She felt the blade slide in.

And then sand, only sand, fell over her as the sand wolf disintegrated around the sky serpent knife. Coughing and spitting, she wiped the sand away from the cloth over her face, and then she lunged for the hole in the tent. Yanking it closed, she held it shut against the wind.

Outside, the wind roared. She heard other wolves. Squeezing the tear shut with one hand, she readied her knife with the other. She’d heard no weapon could kill a sand wolf. She guessed no one had tried a sky serpent blade before. “Come and get me,” she said. “Come and try.”

She listened hard, every muscle tense. Slowly the howls retreated. The tent walls shook less. The sand inside the tent began to settle, and the world lightened as the blackness of the storm receded.

Her arm throbbed. She released the tarp and tucked away the knife. Her throat felt raw from the sand that she’d inhaled. Unwrapping the cloth around her face, she vomited on the floor of her tent. The sandy bile tore the inside of her throat. She wiped her mouth with a sand-crusted sleeve.

She felt sand clinging to her hair and sticking to her sweaty skin. Piece by piece, she peeled her clothes off her body and shook them out. Searching the pack, she found a clean cloth and wiped away as much of the sand as she could. Left alone, the sand would rub her skin raw. She poured a little water on the cloth and washed her face. Her fingers shook, but she forced herself to attend to one task at a time, and she avoided thinking.

Unable to delay any longer, she examined her arm. The rock-hard sand claws had raked through her skin, leaving four deep gashes. Sandy blood clumped around the wounds. She washed them out as best she could, which caused more blood to run down her arm and stain the sand. She pressed some of Mother’s herbs onto the gashes, and she hissed through her teeth as the herbs stung. Leaving the herbs in place as she’d seen Mother do, she wrapped a clean cloth around the wounds and tied it. Blood stained the cloth.

One day alone and she was wounded. Oh, goddess, if it becomes infected . . . Liyana told herself firmly that she’d been lucky. If the wolf had broken through the tent behind her or if more wolves had followed, then all the herbs in the desert would not help. Quit complaining, she told herself. She’d use the herbs, and she’d keep her wounds as clean as she could.

Deliberately ignoring her aching arm, Liyana turned her attention to the tear in the tent, her next problem. If she couldn’t seal the hole, then she wouldn’t be safe from the next sandstorm. Or from ordinary wind. Or from any snake, scorpion, or spider that wanted to visit her for warmth. Liyana could patch it up. Yet another task to help her avoid thinking about her future. Between fixing her shelter, finding food, and fetching water—

Water! The well! She’d left the lid off! Liyana burst out of her tent. Outside, the oasis had been wiped clean. All the indents from the Goat Clan’s camp had been smoothed away, and all the trees were coated in a layer of reddish tan. Sand choked the air, billowing and blowing. Afternoon sunlight filtered through, scattering off the particles so the oasis seemed to glow with an eerie light that appeared to come from everywhere at once. In this hazy half light, Liyana stumbled across the oasis for several minutes before determining the location of the well. She hurried toward it, and she tripped over the edge of the lid and sprawled. Her knee hit the stone, and pain shot through her. Tears pricked her eyes as she clutched her knee, and she whimpered.

After a moment, the pain receded to a throb that matched the throb in her arm. She tested her leg. She could stand, thank the goddess. Leaning over the edge of the well, she looked down. She saw only blackness. Hands shaking, she found the rope and bucket. The knot had held, which was one bit of good luck. She lowered the bucket. It hit bottom. Had it hit sooner than before, or had she just lowered it faster? She didn’t know.

Please, Bayla, she silently begged. She couldn’t survive without water, and dehydration was a terrible way to die. Please.

Liyana pulled the rope. She tried to pull steady and slow to avoid spilling. If she jerked the bucket up and spilled all the water, then she’d panic for no reason. But with each slow pull, the pain in her arm spiked until she felt dizzy. As the bucket got close to the top, she had to stop. She lowered her arm. It hurt so badly that her head swam. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the bucket up the rest of the way.

Wet sand.

It was full of wet sand.

She dug her fingers into it, and the sand clung to her skin. She made a fist, squeezing it, and then she flung it across the camp and screamed. Tears raged down her cheeks. She grabbed another clump and threw it. Continuing to scream, she hurled wet sand until the bucket was empty. She then fell to her knees and pummeled the sand that had piled up beside the well.

“I did everything right!” she screamed at it. “I worked. I trained. I did everything that was asked of me. I dedicated my life! I was pure! I was fit! I was worthy! You betrayed me! You . . .” Unable to find more words, she threw fistfuls of dry sand with her unhurt arm.

Her eyes were so blinded by tears and sand that she did not see the man walking toward her through the hazy air until he was only a few feet away. Hand raised with a fist full of sand, Liyana froze. She panted, her rib cage heaving. Her arm began to shake. She stared at the silhouette of the man—boy, really.

He came closer, and she saw he was beautiful: sculpted face, shadow-dark skin, haunting eyes. He’s not real, she thought. He had to be a dream that her addled brain had produced.

Dropping her arm, she rose to her feet.

He didn’t vanish.

He spoke. “I have been looking for you.”

Clamping his hands on her wrists, the boy twisted her arms to expose her tattoos. Liyana kicked him in the knee and sprang backward. She pulled out her sky serpent knife and held it in front of her. “Touch me again,” she said, “and I will skewer you through the eye.”

Clutching his knee, he winced. “I would prefer that you did not.”

“Strangers do not touch me,” she said. She had studiously kept this body pure. She would defend it with force if necessary.

Still favoring his knee, he executed a sweeping bow. “I am Korbyn. You are the vessel of Bayla, as your marks confirm. There, we are not strangers anymore.”

She didn’t lower the knife. He hadn’t named his clan or his ancestors, and Korbyn was a common name, often used by those who wished to hide their own name.

He sighed as if she were a child who had disappointed her teacher—it was an oddly old sigh from a boy who looked to be the same age as she was. “This is not a situation I have been in before. Would you like to offer me tea? I have traveled a long way to find you.”

She didn’t recall falling asleep, but this had the same insane logic of a dream. Handsome strangers didn’t suddenly appear in an empty desert and request tea. “There’s sand in the water. We can’t have tea.”

He peered into the dark shaft of the well. “You should have covered the well before the sandstorm,” he said unhelpfully.

“Who are you truly?” she asked. There were a dozen more questions that went with it: Where had he come from? Why was he here? What did he want? “It’s a hundred miles to the next well.” She saw no horse. He carried no pack. He didn’t have deposits of sand trapped in the folds of his clothes, the way he should have after a sandstorm. There was no sand plastered to his skin, like there was on her cheeks. In fact, he looked perfect, as if an artist had crafted an ideal boy with shining eyes, baby-soft black hair, and smiling lips.