Prophets Sword / Season 1, Episode 11
Ravine's Desperate Escape
Amara’s fingers clawed at the jagged edge of the ravine wall, her breath ragged as the coarse sandstone scraped her palm raw. The narrow crevice they’d squeezed into smelled of ancient dust and trapped heat, the kind that pressed into your lungs like a fist. Above, the sliver of sky was a pale, merciless blue, indifferent to the pounding of her heart or the shouts echoing from the wadi they’d fled. Riders—too many to count—had been closing in since dawn, their silhouettes blurring into the heat haze like specters born of the desert itself. She didn’t need to see their banners to know they weren’t friends. Songhai warbands, maybe, or that Moroccan prince’s scouts. Or worse, the Portuguese, with their pale faces and hungry eyes, sniffing out gold and glory. “Move, scholar!” Moussa’s voice hissed from behind, sharp as a whip. His armored shoulder nudged her forward, the clink of his mail a stark reminder of the soldiers crammed into the tight passage with them. Sweat beaded on his brow, streaking through the dust caked on his skin, but his grip on the spear never wavered. “If they find this cut, we’re meat for vultures.” “I’m trying,” Amara snapped, her voice low but fraying at the edges. Her linen wrap clung to her back, soaked through, and every step sent...