Book One – Chapter 1

Yves slid the leyliner back into its case and unhooked the metronomic orb the Witch Mother had given him. The pendulum within hung utterly still until he offered it a careful thread of Rothar. It awakened immediately. He watched it settle into a steady oscillation, a restrained inward rhythm; a pulse, almost like a beating heart, if one was inclined to romanticise witch-made objects. Yves was not. He saw the disturbing side of it; a witch artefact stirring to life on his energy. A heart, at least, had the decency to beat for itself. And yet, the motion was his lifeline. It did not bend to the desert’s erratic winds, but answered a singular direction far beyond the dunes.

Yves took several measured steps towards the frayed outline of his shadow. The sun scraped the distorted shape thin against the sand, bleaching its edges so ruthlessly it seemed less cast than erased. What remained of the flickering thing wanted nothing but tear lose and run away. Yves very much shared that sentiment, and yet, he stayed on course until he was sufficiently dissatisfied with  the orb’s oscillation. Assured it would give him nothing, he deviated from his set path. Moving left and right, he tested each new direction against the orb’s rhythm. As soon as the oscillation stabilised, he severed the flow of Rothar. The orb required only the faintest charge. Anything more was dangerous. Magic drew attention. Even the smallest ripple of foreign energy could stir the things that lived beneath the sand.

As he adjusted their course, Yves watched Midnight for any sign that she sensed such a beast.

He found her alert, but not alarmed.

They did not speak. Any sound would have been shredded by the storm, flayed apart before it could carry meaning. Instead, they stayed close enough to read intention through posture and pace, their coordination a matter of habit rather than conscious communication.