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Chapter Text

The desert did not look real.

That was the first thing Regulus Black had thought when the trucks left the proper road behind and rolled out into the endless gold.

It looked painted.

Not painted well, either. Painted by someone with too much money and too much confidence, someone who had dipped a wide brush into the colour of sunlight and dragged it over the whole world until everything became one bright, merciless sweep of sand. The dunes rose and fell like frozen waves. The sky was so blue it looked almost sharp. The horizon shimmered as if the earth itself was sweating.

Regulus sat in the back of the open safari truck with one hand wrapped around the strap of his leather satchel and the other braced loosely against the side rail, his dark hair blown messy by the wind.

He was twelve years old, though he had been told often enough that he did not look twelve.

He had the stillness of a much older boy. A careful face. A sharp little chin. Grey eyes that took in everything and gave almost nothing away unless he forgot himself, which did not happen often.

At least, not in front of strangers.

The desert was making it difficult.

There was too much to look at.

That annoyed him slightly. He did not enjoy being impressed by things. It felt too much like losing.

But the Sahara stretched around him in every direction, vast and bright and ancient, and it did not care at all whether Regulus Black approved of it. It had been there before him. Before his parents. Before their money, before their name, before every grand old family who thought portraits and silver rings made them eternal.

The desert was older than all of them.

Regulus found that he liked that.

Ahead, far off through the haze, his parents’ truck was only a dark crawling shape against the dunes.

Walburga and Orion had taken the lead vehicle with the main guide, mostly because Orion had wanted to speak to him about the route, and Walburga had wanted the shade. Regulus had been offered the seat beside them. Several times. His mother had smoothed her fingers through his hair that morning and asked if he was certain he wished to ride separately.

“I’ll be fine, Mère,” Regulus had said.

Walburga had studied him for a long moment, dark eyes cool to anyone else but soft to him.

“You will keep your hat on?”

“I look stupid in it.”

“You will keep it on.”

Regulus had sighed like the world had personally wronged him. “Yes, Mère.”

“And water,” Orion had added, fastening the clasp on Regulus’s bag himself, because he was fussy like that when they were abroad and could not pretend not to be. “Do not decide you are above drinking water because you want to look dignified.”

“I never look undignified.”

His father had given him a dry look.

Walburga had smiled.

Not a large smile. Walburga Black did not waste expression. But it had been there, delicate as a knife glinting in candlelight.

“You sulked for twenty minutes this morning because the hotel served melon with breakfast.”

“It was wet.”

“Fruit often is.”

“It was touching my toast.”

“Tragic,” Orion had murmured.

Regulus had lifted his chin. “I survived.”

“Bravely,” Walburga had said, and brushed her thumb once across his cheek before letting him go.

That had been before the trucks split apart across the sand.

Before the second vehicle began to slow.

Before the distance between him and his parents stretched wider and wider until their truck became a smudge on the horizon.

Regulus had noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

The engine beneath him coughed now and again, a rough little stutter that made one of the guide men glance down with a frown. The driver kept adjusting his grip on the wheel, muttering under his breath. The other man sat closer to Regulus in the back, one knee braced, one hand resting on the roll bar.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?” Regulus asked.

The man beside him turned, squinting slightly against the sun. He was older than Regulus’s cousins but younger than Regulus’s father, with a cloth wrapped around his head and sun-browned hands. His English was careful, but steady.

“The truck is tired,” he said.

Regulus looked down at the floor as the vehicle jolted over uneven sand. “Can trucks be tired?”

“This one can.”

“That does not inspire confidence.”

The man laughed. “No, little prince?”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed at once.

The man’s smile grew. “You sit like one.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I sit normally.”

“No. You sit like the sand should ask permission before touching you.”

Regulus opened his mouth.

Then shut it.

The driver laughed from the front seat, loud and amused. He said something in his own language to the man beside Regulus, and the two of them chuckled together.

Regulus did not like being laughed at when he could not understand why.

He especially did not like that he might have deserved it.

“I am not a prince,” he said stiffly.

The man beside him tilted his head. “No?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

Regulus hesitated.

A Black.

That was the answer that came first. Always. It had been placed inside him before he had proper language. He was Regulus Arcturus Black. Son of Orion and Walburga. Younger brother of Sirius. He belonged to a house full of old stone, older rules, and portraits that whispered too much.

But out here, beneath the huge flat sky, the words felt smaller than usual.

“Regulus,” he said finally.

The man nodded as if this was much better. “Regulus, then.”

The driver said something again, glancing at the mirror. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were not.

Regulus caught that too.

“What did he say?”

The man beside him looked forward. “He says we are going slow.”

“I noticed.”

“We must be careful with this truck.”

“Because it is tired?”

“Yes.”

Regulus looked ahead. His parents’ vehicle dipped behind a dune and vanished entirely.

His stomach tightened.

It was not fear.

Not exactly.

Regulus did not think of himself as frightened. Frightened children cried and clung and made noise. Regulus had learned not to make noise. He had learned that if something worried him, the best thing to do was to sit very straight and look as if he had already considered every possible outcome.

Still, the horizon looked very empty without the other truck.

“How far ahead are they?” he asked.

“Not far.”

“I cannot see them.”

“Dunes hide things.”

“That is not an answer.”

The man smiled again, though softer this time. “They are ahead. We follow the tracks. It is all right.”

Regulus looked down at the sand flying out from under the wheels.

Tracks.

Yes. There were tracks. Twin pressed lines cutting through the gold, leading onward after the truck his parents were in. Regulus followed them with his eyes until they blurred into brightness.

The driver tapped the wheel twice, as though soothing the vehicle. The engine coughed again.

Regulus’s fingers tightened around his satchel strap.

Inside the bag were a few things his mother had insisted on, a few things his father had tucked in without admitting he was fussing, and a few things Regulus had chosen himself. Water. Cloth. A little wrapped packet from breakfast. A book he had not yet opened because the desert was more interesting than the printed page, which was offensive but true. His wand was not there because he was twelve and underage and abroad and had been reminded, very firmly, that he was not to perform magic unless there was an emergency.

He looked at the empty horizon again.

The word emergency slid through his mind like a dark fish through deep water.

No.

Not yet.

The truck lurched.

Regulus’s shoulder bumped the side rail. He hissed through his teeth and glared at the back of the driver’s head.

The driver said something quickly, one hand lifting in apology.

“He says sorry,” the man beside Regulus translated.

“I gathered.”

“The sand here is soft.”

“Yes, well, perhaps tell the sand to behave.”

The man barked out another laugh, then called something to the driver.

The driver answered with a grin and eased the truck slightly left.

For a while, they drove like that.

Slowly.

The world reduced to engine noise, wind, heat, and sand.

Regulus watched the dunes pass.

The day had been long already. Too long, perhaps. His parents had come abroad for business, which meant several days of polished floors, quiet dining rooms, and adults leaning toward one another over drinks while pretending not to negotiate. Regulus had endured it with what his mother called admirable patience and what Sirius would have called looking like a haunted doll.

He had preferred the sightseeing.

The ruins had been better. The pyramids better still. He had stood before them with his head tilted back, small and silent beneath the crushing weight of history, and even Walburga had not hurried him. Orion had stood beside him and explained things quietly when Regulus asked, which was often, though Regulus tried not to sound too eager.

There had been carved stone. Broken columns. Tombs. Ancient walls bleached by time. Places that had survived kings, armies, storms, thieves, and centuries of sun.

Regulus had loved them immediately.

He had loved that they were ruined and still powerful.

He had loved that something could be half-buried and still remembered.

Now there was only desert.

No walls. No statues. No shade except the thin canvas roof over the front of the truck. Nothing to break the endlessness but the vehicle itself and the two men responsible for getting him safely back to his parents.

Regulus reached up and touched the brim of his hat.

Still on.

His mother would be pleased.

The thought made him feel steadier.

“How long until we catch them?” he asked.

The man beside him leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

The driver answered without looking back.

“He says soon,” the man said.

“You said not far before.”

“Yes.”

“Soon and not far are not measurements.”

“No.”

Regulus stared at him.

The man stared back, then smiled.

Regulus looked away, irritated and, despite himself, slightly entertained.

“You are very calm for someone whose truck sounds like it is choking,” he said.

The man hummed. “Panic does not repair engines.”

“No, but it does communicate urgency.”

“You wish me to scream?”

“Not particularly.”

“I can.”

“Please don’t.”

The man grinned.

The driver gave a sharp little laugh.

Regulus’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.

It lasted less than a second.

Unfortunately, both men saw.

“Ah,” the man beside him said. “There. Not a prince. A boy.”

Regulus’s face went hot, and not from the sun. “I am both capable of amusement and dignity.”

“Of course.”

“I am.”

“Yes.”

“You are laughing again.”

“Only because it is true.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes desert sense.”

Regulus decided he disliked desert sense.

The truck climbed a low dune with a grumbling engine, its wheels fighting for grip. Sand sprayed behind them. The vehicle rocked hard, tilted, then dragged itself over the crest and down the other side.

Regulus looked sharply ahead.

For one brief second, from the height of the dune, he saw the trail stretching onward.

No truck.

No dark smudge.

Only tracks leading over another ridge far away.

The bad feeling in his stomach returned.

The driver seemed to notice too. He leaned forward over the wheel, peering into the glare. His jaw tightened.

“Can he go faster?” Regulus asked.

The man beside him did not answer immediately.

That was answer enough.

The driver muttered something.

“What?” Regulus demanded.

“He says maybe a little.”

“Maybe?”

“He does not want to hurt the truck.”

“We need to catch up.”

“We will.”

“You do not know that.”

The man looked at him properly then, and there was something in his expression that made Regulus sit still.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Seriousness.

“We will,” he said again. “You stay seated. Hold on when we climb.”

Regulus swallowed.

Then nodded once.

“I am holding on.”

“Good.”

The driver pressed the accelerator.

The truck responded with a louder growl.

They picked up speed.

Not much at first. Just enough for the wind to sharpen and tug harder at Regulus’s sleeves. The dunes moved past more quickly. The tracks ahead became clearer, then vanished, then reappeared as the truck bounced over uneven ground.

The vehicle rattled around him.

Regulus braced one foot against the floor and held the rail with one hand, his satchel with the other.

The man beside him leaned lower, one arm out slightly as though ready to catch him if the truck lurched too hard.

“I do not need—”

The truck hit a ridge.

Regulus slammed sideways into him.

The man caught his shoulder.

Regulus clamped his mouth shut.

The man said nothing.

Which was kind, probably.

“I was going to say,” Regulus muttered after a moment, “that I do not need assistance unless something actually happens.”

“Of course.”

“That did not count.”

“No.”

The driver called something over the engine.

The man’s face changed.

Regulus saw it.

“What?” he asked at once.

No answer.

“What did he say?”

The man beside him leaned forward, gripping the frame. “The steering is pulling.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means hold on.”

Regulus did.

The truck picked up speed again, but it did not feel like before.

Before, it had felt rough.

Now it felt wrong.

The vehicle shuddered beneath them in uneven bursts, as if something inside it was coming loose. The front end tugged left, corrected right, then jerked left again. The driver fought the wheel. Sand sprayed violently from one side.

Regulus’s heartbeat became suddenly loud in his own ears.

“Slow down,” he said.

The driver did not hear him.

“Tell him to slow down.”

The man shouted to the driver.

The driver shouted back.

The engine roared.

The truck lurched left.

Regulus grabbed the rail with both hands, satchel trapped beneath his elbow.

The world tilted.

Not fully. Not yet. But enough that the horizon swung in a sickening diagonal, sky sliding one way, sand the other.

The driver swore.

The man beside Regulus moved, half-rising, one hand clamped to the roll bar.

Then came a sound Regulus would remember forever.

A brutal crack.

Metal screaming.

Something bursting apart beneath them.

The truck dropped hard on one side.

Regulus screamed before he knew he had done it.

The vehicle spun.

The desert became motion.

Sand and sky, sky and sand, the driver’s arm, the man’s shout, the rail under Regulus’s fingers, the taste of dust in his mouth. The truck whipped sideways with terrifying force, the blown wheel dragging, the ruined axle shrieking beneath them.

“Hold!” the man yelled.

Regulus held.

His hands hurt.

The world spun again.

The truck slid down the slope of a dune, sideways now, completely out of the driver’s control. Sand poured over the side in sheets. The front end struck something buried or compacted or simply too steep to forgive them.

The impact punched the air from Regulus’s lungs.

For a fraction of a second, everything stopped.

Then the truck rolled.

Regulus lost the rail.

He hit something hard with his shoulder. His head snapped forward. Sand filled his eyes. The satchel strap burned across his chest. A body struck the side near him. Metal crumpled with a deep, ugly groan. The sky flashed white. The ground slammed up. The truck rolled again.

There was no up anymore.

No down.

No breath.

Only force.

Only noise.

Only the desert taking them in its enormous hand and shaking.

Regulus crashed through sand.

He did not know whether he had fallen out or been thrown.

For several seconds, he was nothing but a small dark shape tumbling across gold, arms tucked in, mouth open, the scream gone silent because there was no air left to feed it. Sand tore at his face. His knees hit. His side hit. His shoulder hit again, white pain bursting through him.

Then he stopped.

The world kept moving.

Or perhaps he did.

Regulus lay on his side with his cheek pressed into hot sand, staring at nothing.

There was a ringing in his ears.

A high, thin sound.

His chest hitched once.

Then again.

Air came back like a knife.

He gasped.

Sand dragged into his mouth and he coughed violently, rolling onto his front, fingers clawing uselessly at the ground.

For a moment he could not remember where he was.

He knew heat.

He knew pain.

He knew his satchel strap still cutting across him.

He knew he had to get up.

The thought was not in his voice.

It was his mother’s.

Up, Regulus.

So he moved.

His hands shook so badly they sank into the sand. He pushed himself onto one elbow and groaned, a small broken sound that embarrassed him even though there was no one close enough to hear properly.

His vision blurred.

He blinked hard.

The truck lay several yards away, twisted on its side near the bottom of the dune.

It did not look like a truck anymore.

It looked like something dead.

One wheel was gone completely. Another spun slowly, uselessly, clicking as it turned. The front axle had bent at a grotesque angle. The frame had crushed inward. Sand smoked around it in drifting clouds.

Regulus stared.

His mind would not arrange the scene correctly.

It kept trying to make it ordinary.

Truck. Sand. Accident. Stand up. Find guide. Find parents.

He pushed himself to his knees.

Pain ripped through his left side.

He made a sound through his teeth and clutched his satchel against his body as if it could hold him together.

“Hello?” he called.

His voice came out thin.

Too young.

He hated it immediately.

He swallowed, tasted blood and sand, and tried again.

“Hello?”

The ringing in his ears softened just enough for him to hear the wind.

Then a cough.

A groan.

Movement near the wreck.

Regulus turned sharply.

One of the guide men was dragging himself up from the sand near the rear of the truck. The man who had been sitting with him. His head cloth had come loose, and there was sand in his hair and across his clothes. He staggered, caught himself on one hand, then looked around wildly.

His eyes found Regulus.

“Regulus!”

The relief in his voice was so open that Regulus nearly cried.

He did not.

He would not.

“I’m here,” Regulus said, though his voice shook. “I’m— I’m here.”

The man stumbled toward him, then stopped and turned toward the wreck.

“Wait,” Regulus said. “Where is the driver?”

The man froze.

Regulus looked past him.

At first, he saw only metal.

Bent bars. Torn canvas. A wheel half buried. Sand sprayed over everything.

Then he saw the shape beneath it.

A hand.

Still.

Regulus’s breath caught.

He stared.

The world narrowed around that hand.

The driver was under the wreck.

Not beside it. Not thrown clear. Under it.

Regulus’s mouth opened.

The scream came out raw.

It tore through his throat, high and awful and impossible to stop. He stumbled backward on his knees, one hand flying to his mouth, but it kept coming anyway, breaking apart as he gasped.

The surviving man rushed toward him at once.

“No. No, do not look. Do not look.”

Regulus tried to look anyway.

He could not help it.

His body wanted to turn away but his eyes would not obey.

The man reached him and crouched directly in front of him, blocking the wreck with his own body. His hands hovered as if he did not know whether touching the boy would frighten him more.

“Regulus. Look at me.”

Regulus shook his head.

His mouth trembled.

“Look at me,” the man said again, firmer.

Regulus dragged his eyes up.

The man’s face was dusty, scraped along one cheek, sweat cutting lines through the sand on his skin. His breathing was too fast, but his voice stayed steady.

“Do not look there.”

“He’s—”

“I know.”

“He’s under—”

“I know.”

“He— he was driving—”

“I know.”

Regulus’s fingers dug into the satchel. “Is he dead?”

The man did not answer fast enough.

Regulus made a small sound.

The man’s expression tightened with pain.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

The desert seemed to go silent around the word.

Regulus stared at him.

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, he was just— he was laughing. He was—”

“I know.”

“He was talking.”

“I know.”

“You have to— you have to get him out.”

The man’s throat moved.

He glanced back once, very quickly, then looked at Regulus again.

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I cannot.”

“You have to.”

“The truck is too heavy.”

“You have to move it.”

“I cannot move it alone.”

Regulus’s breathing started to go wrong. Too quick. Too shallow. His chest hurt. His hands were numb. The sky above the man’s head looked enormous and terrible.

“My parents,” he said suddenly.

“Yes.”

“My parents are ahead.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll come back.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll notice.”

“Yes, they will.”

The man said it too quickly.

Regulus heard that.

He heard everything.

“You do not know that.”

“They will notice.”

“They’re too far ahead.”

“They will see we are not behind.”

“The radio,” Regulus said. “Use the radio.”

The man nodded at once, as if grateful for something to do. “Yes. Good. Stay here.”

Regulus grabbed his sleeve before he could stand.

The man looked down at the small pale hand twisted in his dusty shirt.

“Do not leave me,” Regulus said.

The words came out before pride could kill them.

The man’s face softened.

“I go only there,” he said, pointing to the wreck without turning Regulus toward it. “You can see me. I will not leave you.”

Regulus’s grip did not loosen.

The man lowered his voice.

“Regulus. I must try the radio.”

Regulus stared at him, then forced his fingers open one by one.

“Fine.”

“Stay facing this way.”

“I know.”

“Do not look.”

“I know.”

The man stood slowly, watching Regulus as though afraid he might break, then moved back toward the wreck.

Regulus stayed on his knees.

Facing away.

His whole body trembled.

He hated that too.

He reached up and touched his face. His fingers came away gritty with sand and a smear of blood from his lip. His shoulder throbbed. One knee burned where the skin had scraped raw. His ribs ached when he breathed too deeply.

He wanted his mother.

The thought hit him so hard he closed his eyes.

Not in the distant, dignified way he usually wanted things. Not as a vague preference. He wanted her immediately, violently, with the helpless animal panic of a child who had been thrown across the desert and had seen death pinned beneath metal.

He wanted Walburga’s hand in his hair.

He wanted Orion’s coat around his shoulders.

He wanted to complain that the sun was too bright and have them both fuss at him for being dramatic.

He wanted to be in their truck.

He wanted to have said yes.

He wanted—

A burst of static snapped through the air.

Regulus’s eyes flew open.

The man was inside the ruined front cab, leaning awkwardly through the crushed frame, one hand gripping the radio receiver.

“Hello?” he called. “Hello, can you hear me?”

Static.

He adjusted something.

“Can you hear? This is second truck. We have accident. Repeat, accident.”

More static.

Regulus held his breath.

The man pressed the receiver harder to his ear.

“Hello? We need help. Do you hear?”

Nothing.

Only crackling.

The man swore softly.

Regulus could not understand the word, but he understood the tone.

The man tried again.

“Hello. Hello. Anyone hear? We are on route west of—”

The radio shrieked, spat static, then died.

The silence after it was worse than the noise.

The man hit the side of the radio once with the heel of his hand.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.”

Regulus got to his feet.

Too fast.

The desert tilted.

He staggered and nearly fell.

The man turned sharply. “Sit down!”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down.”

“I am fine.”

“You are bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“Regulus.”

“What?”

“Sit.”

There was something in the man’s voice that sounded very much like Orion when Regulus was about to do something spectacularly unwise.

Regulus sat.

Not because he was told to.

Because the ground had begun to sway again and sitting was strategically sensible.

The man returned to the radio.

He tried the switch. The dials. The receiver. He spoke into it again and again, first in English, then in his own language, then in English once more.

No answer.

No voice.

No rescue.

The radio did not work.

Regulus understood this before the man said it.

He watched the guide lower the receiver slowly.

Watched his shoulders rise and fall.

Watched him stand there in the wrecked shadow of the truck, surrounded by sand and broken metal and the body of the driver neither of them could help.

The man turned back.

His expression had changed again.

Not panicked.

Not hopeless.

But stripped down to something hard.

Survival, Regulus thought distantly.

That was what it looked like.

The man walked back to him.

“The radio?” Regulus asked, though he already knew.

The man crouched.

“It is broken.”

Regulus stared at him.

“Try again.”

“I did.”

“Try again.”

“I will. Later. But now we must think.”

“No, now you try again.”

“Regulus—”

“My parents are ahead,” Regulus snapped. “They have a radio. The other truck has a radio. Someone will hear.”

“The radio is broken.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know.”

“You cannot know.”

“I tried.”

“Then try better!”

The words cracked out of him, sharp and ugly.

For one second, the man looked surprised.

Regulus immediately felt his eyes burn.

He looked down before it showed.

The man was quiet for a moment.

Then he said gently, “You are scared.”

Regulus’s head snapped up. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not scared.”

“It is all right.”

“It is not all right,” Regulus said, voice shaking with fury now because fury was better than fear, fury had edges he could hold. “Nothing about this is all right. The truck rolled. He is dead. My parents are gone. The radio is broken. We are in the middle of the desert and you keep telling me things are all right when they very clearly are not.”

The man watched him.

Regulus panted after the outburst, chest heaving, horrified by himself and unable to stop.

Then the man nodded.

“You are right.”

Regulus blinked.

The man sat back on his heels.

“You are right. It is not all right.”

Regulus had no idea what to do with that.

“But we are alive,” the man continued. “You and me. We are hurt, but not too badly. We have water in the truck. Maybe some in your bag. There will be shade soon if we make it. Your parents will know we are missing. The first truck will stop. They will come back or send help. Until then, I know this place. I know how to stay alive here.”

Regulus swallowed.

The man held his gaze.

“You understand? We are not helpless.”

Regulus wanted to believe him so badly it felt like another injury.

“How long?” he asked.

The man hesitated.

Regulus’s face tightened. “Do not lie.”

“I do not know.”

“That is not comforting.”

“No. But it is true.”

Regulus looked toward the empty horizon.

The tracks ahead were already softening in the wind.

His parents were somewhere beyond the next rise, or the one after that, or the one after that. Far enough away that he could not see them. Far enough that his voice could never reach.

Walburga would notice.

Of course she would.

She noticed if Regulus entered a room quieter than usual. She noticed if he had slept badly. She noticed if Sirius said something cruel and Regulus pretended not to care. She would notice the missing truck.

Orion would make them turn around.

He would.

Regulus knew he would.

But knowing did not make the desert smaller.

The guide followed his gaze.

“We cannot chase them,” he said softly.

Regulus looked at him.

“I know you want to,” the man said. “But we cannot walk after the truck. Not in this sun. Not hurt. Not without knowing distance.”

Regulus clenched his jaw.

“I was not going to.”

“You were thinking it.”

Regulus said nothing.

The man gave a tired half-smile. “You have a face that argues even when your mouth is closed.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I really do not like that you keep saying that.”

“Then stop having an arguing face.”

Regulus almost laughed.

It came out wrong.

A broken little breath.

The man pretended not to notice, which Regulus appreciated more than he could say.

“What do we do?” Regulus asked.

The man looked back at the wreck. His eyes flicked once, carefully, to the place Regulus was not looking.

“We get what we can from the truck,” he said. “Water. Cloth. Anything useful. We make shade away from the metal. Metal gets too hot. We stay together. We wait where the truck can be seen.”

Regulus nodded.

His hands had stopped shaking quite so violently.

“Can I help?”

The man studied him.

“I can,” Regulus said quickly, offended by the pause. “I am not useless.”

“I know.”

“I am twelve, not five.”

“I know.”

“And I am not going to faint.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted.

Regulus glared.

“I might sit down unexpectedly,” he amended. “That is different.”

The man gave one soft laugh, brief and rough.

“Good. Then first, you drink.”

Regulus opened his mouth to argue.

The man lifted one finger.

“Do not argue. Drink.”

Regulus bristled.

Then remembered his father’s voice.

Do not decide you are above drinking water because you want to look dignified.

Annoyingly, Orion was correct.

Regulus pulled his satchel into his lap and fumbled with the clasp. His fingers were clumsy. Sand had worked into the buckles. He forced them open and dug inside until he found the bottle.

It had survived.

He unscrewed the cap with more difficulty than he wanted and took a small sip.

The water was warm.

It tasted faintly of metal and leather.

It was the best thing he had ever swallowed.

“Slow,” the man warned.

“I know.”

“Small sips.”

“I know.”

“You look like you will drink all of it to spite me.”

Regulus lowered the bottle. “I would never waste water just to spite someone.”

“No?”

“I have standards.”

“In the desert, standards change.”

“Mine do not.”

The man smiled faintly.

Regulus took another careful sip, then capped the bottle.

“What about you?”

“We will find water in the truck.”

“You should drink mine.”

“No.”

“You are hurt.”

“So are you.”

“I am smaller.”

“That is why you drink first.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes desert sense.”

Regulus scowled. “I hate desert sense.”

“You will learn.”

“I do not want to.”

“You may need to.”

The words settled between them.

Regulus looked away.

The guide rose with a wince, one hand pressing briefly against his side. He tried to hide it. Regulus saw.

“You’re hurt badly.”

“No.”

“You just made a face.”

“I have many faces.”

“That one was pain.”

The man sighed. “Maybe ribs. Maybe only bruised.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“You say maybe far too often for a responsible adult.”

“I am alive. That is responsible enough for now.”

Regulus had no answer to that.

The guide went back toward the truck.

This time, Regulus forced himself to look only at him. Only at his back. Only at the broken canvas, the wheel, the sand, the shadow. Not lower. Not where the driver was. Not at the hand.

He stood carefully, testing his own balance.

His knee stung. His side pulled. His shoulder felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it. But nothing was broken in any way he could immediately identify, which seemed miraculous considering the truck had rolled like a toy flung by an angry giant.

The guide reached the side of the vehicle and began pulling supplies free. A container. A folded cloth. A battered metal box. Another water bottle, dented but intact.

Regulus took a few steps forward.

The guide turned immediately.

“I said stay.”

“No, you said drink first.”

“Stay now.”

“I can carry things.”

“You can sit.”

“I can carry things while sitting, if that pleases you.”

“Regulus.”

Regulus stopped.

The man looked tired suddenly.

Very tired.

“Please,” he said.

That was worse than being ordered.

Regulus’s throat tightened.

He nodded stiffly and sat back down in the sand.

The guide’s expression softened before he returned to the wreck.

For several minutes, there was only the sound of him working.

Metal scraped. Cloth tore. The wind moved. The distant desert hissed softly, sand shifting grain by grain. Regulus kept his satchel pressed against his chest and watched the man pull their chance of survival out of the wreck piece by piece.

Water.

Cloth.

A small kit.

A coil of rope.

More cloth.

The radio receiver again, though it hung dead in his hand.

He tried it once more.

Nothing.

Regulus turned his face away so the guide would not see how hard he had hoped.

The sun stood above them like an eye.

Regulus had never felt so visible.

And so lost.

After a while, the guide came back carrying what he could manage. He dropped the supplies gently in the sand and lowered himself down with another barely hidden grimace.

“We have some water,” he said.

“How much?”

“Enough for now.”

Regulus hated that answer.

The guide opened the small kit and began cleaning the scrape on Regulus’s knee.

Regulus hissed.

“Sorry.”

“That hurt.”

“Yes.”

“You could sound more sorry.”

“I am very sorry.”

“You sound amused.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

Regulus glared down at him. “I am injured.”

“You are complaining well. That is good.”

“I do not complain.”

“You do.”

“I observe problems.”

“You observe many problems.”

“There are many.”

The man glanced up at him, and this time Regulus did smile.

Barely.

It faded quickly.

The guide cleaned the cut in silence, then tied cloth around it. His hands were gentle. Practised. Regulus watched them rather than watching the wreck.

“What was his name?” Regulus asked suddenly.

The man’s hands stopped.

Regulus kept his eyes on the bandage.

“The driver.”

The guide was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said a name.

Regulus repeated it under his breath, carefully, trying not to ruin the shape of it.

The guide looked at him.

“He was your friend?” Regulus asked.

“Yes.”

Regulus nodded once.

“I’m sorry.”

The guide looked away.

“So am I.”

The desert stretched around them.

Regulus picked at a bit of dried blood on his palm, then stopped when he realized his fingers were shaking again.

The guide tied off the bandage.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

“Your shoulder?”

“It is fine.”

“Let me see.”

“It is fine.”

“Regulus.”

“It hurts,” he snapped, then immediately hated the sharpness of his voice. “But I can move it.”

“Show me.”

Regulus lifted his arm.

Pain flared.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth but kept lifting until the guide nodded.

“Good. Bruised.”

“Everything is bruised.”

“Yes.”

“Is your side bruised?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

The guide blinked.

Regulus lifted his chin.

“If you inspect me, I inspect you.”

“That is not how this works.”

“It is now.”

“You are twelve.”

“I have eyes.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“Neither are you.”

The man stared at him.

Regulus stared back.

At last the guide exhaled, almost laughing despite himself. “You are very difficult.”

“I have been told.”

“Many times?”

“Constantly.”

“I believe it.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched again.

The guide did not show him his side, but he did drink water after Regulus pushed the bottle toward him with silent insistence.

That felt like a victory.

A small one.

Regulus needed small victories.

They moved away from the wreck once the guide had gathered enough. Not far, because the truck was the largest thing in the landscape and the easiest to see, but far enough that the metal would not burn the air around them. The guide chose a slight dip beside the dune and used the cloth and rope to create a low patch of shade, tying one side to a broken length of frame he had dragged over and anchoring the other with buried weight in the sand.

Regulus helped by holding the cloth down while the wind tried to tear it out of his hands.

“Hold tight,” the guide said.

“I am.”

“Tighter.”

“I only have two hands.”

“Use both.”

“I am using both.”

“Use your elbows.”

Regulus gave him an incredulous look. “My elbows?”

“Yes.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“It works.”

Regulus crouched lower, pressing the cloth against the sand with both hands and one elbow, feeling deeply undignified.

The guide gave him one quick glance and smiled.

“Do not say anything,” Regulus warned.

“I did not.”

“You wanted to.”

“Yes.”

Regulus shoved the cloth down harder.

By the time they finished, the shade was ugly, low, and uneven, but it existed.

Regulus crawled under it and sat with his knees drawn up, satchel in his lap.

The relief was immediate.

Not coolness, exactly. Nothing was cool. But the sun no longer beat directly against his skull, and the tiny difference felt almost luxurious.

The guide sat beside him with a controlled exhale.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Regulus listened to their breathing.

To the wind.

To the faint ticking of the wreck as hot metal settled.

He did not look at it.

He looked at the horizon instead.

“Will they be angry?” the guide asked suddenly.

Regulus turned.

“Who?”

“Your parents.”

Regulus blinked. “Because the truck crashed?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The man looked uncertain.

Regulus frowned at him.

“They are not like that.”

“No?”

“No.”

The guide nodded slowly.

“They will be frightened,” Regulus said, quieter.

“Yes.”

“My mother will be furious, but not at you.”

“At who?”

“The entire world, probably.”

The guide’s brows lifted.

Regulus looked back at the horizon. “She does that.”

“And your father?”

“He will be quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“That is worse.”

The man seemed to consider this.

Regulus traced a finger over the edge of his satchel.

“They will come,” he said.

It was not a question.

The guide answered anyway.

“Yes.”

Regulus nodded.

“They love me.”

The words were simple.

Too simple.

They came out younger than he meant.

The guide looked at him, not smiling now.

“Yes,” he said. “I think they do.”

Regulus swallowed.

“My brother would say I am being dramatic.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No.”

“Then he is wrong.”

“He is wrong often.”

“Older?”

Regulus nodded.

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

“Older brothers are born wrong.”

Regulus stared.

Then, despite everything, he laughed.

It startled him.

It was small and cracked and half-swallowed, but it was real.

The guide smiled, not triumphantly, not teasingly. Just kindly.

Regulus’s laughter faded into a shaky breath.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand before any tears could escape.

“I’m not crying,” he said.

“I did not say you were.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I just have sand in my eyes.”

“There is a lot of sand.”

“Yes.”

“Very inconvenient.”

“Extremely.”

The guide leaned back slightly under the shade and looked out at the desert.

The dead radio lay between them.

Regulus stared at it.

“Will it ever work again?”

“Maybe.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed.

The guide sighed. “I know. Maybe.”

“You should stop using that word.”

“I will try.”

“Do you know how to fix radios?”

“No.”

“Then why did you bring it?”

“Because sometimes broken things become less broken.”

Regulus considered that.

“That is not a reliable survival strategy.”

“No. But hope is light to carry.”

Regulus looked at him.

The man shrugged one shoulder. “Desert sense.”

For once, Regulus did not argue.

The wind lifted the edge of the cloth. Sunlight flashed over his knees, then disappeared as the guide reached up and adjusted the tie.

Regulus hugged his bag tighter.

“What if they do not find us before dark?” he asked.

The guide’s face stayed calm.

“Then we stay here before dark.”

“It gets cold, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How cold?”

“Cold enough.”

Regulus stared flatly at him.

The guide rubbed a hand over his face. “I will not say maybe.”

“Good.”

“It gets very cold.”

Regulus wished he had not asked.

He looked down at his clothes, dusty and torn, entirely unsuitable for freezing. His mother would be horrified. His father would remove his own jacket and pretend he was not cold. Sirius would tease him and then sit close enough to share warmth without saying that was what he was doing.

No.

Do not think about Sirius.

Thinking about Sirius made his chest hurt in a different way.

The guide watched him carefully.

“We have cloth,” he said. “Your bag. My clothes. We can make it through night if we need.”

“If.”

“Yes. If.”

Regulus nodded.

The shadow of their makeshift shelter trembled over the sand.

The guide reached for the radio again and turned it over, checking the casing, the wires, the receiver. Regulus watched every movement, hope rising despite himself like a foolish little bird.

“Anything?”

“Not yet.”

“That means no.”

“It means not yet.”

“You said you would stop.”

“I said I would try.”

The guide tapped the radio lightly and lifted the receiver.

Static spat.

Both of them froze.

Regulus leaned forward so fast pain pulled through his side.

The guide adjusted the dial.

More static.

A thin squeal.

Then nothing.

“No,” Regulus whispered.

The guide tried again.

Static.

Dead air.

He lowered the receiver carefully.

Regulus sat back.

The bird in his chest folded its wings.

“That was something,” the guide said.

“It was not enough.”

“No.”

Regulus pressed his lips together until they hurt.

The guide set the radio down but kept one hand on it.

“We try again later.”

Regulus nodded.

Outside their small patch of shade, the Sahara rolled away in endless gold.

The wrecked truck lay on its side like a warning.

Somewhere ahead, beyond the wavering heat, beyond the dunes, beyond the distance that had opened between them like a wound, Walburga and Orion Black were either still driving or already turning back.

Regulus imagined his mother realizing.

The way her head would lift.

The way her gaze would sharpen.

The way her voice would cut through every other sound.

Where is my son?

He imagined his father looking back at the empty trail.

One moment of silence.

Then action.

He held onto that image with both hands inside his mind.

The guide shifted beside him.

“Regulus.”

“What?”

“When they come, they will look for the truck. So we stay close. We do not wander. We save water. We keep shade. We do small things. One small thing, then the next.”

Regulus looked at him.

“That is how people survive?”

“Yes.”

“One small thing at a time?”

“Yes.”

Regulus considered this.

Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out the wrapped packet from breakfast.

The guide blinked.

Regulus unfolded it carefully.

Inside was bread, slightly flattened, and a piece of dry pastry his father had insisted he take because lunch would be late.

Regulus held half of it out.

The guide looked at it, then at him.

“You should eat.”

“So should you.”

“Regulus—”

“One small thing,” Regulus said.

The guide was silent.

Then he accepted the piece.

They ate slowly under the trembling cloth, both of them dusty, bruised, and too aware of the dead man near the wreck to speak his name again.

The bread was dry.

Regulus chewed anyway.

After a few minutes, he said, “This is terrible.”

The guide looked at his half. “It is bread.”

“It is terrible bread.”

“You complain about everything.”

“I observe problems.”

“This bread saved you.”

“It can save me and still be terrible.”

The guide shook his head, smiling faintly.

Regulus felt something loosen in his chest.

Not peace.

Nothing as grand as that.

But a breath.

A real one.

He looked out at the desert again.

The sun had not moved enough.

The tracks had softened further, but they were still there. Faint lines leading away toward his parents. Faint lines leading back toward him.

He imagined the first truck turning.

He imagined wheels carving through the sand.

He imagined his mother’s voice.

His father’s hands.

A shadow cresting the dune.

Not yet.

But eventually.

Regulus sat straighter under the makeshift shade, scraped knees tucked beneath him, satchel held close, chin lifted against the heat and fear and vastness of the Sahara.

Beside him, the guide adjusted the radio again.

Static whispered once.

Then died.

Regulus did not look away from the horizon.

“They will come,” he said.

The guide followed his gaze.

“Yes,” he said.

This time, neither of them sounded like they were lying.

Night did not fall over the desert.

It arrived like a door shutting.

One moment there was still light smeared thinly across the dunes, gold fading to copper, copper bruising into violet, the horizon trembling with the last heat of the day. The next, the sun had gone down as if pulled beneath the sand by something ancient and hungry, and the Sahara changed its face entirely.

Regulus had not expected the cold.

He had been warned.

The man had told him more than once, had explained while the sun still burned and Regulus still felt baked alive beneath the makeshift shade that night in the desert was not gentle, that heat fled quickly once there was nothing left in the sky to hold it.

Regulus had believed him in the abstract.

He had not understood it.

Now he did.

The cold came slyly at first, crawling over the sand in thin invisible fingers. It found the sweat beneath his collar. It touched the scraped skin at his knees and made him hiss. It crept beneath his sleeves, down the back of his neck, into the spaces between his ribs where bruises had bloomed after the crash.

By the time the last line of colour vanished from the sky, Regulus was shivering.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

He had pressed his teeth together until his jaw ached, holding himself rigid in a determined little knot beneath the sagging cloth shelter, because he refused to tremble like some frightened child even though he was, inconveniently, both frightened and a child.

The man noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

“You are cold,” he said.

Regulus looked at him through the blue-black dark. “That is an observation, not a solution.”

The man huffed softly. “You still have your mouth. Good.”

“I am delighted my suffering reassures you.”

“It does.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know.”

The man shifted beside him, his outline low and broad beneath the cloth. The sky beyond the shelter was filling with stars at an impossible speed. They scattered themselves overhead in thousands, sharp and bright, as if the desert had stolen every lamp from every city in the world and hung them above the sand.

Regulus stared despite himself.

It was beautiful.

He hated that too.

Beautiful things, he was learning, could be cruel without even trying.

The man reached for one of the salvaged cloths and shook sand from it before handing it to Regulus. “Around your shoulders.”

Regulus took it, fingers stiff. “What about you?”

“I have mine.”

“You gave me the larger one.”

“You are smaller.”

“You keep saying that as though it is an argument.”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

“In the desert, yes.”

Regulus glared at him, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he immediately pulled the cloth around himself and tucked it tightly under his chin.

The man smiled faintly.

“Do not look smug,” Regulus muttered.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am alive. I am allowed to be a little smug.”

Regulus did not know what to say to that.

He looked out toward the wreck.

In the dark, the ruined truck was only a hunched shape some distance away, blacker than the sand around it. Earlier, when the sun had still been up, Regulus had forced himself not to look too closely at it. The shape beneath it. The still hand. The place where the driver lay trapped, unreachable, unmoveable, dead before either of them could even understand that the world had changed.

Now darkness covered him.

It felt kinder.

It also felt worse.

Because Regulus knew he was there.

The man knew too.

Neither of them spoke of it.

The radio sat between them like a small dead animal.

The guide had tried it again and again throughout the fading afternoon, turning dials, tapping the casing, lifting the receiver to his ear with a patience that grew thinner every time static answered and then cut away into nothing.

Once, near dusk, it had crackled sharply.

Regulus had sat up so fast his side screamed.

The man had held up a hand for silence.

For three breathless seconds, the radio had hissed.

Then there had been a faint fragment of sound, so brief it might have been imagination.

Regulus had grabbed the man’s sleeve.

“Was that them?”

The man had stared at the radio.

“I do not know.”

“Try again.”

“I am.”

“Say something.”

“I am.”

“Say it louder.”

The man had lifted the receiver. “Hello? Hello, can anyone hear? This is second truck. We had accident. We need help.”

Static.

Nothing.

“Again,” Regulus had whispered.

The man had tried again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing had answered except the desert.

Now the radio was silent.

Regulus hated it.

He hated the way hope kept making him stupid.

He pulled the cloth tighter and stared across the dark sand.

“They should have come by now,” he said.

The man did not answer at once.

Regulus turned his head.

The man was looking toward the horizon too.

“Shouldn’t they?” Regulus pressed.

The guide’s profile was hard to read in the dark. “Maybe they had trouble turning back.”

“You said not to say maybe.”

“I know.”

“Then do not.”

The man rubbed a hand over his face, slow and tired. “There are dunes. There is distance. At night, it is harder. They may have stopped to wait for morning.”

“My parents would not wait.”

“No?”

“No.”

Regulus said it with absolute certainty, because there were few things he knew as firmly as that. Walburga Black would not sit obediently in a truck while her son was missing somewhere in the Sahara. Orion Black would not allow himself to be told to remain calm while Regulus did not arrive behind him.

“They would come,” Regulus said.

“Then they are coming.”

“If they are coming, why are they not here?”

The question came out too small.

Regulus hated it as soon as it left his mouth.

The man leaned back against the slanted support of the shelter, exhaling through his nose. “Because the desert is large.”

Regulus looked away.

That was the worst answer because it was true.

The desert was large.

Too large.

Vast all day and vaster at night, when the dunes disappeared into shadow and the world became nothing but cold air, stars, and black shapes rising in every direction. During the day, the sunlight had made everything painfully visible. At night, the darkness made everything unknowable.

Regulus preferred visibility.

Even painful visibility.

The man shifted, then began rearranging the cloths and bags near them.

Regulus watched suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“You need sleep.”

“No, I do not.”

“Yes.”

“I slept in the truck earlier.”

“You were unconscious for perhaps three seconds while rolling through sand. That is not sleep.”

Regulus opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“That was a joke,” the man said.

“It was not funny.”

“You looked like you wanted to argue anyway.”

“I always want to argue.”

“Yes. But you need sleep.”

“I am not sleeping.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are twelve.”

“That remains irrelevant.”

“You are hurt. You are cold. You are scared. You cannot help if you fall over tomorrow.”

Regulus went very still. “Tomorrow?”

The man paused.

Then he continued folding one of the cloths. “If we are still here tomorrow.”

Regulus stared at him.

The man would not look up.

“What do you mean, tomorrow?”

“Only what I said.”

“You said we wait here.”

“Yes.”

“You said the truck is a marker.”

“Yes.”

“You said they would find the truck.”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you say tomorrow like that?”

The man sighed. “Regulus.”

“No. Why?”

“Because I think about all things. That is my job.”

“Your job is to say useful things, not frightening ones.”

“My job is to keep you alive.”

The words cut through the shelter.

Regulus’s mouth shut.

The man looked at him properly then, dark eyes tired but steady.

“If we are here tomorrow, we make decisions tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep.”

Regulus swallowed.

“I will not be able to.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

“You will try.”

“And you?”

“I keep watch.”

“That is not fair.”

“No.”

“You should sleep too.”

“I will later.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am being practical.”

“You’re lying practically.”

That made the man smile again, faintly, unwillingly.

Regulus took it as a victory, though it was not enough of one.

The man began explaining how Regulus should lie, and Regulus listened with a concentration sharpened by dread. Not flat in the loose sand, not with his face uncovered, not where the wind could blow grit into his mouth and nose. The guide built him a low barrier with their bags and cloth, packing sand around the edges to keep it still, then angled another piece of fabric so it covered the side of Regulus’s face without smothering him.

Regulus watched every movement.

“You have done this before?” he asked.

The man nodded. “Many times.”

“Sleeping in the desert?”

“Yes.”

“After crashes?”

The man’s hands paused.

Regulus regretted the question before he finished asking it.

“Not like this,” the guide said quietly.

Regulus looked down. “Sorry.”

“It is all right.”

“No, it is not.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But it is not your fault.”

Regulus drew his knees closer.

The guide finished arranging the cloth. “Here. Lie down.”

Regulus looked at the small sleeping place as if it were a trap.

“I do not want to.”

“I know.”

“If I sleep, something might happen.”

“I will be awake.”

“What if you fall asleep?”

“I will not.”

“What if something comes?”

“Nothing is close.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know enough.”

“What if the sand moves?”

“The sand always moves. This keeps it from your face.”

“What if my parents come and I do not wake up?”

The guide’s expression softened in a way Regulus could barely stand.

“Then I will wake you.”

Regulus looked toward the horizon again.

Nothing.

Only dark.

Only cold.

Only stars.

The man’s voice lowered. “Regulus.”

He turned back.

“You need sleep.”

Regulus wanted to say no again. Wanted to be difficult because being difficult was familiar, and everything else had been ripped away. But exhaustion had begun to pull at him with heavy hands. His body hurt. His head ached. Every time he blinked, his eyes stayed shut too long.

So he crawled into the small prepared space with as much dignity as a bruised, dusty twelve-year-old could manage.

The man adjusted the cloth near his shoulder.

Regulus stiffened. “I can do it.”

“I know.”

“I am not helpless.”

“I know.”

The guide sat back. “Comfortable?”

“No.”

“Good enough?”

Regulus hesitated.

Then, grudgingly, “Yes.”

The man nodded.

Regulus lay on his side, tucked behind the little barrier, satchel pressed against his chest beneath the cloth. The sand beneath him was cold now. It held the shape of his body in a way that made him feel both trapped and protected.

The guide sat just beyond him, a shadow facing outward.

Watching.

Regulus stared at his back.

“You will wake me if anything happens?”

“Yes.”

“If the radio works?”

“Yes.”

“If you see lights?”

“Yes.”

“If my parents come?”

The man turned his head.

Especially then, his face seemed to say.

But aloud, he only said, “Yes.”

Regulus nodded, though his throat felt tight.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

The stars were still there.

The man was still there.

The wreck was still there.

The desert was still too large.

Regulus closed his eyes again.

For a long while, he did not sleep.

He drifted near it, close enough that sounds blurred but not close enough to disappear. He heard the wind dragging sand softly against cloth. He heard the guide shift now and then. He heard the radio crackle once, faintly, then fall silent after the man touched it.

Once, half-asleep, Regulus murmured, “Mère?”

The guide did not answer.

Regulus woke enough to realize what he had said and curled tighter around the satchel, face burning in the dark.

The man still said nothing.

That was kind too.

Later, Regulus woke again to the sound of the guide speaking quietly.

Not into the radio.

To himself, perhaps.

Or to the dead man by the wreck.

Regulus could not understand the words.

They were soft and low and threaded with grief.

He kept his eyes closed.

Eventually, sleep took him properly.

Not gently.

It dragged him down in pieces.

One moment he was listening to the wind.

The next, he was gone.

Morning came pale.

Regulus surfaced slowly, dragged upward by cold light and stiffness.

For a few seconds he did not remember.

He knew only that his mouth was dry, his shoulder hurt, and his cheek was pressed to rough cloth that smelled of dust and sun. He blinked once, twice, and stared at the little wall of packed sand and bags beside his face.

Then everything returned.

The truck.

The crash.

The driver.

The broken radio.

The desert.

Regulus sucked in a breath and pushed himself up too quickly.

Pain pulled across his ribs.

He froze, hunched over, teeth clenched around a sound he refused to make.

The shelter around him was dim and grey-blue with early light. The cloth above sagged low. Sand had piled against one side during the night, spilling through small gaps in thin ridges. The air was cold enough that his fingers felt numb, though the horizon beyond the shelter had begun to warm with the first suggestion of gold.

The guide was asleep.

Regulus stared at him.

The man had finally collapsed sometime before dawn, sitting at first, then slumped sideways near the entrance of the shade, one arm tucked beneath his head, the dead radio close to his hand. His face looked worse in morning light. Scraped. Exhausted. Older.

He had kept watch.

Regulus knew it immediately.

There was something about the heaviness of his sleep that proved it. He had not drifted off carelessly. He had held himself awake until his body had simply taken the choice away from him.

Regulus sat very still.

He should wake him.

Probably.

But the desert was quiet.

And Regulus needed to look.

Just look.

If there was a truck nearby, if there were people, if his parents had come during the night and stopped somewhere close, if there were tracks, movement, anything, he could see. He could tell the man. He could be useful.

He was not useless.

He moved carefully.

Every part of him protested.

His knee pulled under the bandage. His shoulder throbbed. His ribs gave a dull warning every time he breathed too deeply. But he crawled over the packed sand, one hand clutching his satchel, the other braced against the ground.

The guide did not wake.

Regulus paused beside him.

The man’s hand twitched slightly in sleep.

Regulus whispered, “I’m only looking.”

The man did not stir.

Regulus crawled past him and out from under the shade.

The morning air struck his face.

Cold.

Clean.

Silent.

He stood slowly.

The sky was enormous again, but softer than yesterday. The stars had gone. The sun had not yet fully climbed. The dunes lay in pale curves around him, their edges brushed with faint silver and rose.

For one strange second, the desert looked peaceful.

Then Regulus looked for the truck.

And did not see it.

He blinked.

Turned his head.

The wreck had been there.

It had been there.

A few yards away, blackened by night, twisted on its side near the bottom of the dune. He had stared at it before sleeping. He had used it as proof that the crash had happened, proof that they had not imagined it, proof that rescue could find them because the broken truck was large and obvious against the sand.

There was nothing there now.

Only dunes.

Smooth dunes.

Soft, pale, untouched sand rising where metal had been.

Regulus stood frozen.

His heart did one hard beat.

Then another.

No wreck.

No torn canvas.

No bent wheel.

No dead radio trail.

No body.

The place where the driver had been trapped beneath crushed metal was buried under a clean sweep of sand as if the desert had lowered a hand over him during the night and erased him from the world.

Regulus turned sharply, scanning the ground.

The tracks.

The first truck’s tracks. Their tracks. The lines they had followed before the crash. The deep marks left by the wreck sliding and rolling. The disturbed sand where Regulus had crawled and the guide had dragged supplies away.

Gone.

All of it.

The desert had changed while they slept.

Not a little.

Completely.

Regulus took one step forward.

His foot sank into untouched sand.

“No,” he whispered.

The word vanished immediately.

He spun around, looking for something, anything familiar. A torn piece of metal. The broken wheel. The place where the guide had pulled the water out. The marks of their movement. The path leading back. The path leading forward.

Nothing.

Only sand.

Sand in every direction.

Smooth ridges.

Wind-brushed slopes.

A world remade overnight.

Regulus’s breathing caught.

“No.”

He stumbled toward where he thought the wreck had been.

The sand dipped under him.

He nearly fell, caught himself, and kept going, frantic now, dragging one hand through the dune as though he could uncover the truck by will alone.

His fingers found only cold sand.

“No, no, no.”

He dropped to his knees and dug.

Sand filled his nails.

He clawed harder.

The dune collapsed back into itself.

Nothing.

There should have been metal. There should have been heat. There should have been the dead shape of the truck and the terrible hand beneath it. There should have been proof. There should have been something for his parents to find.

There was nothing.

Regulus scrambled backward, chest heaving.

The horizon wavered.

He turned toward the shelter.

“Wake up,” he called.

His voice cracked.

The guide did not move.

Regulus ran.

Or tried to.

His injured knee buckled halfway, and he lurched forward, catching himself on both hands with a sharp cry. Pain flashed white through him. He shoved himself up anyway, half-stumbling, half-crawling back to the shade.

“Wake up!”

The man jerked awake instantly.

His hand flew to the radio first.

Then to the knife at his belt.

Then his eyes found Regulus.

“What? What happened?”

Regulus grabbed his shoulder. “It’s gone.”

The guide blinked hard, still caught between sleep and waking. “What?”

“It’s gone.”

“What is gone?”

“The truck!”

The man’s face changed.

He pushed himself up too fast and swore in pain, one arm wrapping across his ribs. Regulus did not care. He grabbed his sleeve and pulled.

“Come look. Come look!”

“Slow—”

“No, come look!”

The guide staggered out of the shelter with him.

Morning light washed over them both.

The man stopped.

Regulus watched the understanding hit him.

First confusion.

Then disbelief.

Then something much worse.

The guide turned slowly, scanning the dunes, the ground, the empty space where the wreck had been visible the night before.

His mouth went flat.

He took several steps forward.

Stopped.

Looked left.

Right.

Back toward the shelter.

Then out across the desert.

For a moment he said nothing.

Regulus could hear his own breathing again, fast and ragged.

“Where is it?” Regulus demanded.

The man did not answer.

“Where is it?”

The guide crouched and pressed a hand into the sand where the ground rose too smoothly.

He dug once, twice.

His fingers disappeared into loose grains.

He stilled.

Then he swore.

Not softly this time.

Harshly.

A word like a stone thrown at the sky.

Regulus flinched.

The man stood, his face tight, eyes moving rapidly now. “The sand moved.”

Regulus stared. “What?”

“The wind shifted the dune overnight.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, it cannot just— it cannot bury a truck.”

“It can.”

“No, it can’t.”

“It can.”

“That is not possible!”

The guide turned to him sharply. “It is possible. It happened.”

Regulus looked back at the smooth sand.

His stomach lurched.

“The body,” he whispered.

The guide’s expression flickered.

Regulus looked at him, horrified. “He’s under there.”

The man said nothing.

“He’s under there and the truck is under there and—”

“Regulus.”

“The tracks are gone.”

“Yes.”

“The tracks are gone.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The man stepped closer. “Listen to me.”

“No, the tracks are gone. The tracks are gone, and the truck is gone, and now there’s nothing. There’s nothing here. There’s no marker. You said the truck was a marker.”

“I know.”

“You said we stay by the truck.”

“I know.”

“You said they would see it!”

“I know!”

The shout cracked out of the man before he could stop it.

Regulus froze.

The guide closed his eyes for half a second, breathing hard. When he opened them again, his voice was lower.

“I know.”

Regulus stared at him.

The man looked away, jaw working.

For the first time since the crash, he looked frightened.

Not for himself.

For Regulus.

That made everything worse.

Regulus wrapped both arms around his satchel and backed away a step.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

The guide looked toward the dunes. Then back at the shelter. Then at the sun, which had begun to lift higher, its edge breaking properly over the horizon now.

“We cannot stay here.”

Regulus felt the words like cold water down his spine.

Yesterday, staying had been safety.

Now staying was death.

“What?” he said anyway.

“We cannot stay. There is no truck to mark us. No tracks to follow back here. If they come, they will not see anything unless they are very close.”

“They might still come close.”

“They might.”

Regulus’s face twisted. “Do not say it.”

The man swallowed the word maybe.

“They might,” he said again, carefully. “But if they follow the route, they will search for the truck. If the truck is buried, they may pass.”

Regulus stared out at the sand where the wreck had been.

The driver was under there.

The man had said his name last night.

Regulus had repeated it.

Now the desert had buried him in silence.

Regulus’s throat tightened so sharply he could barely breathe.

“Can we dig it out?” he asked.

The guide was quiet.

Regulus knew the answer before he gave it.

“No.”

“You dug a little.”

“To understand.”

“We could dig more.”

“With what?”

“Our hands.”

“The dune is too much. It will collapse. The sun will rise. We will lose water, strength, time.”

“But he’s—”

“I know.”

Regulus looked down.

Sand clung to his hands, packed under his fingernails from where he had tried to dig.

The guide’s voice was rough. “I know.”

For a while, neither of them moved.

The sunrise widened around them.

Light began sliding over the dunes, turning the pale grey sand gold again. It would be hot soon. Regulus could feel the promise of it already, the cold retreating, the air sharpening.

The guide seemed to feel it too.

He moved suddenly, decisively.

“We pack.”

Regulus looked up.

The man was already turning toward the shelter.

“We take only what we can carry. Water first. Cloth. Food. Radio.”

“The radio doesn’t work.”

“We take it.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“We take it.”

Regulus followed him automatically, still half-numb.

The shelter looked pathetic in the morning, a low sag of dusty cloth against the endless world. Overnight sand had drifted against one side and nearly swallowed one of the bags. The guide dropped to his knees and began pulling supplies free.

Regulus stood just outside.

His eyes kept dragging back to the buried wreck.

“Regulus,” the guide said.

He did not move.

“Regulus.”

“What?”

“Help me.”

The command cut through the fog.

Help me.

Not sit down.

Not stay.

Not you are twelve.

Help me.

Regulus turned at once.

“What do I do?”

“Your bag. Empty what is useless.”

Regulus’s hands tightened around the satchel. “Nothing is useless.”

The guide looked at him.

Regulus looked back.

The guide’s expression softened, but he did not relent.

“Anything heavy that does not keep you alive is useless today.”

Regulus hated that.

He hated it viciously.

But he crouched and opened the satchel.

Inside, everything looked like another life.

The book.

The packet from breakfast, mostly empty now.

The water bottle.

Folded cloth.

Small items his parents had tucked in with careful hands. Things chosen for comfort, not survival. Things from before the crash, before the desert moved, before the world split into what could be carried and what had to be left behind.

Regulus touched the book first.

His father had bought it for him two days ago after Regulus stared too long at a stall near the ruins and pretended he had not.

He could still hear Orion’s voice.

You are subtle as a falling chandelier, my son.

Regulus’s hand closed around the spine.

The guide watched him but said nothing.

Regulus pulled the book out.

It was not large, but it had weight.

Pages. Cover. Ink. History.

Useless.

His breath hitched.

He placed it on the sand beside him.

The guide looked away.

Regulus hated him for that kindness too.

Next came the empty wrapping from breakfast. That went quickly. A small comb his mother had insisted he carry. Regulus held it for one second, then put it back in the satchel.

The guide noticed.

Said nothing.

Regulus lifted his chin.

“The comb stays.”

The guide kept packing water into a cloth sling. “Then the comb stays.”

Regulus blinked at him.

“I thought you were going to argue.”

“I choose my battles.”

“You argue with me constantly.”

“You are often the battle.”

Regulus almost smiled.

Almost.

He removed anything else that did not matter. Anything that made the bag heavier without helping them walk. Each little abandoned object made the desert feel more real.

The guide gathered the water bottles, dividing them by weight. He wrapped them in cloth to keep the sun from striking them directly. He tied one bundle for himself, another lighter one for Regulus.

Regulus eyed it. “I can carry more.”

“You can carry that.”

“I said more.”

“I heard.”

“I am not weak.”

“No. But you are hurt and smaller.”

Regulus inhaled sharply.

The guide lifted a hand before he could explode. “Not an insult. A fact. If you fall, I carry you and everything else. Then we both die faster.”

Regulus went silent.

The guide’s face softened. “I need you walking. Not proving.”

The words landed strangely.

Regulus looked down at the bundle.

Then nodded once.

“All right.”

The guide tied the cloth around Regulus’s shoulders so the weight sat across him without pulling too sharply on the bruised side. Regulus stood very still, pretending not to need help.

The man pretended to believe him.

The radio went into the guide’s bundle, wrapped carefully despite its silence.

“Why?” Regulus asked again.

The man slung the bundle across himself. “Because broken things become less broken.”

“That is still stupid.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re taking it anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Hope is light to carry?”

The guide paused.

Then looked at him.

Regulus looked away quickly, annoyed that he had remembered.

“Yes,” the man said quietly. “Hope is light to carry.”

Regulus swallowed.

They dismantled the shelter next.

The cloth came down reluctantly, snapping once in the growing morning wind. Sand spilled from its edges. The guide folded it badly, too quickly for neatness. Regulus refolded one corner on instinct, because Walburga Black had not raised him to tolerate sloppy fabric even while stranded in the Sahara.

The guide stared at him.

“What?” Regulus said.

“We are lost in the desert.”

“I know.”

“You are fixing the fold.”

“It was wrong.”

The guide looked as though he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Regulus glared. “It fits better this way.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You had a face.”

“You have many faces. I may have one.”

“You have several.”

“Good.”

They packed the cloth.

Then there was nothing left to do.

No shelter.

No visible wreck.

No tracks.

No marker.

Only two figures standing in an ocean of sand, one man and one boy, both bruised and dusty, both looking toward a direction that had once been obvious and was now only a guess.

Regulus turned slowly.

“Which way?”

The guide did not answer immediately.

That terrified him more than any answer could have.

The man crouched and studied the sand. There were no tracks, but he looked anyway. He studied the dunes, the slope, the sun, the wind’s pattern, the faint shape of where the land dipped and rose. His face became focused, all grief forced down beneath attention.

Regulus watched every movement.

Finally, the man pointed.

“That way.”

Regulus looked.

It looked exactly like every other way.

“How do you know?”

The man took a breath. “I know the route from yesterday. I know where the sun rose. I know how we came over the dune before the crash. I know the first truck was ahead that way.”

“You know?”

“I think.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

The guide grimaced. “I am sorry.”

“No.” Regulus opened his eyes again. His voice came out thin but controlled. “No, thinking is better than nothing.”

“Yes.”

“We walk the same route.”

“As close as possible.”

“So if anyone is coming back, they might cross us.”

“Yes.”

“They might find us.”

The guide nodded. “Yes.”

Regulus looked at the buried wreck one more time.

Or the place where it was.

Nothing marked it.

Not even a shadow.

The driver’s name sat heavy in his mouth.

He whispered it once.

The guide heard.

His eyes lowered.

For a moment, the desert held them both still.

Then the man said something in his own language, soft and rough, toward the buried truck.

Regulus did not understand the words.

He understood enough.

When the guide finished, he turned away first.

Regulus followed.

They began walking.

At first, the morning made it seem possible.

The air was still cool, the sand firm enough in places that their feet did not sink too deeply, and the sun had not yet become cruel. The guide set a slow pace, slower than Regulus wanted and slower than his panic demanded.

Regulus tried to walk faster.

The man stopped immediately.

“No.”

“What?”

“This pace.”

“We need to move.”

“We need to survive moving.”

“I can go faster.”

“For ten minutes.”

“I can go faster.”

“For ten minutes,” the guide repeated. “Then you tire, sweat, drink, fall. This pace.”

Regulus clenched his teeth. “Fine.”

They walked.

The buried wreck disappeared behind a rise almost immediately.

Regulus kept looking back.

The first time, he could still see the slight dip where their shelter had been.

The second time, even that was difficult to find.

The third time, he saw only sand.

He stopped.

The guide walked two more steps before realizing and turning.

“Regulus.”

“It’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“Everything is gone.”

“Yes.”

Regulus’s chest tightened.

The man walked back to him. “Look at me.”

Regulus did not.

“Look at me.”

He dragged his gaze away from the blank dunes.

The guide pointed ahead. “There. That is where we go. Not back.”

“But if they come there—”

“They will not find us there now unless by luck. We make better luck by moving toward them.”

Better luck.

Regulus hated that phrase.

But he nodded.

They continued.

The desert grew brighter.

Gold returned.

The sand warmed beneath Regulus’s shoes. His clothes, stiff with dust and dried sweat, began to itch. The bundle across his shoulders pulled at his bruises. His knee stung with every step, a steady bright pulse beneath the bandage.

He did not complain.

For almost twenty minutes.

Then he said, “This is awful.”

The guide did not look back. “Yes.”

“I thought you would tell me not to complain.”

“No. It is awful.”

Regulus trudged another few steps. “I dislike when you agree with me now.”

“You prefer arguing?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep walking and I will argue later.”

“That is manipulative.”

“Yes.”

Regulus stared at his back.

Then kept walking.

The dunes made distance meaningless.

Every crest promised a view, and every view gave them more sand. They climbed one slope, then another. Sometimes the guide angled them along the side rather than over the top, explaining that it saved strength. Sometimes he stopped and studied the land with narrowed eyes, then adjusted their direction slightly.

Each time he stopped, Regulus’s stomach tightened.

Each adjustment felt like proof that they were wrong.

After the fourth one, he asked, “Are we lost?”

The guide kept looking at the horizon.

“No.”

“You paused.”

“I am checking.”

“That is not no.”

The man exhaled. “We know enough to move.”

“That is not no either.”

“It is the answer we have.”

Regulus hated the answer they had.

They walked on.

The sun climbed.

The cold vanished completely.

Heat returned first as warmth on Regulus’s shoulders, then pressure on the back of his neck, then a relentless weight pressing down from above. The desert brightened until the world seemed made of light and glare. Regulus squinted despite the cloth the guide had wrapped to shade part of his face.

His mouth dried quickly.

The guide called a stop before Regulus asked.

“Small sip.”

Regulus unslung his bottle with clumsy fingers.

His hands already felt strange from the heat, slightly swollen and gritty.

He drank carefully.

Small sip.

Not enough.

Never enough.

The water slid down his throat and vanished.

The guide watched to make sure he did not take more.

Regulus capped the bottle with a glare. “You are worse than my father.”

The guide drank from his own. “Good.”

“That was not praise.”

“I take it.”

“My father would be very offended.”

“Your father is not here.”

Regulus went still.

The man froze too, realizing too late.

Regulus looked away.

“No,” he said. “He is not.”

The guide’s face tightened. “I am sorry.”

Regulus adjusted the strap of his bundle. “Stop saying that.”

“I am.”

“You say it too much.”

“There is much to be sorry for.”

Regulus looked toward the shimmering horizon.

“Yes,” he said.

They walked again.

By midday, the desert became monstrous.

The heat no longer felt like weather. It felt intentional. The sun hammered down until Regulus could feel it through the cloth on his head, through his sleeves, through the skin of his face. The sand reflected it upward, so there was no direction from which the light did not attack.

His thoughts began to fray.

Not fully.

He knew his name. He knew the man was ahead of him. He knew they were trying to follow the route. He knew his parents were somewhere beyond the dunes, searching or waiting or coming back.

But everything else loosened.

Time stretched thin.

His feet moved because the guide’s feet moved.

Step into the footprint where sand was firmer.

Breathe.

Do not waste breath speaking.

Do not think of water.

Do not think of the buried truck.

Do not think of the hand under metal.

Do not think of Walburga’s hand in his hair.

Do not think of Orion fastening the clasp of his bag.

Do not think of saying yes when they asked him to ride with them.

The guide stopped.

Regulus nearly walked into him.

“Rest.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“Rest.”

“I can keep going.”

“I know. Rest anyway.”

There was no shade.

Only the narrow shadow cast by the guide’s body and the small bundles they carried.

The man chose the leeward side of a dune and made Regulus sit with his back angled away from the direct glare. He unwrapped one of the cloths and rigged it awkwardly between himself and a half-buried ridge of firmer sand, creating a scrap of shade barely large enough to cover Regulus’s head and shoulders.

Regulus looked at it.

“That is pathetic.”

“Yes.”

He crawled under it anyway.

The shade was thin and hot and wonderful.

The guide crouched beside him, not fully under the cloth.

Regulus frowned. “You are in the sun.”

“I am fine.”

“You are lying.”

“Yes.”

“Come under.”

“No room.”

“Make room.”

“You are very demanding for someone I am rescuing.”

“You are also rescuing yourself.”

“True.”

“So listen to me.”

The guide glanced at him, amused despite exhaustion. “You have become bossy.”

“I was always bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I am serious.”

“I know.”

Regulus shifted, making space that did not really exist. The cloth slipped. The guide caught it. For several stupid seconds they wrestled with the tiny piece of shade like it was an argument neither of them intended to lose.

At last, the guide sat closer, one shoulder just beneath the edge.

“There,” Regulus said.

The man looked at the small strip of shadow on his sleeve. “A palace.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence.

The desert hummed.

Regulus had thought deserts would be silent before coming here. That had been foolish. The Sahara had sounds. Wind brushing sand. Cloth shifting. Breath. The faint ticking inside a water bottle as it warmed. The soft slide of grains moving down the side of a dune.

But there were no human sounds.

No engines.

No voices.

No wheels.

No rescue.

Regulus stared out across the glare until his eyes ached.

“What if we miss them?” he asked.

The guide kept his gaze forward.

“We try not to.”

“What if they search where the truck was?”

“They will.”

“But the truck is buried.”

“Yes.”

“What if they think we died?”

The guide turned.

Regulus did not look at him.

His own voice sounded too flat.

“What if they find the place and there is nothing and they think we were buried too?”

“They will search.”

“You do not know my parents.”

“No.”

“They will search.”

“Yes.”

“But what if they search wrong?”

The guide’s silence was unbearable.

Regulus closed his eyes.

The man said, “Then we keep walking the route so they have more chances to find us.”

Regulus opened his eyes again.

The answer was not comforting.

But it was something.

One small thing, then the next.

He hated that too.

He loved it a little.

It gave his terror steps to climb.

The guide checked the water. He did not say how much they had left. Regulus noticed.

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“That is not a number.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

The guide looked at him. “Enough if we are careful.”

“And if we are not?”

“We will be careful.”

Regulus let out a humourless little laugh. “You are very good at not answering.”

“I was told once that is a useful skill.”

“By who?”

“Someone older.”

“Were they correct?”

“Sometimes.”

Regulus leaned his head back against the warm sand. “Adults are awful.”

The man smiled faintly. “Yes.”

“You are an adult.”

“Yes.”

“At least you admit it.”

“I admit many awful things today.”

Regulus closed his eyes again.

The shade trembled over him.

He did not mean to drift.

He only meant to rest his eyes.

But exhaustion rose up, dark and soft, and for a few moments the desert faded.

He woke to the guide touching his shoulder.

Regulus flinched violently.

“Easy,” the man said. “Only me.”

Regulus looked around, breathing hard.

Still sand.

Still heat.

Still nothing.

“How long?”

“Not long.”

Regulus swallowed. His throat hurt. “Did you see anything?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Honest.

Awful.

They packed the cloth again and walked.

Afternoon blurred.

The sun dragged itself across the sky with cruel patience. The guide’s pace slowed. Regulus saw it, though the man tried to hide it. His steps grew heavier, his breath tighter. Every so often his hand pressed briefly against his ribs.

“You should rest,” Regulus said.

“We just rested.”

“You are hurt.”

“So are you.”

“You are more hurt.”

“No.”

“Do not lie.”

The guide gave him a side glance. “You are learning too much from me.”

“I already knew lying existed.”

“Yes, but now you identify it very fast.”

“My mother says I have a talent for suspicion.”

“Useful.”

“Annoying, apparently.”

“Also useful.”

Regulus’s lips twitched.

Then the guide stumbled.

It was slight.

Barely anything.

One foot sank deeper than expected, his weight shifted wrong, and he caught himself before falling. But Regulus saw the flash of pain that crossed his face.

“Stop,” Regulus said.

The guide straightened. “I am fine.”

“You are not.”

“Keep moving.”

“No.”

The man turned back, irritated now. “Regulus.”

“You told me proving things gets us killed faster.”

The guide stared.

Regulus lifted his chin despite the heat making him feel faint and unreal.

“You said you need me walking, not proving. I need you walking too.”

The man’s expression shifted.

Something like pride crossed it, though tired and sad.

“You use my words against me.”

“Yes.”

“Very rude.”

“Rest.”

“We cannot stop long.”

“Then stop short.”

The man looked at the sun.

Then at the dunes ahead.

Then he nodded once.

They stopped short.

No shade this time beyond the cloth over their heads and the angle of their bodies against the slope. Regulus forced the guide to drink first. The man argued. Regulus argued harder. It was perhaps their most ridiculous conversation yet, two half-baked survivors in the Sahara quarrelling over who deserved water more.

“You drink,” Regulus said.

“You first.”

“No.”

“You are the child.”

“You are the one who almost fell.”

“You fell this morning.”

“That was earlier. We are discussing now.”

“Drink.”

“You drink.”

“I am responsible for you.”

“And I am making your responsibility difficult unless you drink.”

The man stared at him.

Regulus stared back, pale and dusty and trembling slightly with heat, but immovable.

Finally, the guide took the bottle and drank one small sip.

Regulus looked pleased with himself.

“Good.”

“You are impossible.”

“I know.”

They moved again.

The land began to change subtly, or perhaps Regulus imagined it. The dunes seemed lower in one direction, the sand marked here and there by firmer ripples. The guide noticed too. His attention sharpened. He angled them slightly, following something Regulus could not see.

“What is it?” Regulus asked.

“Maybe the route.”

Regulus glared at him.

The guide corrected himself. “A sign of the route.”

“What sign?”

“The way the sand is compacted. The slope. Yesterday, vehicles passed somewhere near here.”

Regulus looked down.

He saw sand.

Only sand.

“How can you tell?”

“Practice.”

“That is very annoying.”

“Yes.”

They walked toward it.

Regulus’s pulse began to beat harder.

A sign.

Not rescue.

Not yet.

But a sign.

He scanned the horizon until his eyes watered, desperate for movement, for a shape, for smoke, for the dark body of a truck cresting a dune.

Nothing.

They climbed another slope.

Regulus’s legs shook badly by the top.

The guide reached back and steadied him with one hand.

For once, Regulus did not snap that he could manage.

They stood at the crest together.

Below, the desert opened wide.

Dunes folded into dunes, gold and white beneath the descending sun. The air shimmered violently, making the far distance seem liquid. There were no tracks. No vehicles. No people.

Regulus felt the tiny bit of hope inside him bend.

Not break.

Bend.

The guide looked across the landscape, jaw tight.

Regulus knew before he spoke that the man did not see anything either.

Still, the guide pointed ahead and slightly left.

“We go there.”

Regulus stared.

“Why?”

“It keeps us close to where I think the route runs.”

“You think.”

“Yes.”

Regulus swallowed.

The man turned to him. “Regulus.”

“What?”

“I know this is not enough.”

That undid him a little.

Not visibly. Not fully. But somewhere inside, something slipped.

Regulus looked away.

The guide’s voice lowered. “But it is what we have.”

“What if what we have is wrong?”

“Then we correct when we can.”

“And if we can’t?”

The man did not answer.

Regulus gave a small, bitter nod. “Right.”

The guide stepped closer. “Do not go there.”

“Where?”

“To the end before it comes.”

Regulus looked at him sharply.

The guide’s face was drawn with exhaustion, scraped and sunburned and shadowed by pain, but his eyes were steady again.

“We are walking. We have water. We have direction. We have daylight. We have each other. That is now. Stay in now.”

Regulus stared at him.

Stay in now.

He wanted to say that was stupid.

He wanted to say now was unbearable.

But the guide had kept him alive through the crash, through the night, through the morning when the desert had buried the only proof they existed. He had earned the right to be obeyed at least sometimes.

Regulus looked ahead.

“Fine,” he said.

The man nodded.

They descended the dune.

As the sun lowered, the heat began to loosen its grip. The shadows of the dunes stretched long and blue across the sand. The light turned rich, almost beautiful again, which Regulus considered deeply inappropriate. Nothing should be beautiful while they were still lost.

He said as much.

The guide looked over. “What?”

“The sunset. It is rude.”

For a moment, the man seemed too tired to understand.

Then he laughed.

It came out rough, startled, almost painful, but it was laughter.

Regulus frowned. “I am serious.”

“I know.”

“It should not look nice.”

“No?”

“No. It should look as awful as it is.”

The guide shook his head, still smiling faintly. “The desert does not care what we think.”

“Yes, I gathered that.”

“It is beautiful anyway.”

“That is the rude part.”

The man breathed out another laugh.

Regulus held onto the sound.

It made the world feel less empty.

They walked until the light thinned.

The guide did not let them push into full dark. He chose a place beside a low dune where the sand was firm enough to settle and the wind less sharp. There was no truck now. No marker. No proper shelter. Only the cloth, their bags, the radio, and the shape of their bodies against the vastness.

Regulus stared at the place.

“We stop here?”

“Yes.”

“There is nothing here.”

“There was nothing all day.”

“That is not comforting.”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t we keep walking while it is cooler?”

“Not without seeing. We could go wrong. We could hurt ourselves. We stop.”

Regulus wanted to argue.

His legs made the decision for him.

He sank down onto the sand, too exhausted to make sitting look deliberate.

The guide lowered himself beside him with a controlled sound that was definitely pain.

Regulus looked over.

The guide caught him looking.

“Do not start.”

“You made a noise.”

“I am allowed.”

“You said I was complaining well yesterday.”

“You may say I am complaining well.”

“You are complaining terribly.”

The guide gave a tired smile. “Thank you.”

They set up what little they could.

Cloth against the wind.

Bags placed to block drifting sand.

Water checked.

Radio tried.

Static.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again.

The guide lowered the receiver.

Regulus stared at it.

“I hate that thing.”

“So do I.”

“Throw it away.”

“No.”

“It is useless.”

“Not yet.”

Regulus did not correct him.

He was too tired.

The sky darkened.

Cold crept back.

The first stars appeared.

Regulus pulled the cloth around his shoulders and curled around his satchel, which was lighter now after leaving things behind and somehow felt heavier because of it.

The guide sat awake again.

Regulus watched him through the dimming light.

“You need sleep tonight,” he said.

“So do you.”

“You watched last night.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll watch.”

The guide turned his head slowly.

Regulus lifted his chin.

“I can.”

“No.”

“I can.”

“You are twelve.”

“Yes. We established that.”

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“If something happens—”

“I will wake you.”

The guide looked at him for a long moment.

Then he smiled, very faintly and very sadly.

“What?” Regulus demanded.

“You are brave.”

Regulus looked away so fast it almost hurt.

“I am not.”

“Yes.”

“I am not brave. I am terrified.”

“That is usually when bravery matters.”

Regulus hated that his eyes burned again.

He blinked hard and glared at the horizon.

“I only want my parents.”

“I know.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know.”

“I want this to be over.”

“I know.”

The guide did not reach for him.

Regulus was grateful.

The man only sat beside him in the growing dark and let the words exist without trying to tidy them away.

After a while, Regulus whispered, “Do you think they’re still looking?”

The guide looked out across the night-black dunes.

“Yes.”

This time, it came without hesitation.

Regulus believed him.

Not because the desert was smaller.

Not because the tracks had returned.

Not because the radio worked or the wreck had risen from beneath the sand or rescue lights had appeared over the dunes.

None of that had happened.

The world was still enormous.

They were still two small figures inside it.

But his parents were still out there.

Somewhere.

And Regulus was still walking toward them.

One small thing, then the next.

He lay down the way the guide had taught him, cloth angled to protect his face from the sand, satchel against his chest, knees drawn in to hold warmth. The man remained seated beside him, though lower now, one hand resting near the useless radio.

Regulus kept his eyes open as long as he could.

The stars sharpened overhead.

The desert breathed around them.

Before sleep pulled him under, Regulus murmured, “Tomorrow we keep walking.”

The guide answered softly, “Tomorrow we keep walking.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

And somewhere beneath the endless sand behind them, the wreck stayed buried, the tracks stayed gone, and the Sahara kept its secrets for one more night.