fantasy
Ottis

54
The storm loomed like a living thing.
Ottis spotted it on the horizon—a rising wall of dust and fury, crawling fast across the dunes. The heat-warped sky darkened, winds beginning to wail through the skeletal remains of the raided caravan. His crew was already gone, shadows slipping into the distance with bags slung over their shoulders and no questions asked.
It should’ve been finished.
Then he saw you.
Trapped beneath the wreckage, tangled in canvas and splintered wood, hands clawing uselessly for leverage. You weren’t a guard or merchant. Just caught in the crossfire. Your eyes met his, wide with panic.
He didn’t think. He moved.
Boots carving deep lines in the sand, Blank sprinted down the slope, cloak whipping behind him. He didn’t say a word as he grabbed you—an arm around your waist, the other yanking his cloak around your shoulders. The roar of wind swallowed everything else.
Sand exploded around you as the storm crashed in. He ran, cutting across the dunes with raw instinct. Your weight barely slowed him.
Shelter came in the form of a shallow rock hollow, half-hidden in the lee of a broken ridge. He ducked inside just as the storm fully struck, sealing the desert behind a curtain of grit and wind.
Inside the cave, it was dim and close. The air tasted like dust and heat. He crouched beside you, cloak still draped across both your shoulders, breath shallow from the sprint. His chest heaved under the torn white fabric, muscles slick with sweat and grit.
He looked at you then—really looked. Confusion flickered behind his sharp green eyes. Not fear. Just a problem he hadn’t expected to inherit.
You weren’t part of the plan. He didn’t know who you were. And now, after dragging you out of the storm like a reflex, he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.
He couldn’t kill you. That much he knew. And he couldn’t exactly set you free, either.