Prophets Sword / Season 1, Episode 9
Thirst in the Wadi
Amara’s fingers clawed at the rough edge of the sandstone crevice, her breath hitching as she pressed her face closer to the trickle of water seeping through the rock. The dampness smelled of earth and iron, a faint tang that cut through the dry, gritty air of the wadi. Her tongue felt like leather, swollen and heavy, and the mere sight of that thin stream—barely enough to wet her palm—made her chest ache with want. Around her, the caravan had ground to a halt, Moussa’s soldiers slumping against their camels, their kente-wrapped spears leaning crookedly in the sand. The midday heat pressed down like a blacksmith’s hammer, the sun a relentless eye glaring through a sky bleached to bone. “Move aside, scholar,” Kwame’s voice rasped behind her, sharp with impatience. He shoved forward, his wiry frame brushing against her shoulder, the stolen manuscript still tucked into the leather pouch at his hip. His hands, calloused and dust-caked, reached for the water, but Amara’s arm shot out, blocking him. “Wait,” she snapped, her voice cracking from thirst. “We ration. All of us. Or there’s none left by dusk.” Kwame’s dark eyes narrowed, a sneer pulling at his cracked lips. “You don’t command me, woman. I’ve carried this cursed thing—” he patted the pouch, “—while you scribble and pray. I drink first.”...