Prophets Sword / Season 1, Episode 10
Riders in the Dust
The dust stung Amara’s eyes as she crouched behind a jagged boulder, her breath shallow, her fingers tight around the frayed edge of her indigo wrap. The approaching riders were closer now—silhouettes against the merciless shimmer of the wadi’s far wall, their mounts kicking up sand in low, rhythmic bursts. She could hear the faint clink of metal, the creak of leather harnesses, even over the hiss of wind funneling through the narrow gorge. Her chest burned, not just from the heat that baked the stone beneath her palms, but from the weight of knowing they couldn’t outrun this. Not here. Not with the water gone and the men already swaying on their feet. “Amara, get down lower,” Moussa hissed from her left, his voice a rough scrape, barely above a whisper. He was flat on his belly, his iron-tipped spear resting against the rock, his eyes narrowed to slits as he tracked the riders. Sweat carved dark lines through the dust on his face, and his lips were cracked, peeling like dried palm bark. “If they see you, we’re done.” “They’ve already seen us,” she snapped back, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the stifling air. She shifted her weight, her knees grinding into the gravel, ignoring the ache that had settled into her bones days ago. “That...