I frown at the sky.

Surely my aging eyes are playing tricks with me. But no, it is indeed sunset—and the air is still uncomfortably hot. 

At least there is a fresh breeze that keeps me company, one that occasionally blows by from the eastern mountains. And this time of year is most enjoyable. Well, it was. But I am determined not to let my pessimistic thoughts get the best of me.

Lost in my thinking, I nearly run over a blur of speckled feathers playing a game of tag. I stumble and come to a halt. The roadrunners squawk in alarm.

I smile apologetically. "Forgive me," I say. I pull out a strip of dried chicken and tear it into little tidbits before offering them to the fledglings. A moment of hesitation passes before the chicken disappears. I chuckle as the fledglings gobble down their fill and chirp happily. 

One fledgling pecks at my feet. Its big, innocent eyes stare at me and it flaps its flat tail. 

I splay my hands to gesture that I have no more. "I cannot offer any more," I say. "It would not be fair to your siblings, now would it?"

It tilts its head and continues to stare at me even harder.

I sigh and walk to a nearby cactus. Careful to avoid its needles, I pluck one of the many blossoms that adorn the cactus' crown. 

"Here," I say. I crouch to meet the fledgling's height. Its hops back. My palm opens to reveal the flower. I have picked a large one, with soft, pumpkin-coloured petals. Young, but bright.

The fledgling considers my offer before claiming it with its beak. In a burst of sand, it runs off with its siblings, leaving a trail of three-toed feet.

Some meters away, the parents stand guard. The female warns me with a guttural hiss.

I put a respectable distance between myself and the birds. Though I stay and watch the family for a bit, before moving on. 

In the bask of the crimson sky, the desert takes on an amber hue. Black pebbles stand out against the pale golden sand, sparkling in the sun's dying rays. Shadows darken behind cacti, sand dunes and boulders. Foxes, lizards, and squirrels scurry about as they finish forging for food. And if you listen closely, you can hear the nighttime creatures beginning to emerge. I quicken my pace.

Before long, I stop to rest beside a boulder. I put a hand to its smooth, cool surface and lower myself to sit. I take out my flask and shake out the final droplets into my mouth. That will have to do for now.

Clothing is the next focus of attention. I take my time to unravel the outer layers of my robes, sighing as the cool breeze kisses my skin. I have always found it amusing when a foreigner would visit and be astounded by how much we Swifts cover ourselves. Part of the reason is our identity; the flowing silk robes of the Swifts are recognized by the rest of the world. Part of it is cultural beliefs; our stories are told by the woven green and brown stitching that border our clothes. But most of it has to do with common sense. The heat can cook you to death if you are not careful.

I then turn to my wound. Any injuries are of great concern to me, as my body is quite sensitive to pain. Thankfully, the venom was slow-acting and I have not noticed any symptoms from it. The herbs I have gathered along the way seemed to help with the swelling, and I have used aloe vera to ease the burning sensation and swelling. I apply another round of the plant, peeling off its rough skin to reveal the fleshy insides. I dab them on my arm.

Not much can be done about the venom, though. It is unlike anything I've seen. Most venom can be cured from various herbs found in the desert, but nothing has worked so far. This may mean the worst-case scenario—I might have to make the month-long journey to the nearest trading port. Before, an adventure across the Swift Desert would not have sounded so daunting. But times have changed. I make up my mind to examine it later.

I rest my aching bones against the boulder and gaze at the scenery before me. A few streaks of colour linger in the darkening sky as the sun takes its time to sink beyond the horizon. A red-tailed hawk soars high above me and announces his presence with a loud caw. 

On the ground, not much is happening either. The desert has quieted, leaving the sighs of the sand and the whispers of the breeze to lull everything into a slumber. Even the crickets are asleep, so it seems. An odd sight—the desert should not be so tired, especially in the season for growth and new beginnings.

For no particular reason, I think back to the roadrunner family and hope they are doing fine. They seemed happy. The parents were blessed to have such joys in their life. I have known many families whose eggs did not make it past the incubation stage, so their children's survival was a miracle in itself. But to be happy...it takes great strength to be happy in a cruel world.

Strength I am lacking.

After some debate, I pull out the Eye from within the folds of my robes. At one point, I was able to dislodge the stone from the skull. I buried the latter.

The Eye feels tiny in my wrinkled hand; I expected it to be much bigger than the diameter of my thumb. Though its weight makes up for its size. It is as if all of mankind's history is stored somewhere within the mysterious, deep cascades of purple clouds contained. A faint ring of energy still surrounds the stone, illuminating my palm with a lavender glow. 

Legend says the Eye of Saffiyah holds not only a great amount of knowledge and wisdom, but all of the answers to mankind's questions. Perhaps the last part is false, because I don't think such a thing should exist. And perhaps the first part is false, too, because Saffiyah is supposed to be the bearer of knowledge and such. In fact, she is commonly called 'The Keeper'. Less know her as 'The Wise One'.

Nevertheless, the Eye's prospect is enough to attract the odd person. From the Northern Wastelands to the Cobalt Coves to the Abandoned Kingdoms, people have made the harrowing journey to the Swift Desert in the hopes of achieving...whatever their goal is. Wealth. Happiness. Enlightenment. Immortality, even. I heard that person had an end so painful, their scream was heard by the gods themselves. That was before the drought that escalated the problem to the climax of a civil war. Now, no one can live over the age of eighty before an illness or accident or some other factor snuffs out their light.

I wonder what the gods would do with me.

Was it worth it? I wonder. Will it be worth it? 

Of course it will. I curl my fingers around the Eye. How can it not be? I have lost so much already. Friends, family, myself...there is nothing left for me to do. Nothing left that could work. Except for this.

The red-tailed hawk above me screeches, shattering my thoughts. I look up, startled. He glares at me intently. Most of the sharp angles of his face are obscured by shadows, but the message is clear:  

No.

I ball my hands into fists. What does he mean, no? 

Don't think like that. Listen to your heart. 

"I am listening to my heart," I tell the hawk. "I am listening to it with all my might."

A sharp caw pierces my ears before the hawk takes flight. It circles once, then heads towards the setting sun, which has almost disappeared. 

I shake my head and bury my face within my white linen robes.

I choke on the lingering smell of sage.

The moon hangs bright above me, its luminescence cutting through the sultry sky like a knife. It nearly blinds me every time I try to look at it. The stars, in comparison, are reduced to faint little specks.

I trudge on, leaving a trail of miniature sandstorms in my wake. Attempting to stay silent will have no point; desert animals have more than just ears to hunt their prey. The air is still humming with activity. I just passed a family of javelinas (creatures which are not to be confused with wild boars; through evolution, javelinas have come to be the distant relatives of wild pigs and hippos) feasting on prickly pear cacti. Further back, I had treaded my way across a series of small ant hills, brimming with its inhabitants coming in and out. Most curiously, I am certain that at least three jackals are currently tailing me from somewhere on the right.

Also, the crickets are chirping. This time they do not ease my throbbing heart.

I am listening to my heart. That is not some stubborn statement. I am truly following what I believe is right. I am following my intuition, as some would say. Although it has led me down the darkest paths one could ever dream of, it is all I have left in my power to do.

Because if I do not follow my heart, I fear it would vanish beyond my sight.

So why am I filled with doubt? I stop walking, and consider the question. 

I am filled with doubt because...

Because my heart is so empty.

If so, what am I doing, following my doubts? How is that possible? 

I huff. All this thinking is getting me nowhere, quite literally. I have been standing in one spot for some time now. Long enough to regain my breath. And enough for the jackals to catch up. I turn around.

They prowl forward. There are two, not three black-backed jackals. I give a start.

The moonlight carves the sharp angles and deep shadows of their emaciated figures. The outlines of their bones are frighteningly visible beneath thinning fur. Their pelts, once a warm caramel, are now a sickly shade of its former self. Black lips are pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. Wild, hungry eyes are fixated on me, already devouring the sight of fresh meat.

What shocks me are not the unhinged growls they are emitting, nor the fact that they seem to have a skin infection—though both are alarming. What shocks me is how young they are. Why, they cannot be older than nine months! What are they doing here, starving with no parents to feed them?

The growling dies down, though they still bare their teeth at me. They look at me with a feral sense of craving, but not in the way I initially thought.

I step closer, deliberately shifting some sand. One growls. The other growls but it comes out as more of a whimper. I cautiously extend my hand in a closed fist. They reel back. 

"Here, now," I murmur. 

I retract my arm as they nearly bite my hand off. They yip loudly, and the sharp calls float into the desert air. I inwardly sigh.

I squat down. Extending my hand again, I say, "You know who I am."

Two pairs of ears straighten.

"I am..." I take a breath and try again. 

"I am the Swift Master of Assassins." 

A pang shoots through my empty heart. It cracks, but does not break.

"You can trust me," I continue. "You can come with me, and I will give you a Home where you are welcome, safe, and full." I emphasize each of the last three words with a small movement of my hand. The jackals stare intensely.

"I cannot prove my promise just yet," I say, "but for what it is worth, here is a token of my promise." I flip my fist face-up and reveal the Eye in my palm.

Their eyes brighten with the playful curiosity of youth. One whines in a questioning way while the other approaches and paws at the Eye. I do not stop it as it successfully knocks the Eye onto the sand. They wag their tails and put their noses up to the purple stone. The lavender glow dances on their eyes, making for an interesting combination of dark honey and light lavender.

"Come on," I say lightly. I scoop up the Eye and conceal it in a pocket before straightening. "Our Home is not very far from here." I take the first couple of steps before checking behind me. 

The siblings—they must be siblings, I think—trot up to me and nuzzle my leg.

I smile.

Hours merge into one another as I cross the desert with my small, pathetic strides. The jackals trot alongside, seemingly undeterred by the changing landscape. As we go, cacti and thorny bushes are replaced with shrubs and flowing grass. The ground gradually turns from pale sand to black silt. And in the far, far distance, small puffy clouds linger in the sky. 

This part of the Swift Desert is quite remote. Although it is somewhat near the ocean, which supplies its rich underwater network, the coastal mountains are intimidatingly tall. Some desert animals find their way here, but the steepness of the valley deters the larger, clumsier ones. 

I myself am having trouble descending into the valley. More than once I stumbled. The jackals, on the other hand, had no problem. Against my warning, they slid down the entire way. Now they wait for me at the bottom, wagging their tails. 

Children.

After a ridiculously long time, I make it to the bottom. My body slumps with relief as my feet makes contact with flat, lateral ground. 

To the west stands a pale-stoned fortress. Frosted windows glint in the rising sun's rays, making it seem as though the fortress is shimmering with an otherworldly aura. Surrounding the fortress is a variety of small trees, shrubs, flowers, and other vegetation. As the sun rises, the dark silhouette of a swift soars into the air, and greets the new day with a lively call.

I am Home.