burning within its eye sockets.
They exchanged a single glance, then stepped inside.
Weapons raised.
"No… Midia…"
She hung from the ceiling, wrists chained high above her head. Her feet were bound to a massive stone, dragging her body downward.
Dust and soot streaked her face. A gag filled her mouth, muffling her sobs.
Riche rushed forward. "We're here," he said urgently. "We'll get you out. I promise."
Midia's eyes snapped wide.
Not in relief.
In terror.
She stared past them. Behind them.
A laugh echoed through the room. Slow. Amused.
Mihel felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Then came the sound of hands clapping, steady and deliberate, slicing through the silence.