Melian

The desert stretches endlessly beneath the pale sun, the wind pushing dust across my skin and into every seam of my armor. I move along the ridge of a canyon, my steps light, steady, silent, even on the loose gravel. My bow rests across my shoulder, the weight of the quiver shifting with each stride. Above me, vultures circle, their shadows gliding over the rock, while thin columns of smoke rise in the distance. I stop at the cliff’s edge and scan the wasteland below, the mark etched along my side burning faintly in the sun like a reminder of why I walk this path. Fresh wagon tracks cut deep into the sand, signs of raiders that passed through the night before. My hand tightens on the bow, not out of doubt, but out of certainty. The hunt has already begun.